Chapter Seven. Julian
SEVEN
JULIAN
It was already late. The sun was long gone and the streets glowed under harsh orange streetlights.
Julian paced back and forth beside the Stingray, his energy sparking like a live wire.
His friends had politely ignored his and Angel’s exit—except for Omar, whose hard gaze burned into him until the door shut.
Angel leaned against the car, arms crossed, their golden eyes tracking him.
“You—you can see them?! They’re real?!” Julian shouted, his words tumbling over each other.
Angel’s mouth quirked with amusement. “Yes and yes.”
“Holy SHIT,” Julian breathed. “I’m not seeing things! It’s real!” He nearly laughed, delirious with relief, even as questions piled up. “I thought I was losing it! I’ve got one—Luca too! What are they?!”
Angel tilted their head, studying him, as if weighing how much to say. “It’s called Marca Hueca—the hollow mark,” they said. “And it’s a symptom.”
Julian froze. “A symptom of what?”
“Susto,” Angel replied. The word came out calm and deliberate, as if they’d said it a thousand times before.
Julian frowned and gave a shake of his head. “Fright?” he echoed. “How do you even get that? Am I contagious or something?!” Julian thought about all the times he’d kissed or touched Yadriel since noticing the dark spot.
If he accidentally passed along a magical disease to Yads—
“You’re not contagious!” Angel said with a laugh.
“I don’t see what’s so funny about this!” Julian barked.
Angel held up their hands. “Sorry, sorry,” they said before clearing their throat and getting their facial expression back under control. “It’s like an illness of the spirit.”
“But what IS it?” Julian was getting frustrated.
“Susto’s what happens when something really bad—like, soul-deep bad—scares the spirit out of your body,” Angel explained. “Sometimes it’s just a piece, sometimes the whole thing. The Marca Hueca isn’t the cause. It’s the scar, what’s left behind when part of your soul’s missing.”
“What kind of trauma?” he asked, already dreading the answer.
Angel shrugged, but their eyes darkened.
“Could be anything—a spirit encounter gone wrong, messing with forces you shouldn’t, almost dying, losing someone,” they listed off.
“Anything that rips you open in a way you can’t patch.
The kind of shit that makes you feel like you’re walking around with half your soul missing. ”
The words hit Julian like a punch to the gut.
Luca. His bruises, his scar, the weight he carried on his small, hunched shoulders. What Luca had been through seemed more than enough bad shit to rattle anyone’s soul loose from their body.
He thought of his own jagged scar over his heart, memories of Catriz and Lady Death.
“How do you know if someone has it?” His voice cracked, a threadbare sound barely tethering him to the here and now.
“Aside from the gaping hole in their chest?” Angel cocked an eyebrow. “Trembling hands are common—”
Julian clenched his fists to still them.
“And chills. Like your body forgets how to stay warm,” Angel said. “The soul’s like your inner heater—lose part of it, and you’re always cold. But it messes with your head, too.”
Angel tapped their temple. “That’s where it hits hardest. Mood swings, insomnia, no appetite …
It’s not just being sad or freaked out—it’s deeper.
Like your soul’s out there somewhere, trying to find its way back without a map.
Like you’re stuck between this world and the next.
” They paused, thinking. “Disconnected.”
“Disconnected,” Julian echoed. He’d felt that—being a ghost in his own life, drifting through scenes like he didn’t belong in any of them. Was that what Luca had been feeling, too?
Julian shuffled his feet, the gravel beneath his sneakers crunching in the heavy silence that had fallen between them.
The moon hung like a watchful eye overhead, casting pale light on Angel’s angular features as they leaned against the Stingray, their catlike eyes reflecting the streetlights overhead.
“The body don’t lie,” Angel told him, sorrow—maybe pity—seeping into their voice. “You see someone shivering when there ain’t no chill in the air? Or maybe they’re just standing there, staring into nothing like they lost the script to their own life?”
Julian nodded, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the invisible cold. He felt it, that shiver that kept crawling up his spine.
Luca had been more distant lately, quiet and closed in on himself. And Julian? He couldn’t deny the constant unease that had lodged deep in his chest, threading through him like ice water.
Julian hadn’t realized he was shivering until Angel narrowed their eyes, watching him like they were putting something together.
“So, Julian,” Angel said, a gravity to their voice, “what happened to you?”
Julian flinched.
He could still smell the oil outside the mechanic shop. Hear the tires screeching.
The sharp crack of the gun.
His dad’s body crashing into his, pinning him to the pavement.
And then—nothing.
The hospital ceiling. Rio telling him the truth.
Julian shook his head roughly, willing the memory away like he always did.
Some part of him had never come back from that day.
“I don’t know,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I’ve always been like this.”
Angel studied him, their gaze unreadable. “Something must’ve happened,” they murmured. “You’re not normal, Julian. Not the regular kind of abnormal, either.”
They hesitated. “You must’ve made some kind of connection to a death god.”
Julian’s breath caught.
Angel went on, matter-of-fact. “I can see them because I was blessed by Lady Death, like the rest of my family. We serve her by helping spirits pass on.”
“A death god?” Julian repeated, heat rising to his cheeks.
His brain betrayed him—Yadriel’s trembling hands, the chill of the stone floor, the moment Lady Death called him back to his body.
The second chance he was never supposed to have.
But this wasn’t something he could just share. Not with someone from another círculo. Not with someone he barely knew. Especially because it was really Yadriel’s secret to tell.
Telling Angel would feel like handing over something sacred—like betraying Yadriel, the brujx, and whatever fragile thread still tied him to the living.
“I, uh…” Julian shrugged, painfully casual. “I dunno. Maybe I’ve always been a little haunted.”
It sounded weak even to him, but the last part was true.
Thankfully, Angel didn’t push. “If you can see Marca Huecas, you’ve got something else at play. Something … otherworldly.”
Otherworldly.
Like the shadows that had followed him since that night.
His thoughts spun—back to the stone floor, to Lady Death … and then, suddenly, to Catriz.
To the jaguar mask. The altar. The pain. The knives.
“Catriz!” Julian blurted out, the name tasting bitter on his tongue.
Angel’s brows knitted together. “Catriz?”
“Yadriel’s uncle!”
Julian could still feel the heavy air, the sting of blood, the sharp edge of obsidian. The way Catriz had looked at him as if he were already dead. “He tried to sacrifice me to Bahlam, some ancient death god!”
Angel’s eyes widened, a glint of recognition sparking within their golden depths.
Julian rambled on. “Drained my soul with those jaguar knives—”
“La garra del jaguar,” they breathed. The words didn’t just hang in the air—they stuck.
Angel stepped closer. “That’s not just dark magic, Julian. That’s … ancient. Dangerous. Why risk that?”
“Because the guy was messed up! He was born without powers and was desperate enough to try to steal them by sacrificing people to that jaguar god!” Julian spat out, each word punctuated with a fresh wave of realization washing over him. “He wanted power!”
Something passed through Angel’s eyes. Gone before Julian could clock it.
“Bahlam,” Angel said. “That’s heavy brujería, Julian. Not something you walk away from unchanged.”
Julian hadn’t thought about it like that before—not really. That maybe what Catriz did to him had left something behind.
Maybe it had marked him for life.
“You’re tangled up in serious brujo shit,” Angel said, voice quieter now. “Whether you meant to be or not.”
“Classic me,” he said, but inwardly, his panic was starting to churn. This connection to the spirit world—the way Julian kept seeing things, the way the dark spot pulsed as if it were alive—it wasn’t random or temporary.
And no matter how far he ran from it, it was catching up.
“So I’ve got a sixth sense for soul scars because a deranged brujo played pincushion with me?”
Angel’s lips curved into a half smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes. “Maybe it’s a gift,” they said. “Maybe it’s baggage. Either way, it’s yours now.”
Not an accusation—just the truth. Whatever this thing inside Julian was, it wasn’t going away.
“Here’s the thing.” Angel paced a small circle. “Lots of people carry a Marca Hueca. Shit happens. We lose parts of ourselves. Most of the time, people keep on living. Damaged, yeah, but still here.”
They stopped to face Julian.
“But when a spirit dies with a hollow mark—that’s when things get dangerous.”
Angel’s voice dropped. “The mark doesn’t just stay behind. It festers. And if no one helps them—no one guides them—it twists. That’s when you get a—”
“Maligno,” Julian finished.
Angel nodded.
Julian touched his scar. Was the spot turning him into a monster? And what about Luca? The dark spot blooming across his chest. Luca’d been pulling away lately, quieter, but still smiling like it didn’t hurt.
“It’s not just about seeing them, is it?” Julian said quietly. “The Marca Hueca.”
Angel shook their head. “That’s just the start. If you want to protect someone—and yourself—you have to stop it before the damage becomes permanent.”
Julian pulsed with hope. “You mean I could actually do something about it?”
Angel shrugged as if it were no big deal. “If you’re serious, yeah. I can teach you. How to read the signs. How to help people before it’s too late.”
Julian thought of Luca’s shy smiles, his nervous laugh. He thought of the dark spot blooming on Luca’s chest that mirrored his own. But for the first time in weeks, Julian didn’t feel doomed. Maybe this was a fight he could actually win.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s figure this out. For Luca. For me. For all of us.”
“Good,” Angel said, and Julian felt confident that Angel had his back.
But even with a plan in place, something still gnawed at the edge of Julian’s mind.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, quieter now. “Sometimes I see … stuff.”
Angel raised an eyebrow. “Stuff?”
“In the dark,” Julian clarified. “Not people. Just … shapes. Like shadows. Watching.”
Angel’s brow furrowed. “Shadows?”
Julian nodded. “Like they’re waiting for something. Like they know me.”
Angel’s eyes narrowed, gaze drifting past Julian into the dark beyond them.
“Focus on what’s in front of you,” they said. “We’ll deal with your shadow friends later.”
Julian didn’t know what he was getting himself into, but he couldn’t walk away now.
Not when he could help Luca.
Not when there was a chance to understand the darkness that had taken root inside him.