Chapter Sixteen. Julian
SIXTEEN
JULIAN
The sun hung low in the afternoon sky as Julian, Maritza, and Yadriel picked their way between the crumbling gravestones of the sprawling cemetery. No one spoke. Julian kept glancing at Yadriel, whose shoulders were hunched up to his ears, eyes locked on the path ahead.
He hadn’t said much since the summoning. And Julian didn’t blame him.
Julian scanned the paths out of habit, searching for the usual glows. “Where’s Marisol?” he wondered out loud. “She’s always around by this time of day.” He wanted to make sure she was okay.
Yadriel’s jaw worked. “Felipe was asking the same thing this morning,” he said softly. “He hasn’t seen her since last night.”
The words dove straight under Julian’s ribs. “So she’s missing, too.”
“I was going to tell you after we figured out the Angel stuff,” Yadriel added. “I didn’t want to make you worry.”
“Too late,” Julian said, but there wasn’t any bite in it—only a hard, rising heat.
“I’m still tripping over what Catriz said,” Maritza said, incredulous.
“Kinda feels like making a deal with the devil, huh?” Julian tried to joke, but the words tasted like ash. He caught Maritza’s glare and winced apologetically.
The distant look on his boyfriend’s face made Julian’s chest ache. “You good, Yads?” he prodded gently.
Yadriel nodded but didn’t look up. His hands fidgeted with the frayed strings of his hoodie. “Just … confused,” he admitted, voice barely above a murmur.
“Me too,” Julian agreed. He tried for a reassuring smile, but it felt brittle. “Kinda nice that he’s helping us out, though. I mean, for a guy who tried to kill me, he’s not so bad now.”
Yadriel’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t reply.
They rounded a bend, and Julian froze, one hand shooting out to stop the others.
“Hold up—”
Under the gnarled limbs of a mesquite tree stood a familiar figure. A black leather jacket. Twin bubble braids.
Angel.
“What the hell is Angel doing here?” Maritza hissed.
Julian leaned forward for a better look. Angel wasn’t alone. A ghostly shimmer floated beside them—faint, golden, warm.
“It’s Felipe,” he said.
Angel stood close to the spirit, speaking in low, urgent tones. Their body language was agitated, their gestures sharp.
“Something’s wrong,” Julian said.
“We need to stop them,” Yadriel said, voice tight.
“No—wait,” Julian said, crouching behind a nearby headstone. His pulse thundered in his ears. “Just watch.”
Angel reached out. Their hand hovered above Felipe’s chest.
“Guys,” Julian whispered urgently. “Look at his chest. That’s a Marca Hueca.”
“Where?!” Maritza asked, trying to get a better look.
“On Felipe!” Julian whispered harshly.
Maritza’s breath hitched. “Shit.”
Felipe and his on-again, off-again mortal girlfriend, Claribel, were in another fight. This one seemed to be dragging on longer than usual. Maybe that was why he had a dark spot.
Angel’s voice carried now, low and insistent.
“I’m sorry,” Angel was saying. Their golden eyes shone with something unreadable—regret? Determination? Both?
“What are you sorry for?” Felipe asked with a confused laugh.
That’s when Julian saw the flash of black. Their obsidian dagger. Moving fast.
“NO!” Yadriel yelled, lurching forward, fumbling for his portaje.
But it was too late.
The blade plunged into Felipe’s chest—right into the dark spot bleeding shadow.
Felipe screamed.
Not just a scream. A soul-rending wail that ripped through the quiet and sent every bird in the cemetery shrieking into the sky. His light flickered, twisted. His face contorted into something monstrous.
In seconds, Felipe—their Felipe—was gone. And in his place was a maligno, writhing and snarling like a storm made flesh.
Maritza stumbled back in horror. “Holy shit—”
“Yadriel!” Julian yelled.
He didn’t have to.
Yadriel was already moving, sprinting across the grass with his portaje in hand. With practiced precision, he yanked open his jacket, unscrewed the top of his Hydro Flask, and splashed chicken blood along the blade as he ran.
He skidded to a halt just a few feet from the flailing maligno. His eyes locked on the vihuela resting near a cracked headstone—Felipe’s tether.
“?Muéstrame el enlace!” Yadriel yelled.
A glowing thread snapped into view, connecting the vihuela to Felipe’s writhing form.
“Don’t!” Angel screeched, but Yadriel was too quick.
He raised his portaje, the silver now gleaming with blood and magic.
“?Te libero a la otra vida!”
In one clean arc—swift and sure—the thread severed.
The maligno gasped, contorted once more, then exhaled a long, shuddering sigh.
A beat of stillness, then Felipe’s spirit disintegrated into a warm cloud of golden marigold petals, drifting peacefully into the wind.
“No!” Angel screamed, rounding on them as Felipe’s spirit vanished in a soft, golden sigh.
Marigold petals still drifted in the air, and Angel looked like they might tear the wind apart to gather them back.
Their obsidian dagger glinted like a fang, and their eyes blazed with something wild. “What the hell did you do?!”
“You turned him into a maligno!” Yadriel yelled back, voice still taut from the spell that had just surged through him.
Maritza’s voice cracked like a whip. “You stabbed Felipe!”
Julian moved without thinking, his body between them now, fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached. His breath came fast, like he couldn’t quite fill his lungs. “I trusted you,” he said, voice shaking.
His eyes searched Angel’s face, desperate for some glimmer of the person he thought he knew—the sharp-tongued, badass bruje. The person he’d tried so hard to believe in. The one he wanted to be like—fierce, capable, unbothered. Someone who had answers when he didn’t.
Instead, all he saw was rage and guilt and something worse— conviction.
“Where’s Marisol?!” Julian demanded, the words ripping out of him. “If you touched her—!”
Angel’s grip tightened on the dagger. They didn’t reply.
The nonanswer burned hotter than a yes.
“You don’t understand—” Angel started, voice strained as they stepped forward.
“Then make me understand!” Julian snapped. His voice hit the air like a crack of thunder. “Because right now? It looks like you’re feeding spirits to Bahlam, and lying to our faces about it!”
Angel flinched, just slightly, and that tiny hesitation made Julian’s stomach turn. His heart plummeted, the realization slamming into him like a bad bail off his board—too fast, too hard, nothing to catch him but the concrete.
They weren’t denying it.
Angel’s grip tightened on the dagger, and Julian’s eyes flicked to the blade. He thought of Felipe—of the way his form had twisted, the scream that tore from him as he turned. He felt sick.
“I’m doing what I have to do,” Angel ground out, as if it were the only truth they had left.
“Bullshit,” Maritza growled.
Julian wanted to shout. He wanted to fight. He wanted to shove Angel into the dirt and make them feel the pain they’d just caused.
But even now, part of Julian—a very small part—didn’t want to believe it.
There had to be more. A reason. Something he didn’t know yet. Because the Angel he knew—the one who had patched him up behind a Jack in the Box and told him he was strong—that person wouldn’t do this.
Right?
He needed Angel to tell him this wasn’t what it looked like. That there was something bigger. Something that made sense.
Julian stepped closer, every word scraping out of him like glass. “Then tell me why. Tell me why you did this.”
Angel’s eyes flicked toward the petals still hovering in the air, and something cracked in their expression—not sorrow. Not guilt. Just anger that they’d been stopped.
“Because no one else would,” Angel said, voice low and bitter. “Because Lady Death ignored me. Because Bahlam is the only one who listened.”
It was like someone had sucker punched all the air out of him. Julian just stood there, stunned.
He’d defended Angel to Maritza, to Yads. To himself. He wanted to believe they had a reason. That it was all some big misunderstanding. That Angel was like him—scarred, angry, lost, but still good underneath.
But now all he could see was that Maritza had been right. Angel was dangerous. She’d been helping Bahlam on purpose. Julian had been too stubborn to see it, and now he’d put Yadriel and Maritza in danger because of it.
He’d vouched for Angel. He’d trusted them.
And they’d taken that trust and carved it into someone’s soul.
Angel had turned Felipe into a maligno.
Felipe, who sang to the spirits. Who made them smile. Who gave out serenades like it was a second job.
And Angel had killed him.
Not just killed—corrupted. Twisted. Ruined.
Julian stared at them, his breath shallow and his pulse roaring in his ears.
This is just like Catriz, he realized. The same betrayal. The same sharp drop from trust into terror.
He glanced at Yadriel. His portaje was still in his hand, but his gaze hadn’t left Angel, sharp and wary like he was waiting for the next move. Angel’s golden eyes flicked between them—measuring, calculating.
Catriz had been someone Yadriel loved. Someone who stood by him, protected him—and then tried to use him. Tried to use Julian, too.
And now Julian was watching it happen again. With someone he had trusted.
“That’s it,” Maritza snapped, stepping between Julian and Angel, tense and glaring, the dagger glinting in their grip. “I don’t care what sob story they’re sitting on—they just turned Felipe into a maligno! They don’t get a pass!”
Angel bristled. “You don’t understand!” they spat. “I didn’t—”
“Save it!” Maritza snarled, cutting them off. “You’re hurting people! Our people!” Maritza turned toward Julian. “You saw it! You felt it! Whatever you thought Angel was, this is who they really are!”
Julian didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His heart felt too loud in his ears.
Angel’s breathing was fast and shallow now, their hand tightening on the dagger. Julian could see it—the tension building, the panic. They weren’t going to stand here and let the three of them close in.
Julian’s voice cracked through the standoff. “I just thought…”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Angel lashed out with her boot, kicking up a cloud of grave dust straight into their faces.
Maritza staggered back with a sharp “Fuck,” blinking furiously.
Yadriel coughed, waving his hands.
Julian choked, vision swimming. By the time he cleared his eyes, Angel was already sprinting away, her silhouette disappearing behind a crooked row of mausoleums.
“There!” he barked, already pushing forward.
Yadriel grabbed his arm. “She’s heading toward the old church,” he said, his voice low and tight.
Julian’s feet skidded to a halt.
A chill rippled up his spine. That church was a scar—for all of them.
Behind him, Maritza cursed under her breath.
But Angel was already gone, swallowed by the shadows stretching out from the cemetery’s oldest edge.
Julian blinked grit from his eyes, chest heaving, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do without something to punch. The silence that followed her escape was thick, cloying like smoke in his throat.
No one moved.
No one said anything.
Not for a long moment.
Maritza wiped the dirt from her cheek with the back of her hand. “She got away.”
Julian’s gaze snapped back to the empty rows of headstones. “Marisol,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Yadriel didn’t say anything. He just stared toward the old church, toward the nightmares none of them wanted to revisit, his jaw clenched so hard it trembled.
Julian’s whole body buzzed with fury—fury at Angel, at himself, at how fucking stupid he’d been. His fists curled until his nails bit into his palms.
“She played us,” he snapped. “She played me.”
No one answered.
He laughed, a sharp, joyless sound. “I defended her. I told you she was good. I told you she was just trying to help!” he shouted in frustration.
“Julian,” Maritza warned.
Julian’s voice rose, cracking with rage. “She’s not one of us— she’s just a coward! A selfish, lying piece of shit—just like Catriz!” He kicked a half-melted candle at a nearby grave. It exploded into shards of wax.
Yadriel flinched.
Not dramatically. Just a breath—a step back, a flash of pain across his face. But it stopped Julian cold.
The apology rushed out of him. “I’m sorry!”
But that wasn’t fear in Yadriel’s eyes.
It was hurt.
Julian’s mouth opened, then closed again. The heat in his chest turned to ice.
“I didn’t—” he started, but the words caught in his throat. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it worse.
Maritza didn’t look at him. She just brushed past Julian to Yadriel’s side, her silence louder than anything she could’ve said.
Yadriel didn’t move, but his shoulders went tight—like Julian’s words had struck him physically. His fingers curled into the sleeves of his hoodie.
Julian’s gut twisted. He hadn’t meant—
But he had.
“That temper’s gonna get someone hurt,” Maritza said flatly, not even turning around.
Julian stood there, feeling all the fire inside him sputter into ash. The shame came rushing in, sharp and hot and blinding.
“I need to cool off,” he said, mostly to himself. He was already turning, shoes crunching against the gravel as he backed away.
Yadriel looked up suddenly, the worry breaking through the hurt in his expression. “But—wait—the Midnight Vigil’s tonight,” he said weakly.
Julian froze mid-step. For a second, he’d forgotten.
He turned slightly, offering a promise he meant with everything he had. “I’ll be back in time. I swear.”
Neither of them said anything.
And Julian kept walking.