Chapter Twenty-Three. Yadriel
TWENTY-THREE
YADRIEL
The house was alive with movement and sound, the kind of controlled chaos that usually overwhelmed Yadriel—but tonight it felt strangely comforting. Everyone was talking over one another, dragging mattresses, tossing pillows, and making half-hearted complaints.
Outside the windows, faint ward-light threaded the glass. Enrique and his team had dusted the thresholds with salt, Miguel had a rotation running pairs along the block, and the older brujos were auditing private altars and locking down portajes. They were moving. They were readying.
It wasn’t that the tension had disappeared.
It sat under his breastbone like a stone.
The door between this world and Xibalba had cracked.
He understood exactly how bad that was—and that there was nothing else they could burn tonight except themselves.
Rest was the only thing that would make them strong enough to face tomorrow.
So they made beds on the floor and let the noise happen. It wasn’t pretending things were fine. Borrowing a little normalcy was the first step in fighting back.
From his spot in the corner, Yadriel watched Rio carefully maneuver a twin mattress into the living room. His movements were deliberate and almost too careful, like he was clinging to a simple task so he didn’t have to think about the rest.
Rio was a hard read—stoic and gruff, a contrast to Julian’s brash charm—but Yadriel could see the lines of worry etched into his face, the way his shoulders were tight with tension. He carried himself like someone used to protecting people, even at the expense of his own peace or safety.
Flaca didn’t say much, just kept fluffing the same throw pillow over and over like it had personally wronged her. Every so often she muttered something about “needing symmetry” under her breath, like she could will the energy in the room to balance.
Rocky, meanwhile, offered Rio a constant stream of unsolicited advice as he adjusted the mattress—most of which involved questionable angles and references to “feng shui, probably.” Her gestures were broad and overly animated, her laugh just a little too loud, like she was trying to chase away the night’s shadows with volume.
Then there was Omar, who lingered near the wall, watching it all with a guarded expression.
His posture was stiff, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Yadriel could tell he wasn’t used to being out of his depth like this.
Omar carried himself like someone who had seen too much, someone who didn’t trust easily.
But now, faced with a world he clearly didn’t understand, he seemed smaller, like he was trying to find his place in all of this.
Maritza flopped onto the couch cushions she’d claimed earlier and rummaged through her overstuffed tote. “All right, chaos crew,” she announced, “I come bearing snacks.”
She tossed a crumpled bag of marshmallows onto the coffee table, followed by a sleeve of Oreos and a half-eaten tube of Pringles. “Not exactly a feast, but I regret nothing.”
“Are you feeding us or luring raccoons?” Rocky said, deadpan, one eyebrow up.
Maritza pointed at her. “Rude. Also, yes.”
Flaca leaned forward, laughing through her words. “Wait, wait—are these always in your bag or is this what you grabbed on the way out?”
Maritza lifted her chin proudly. “You think I show up to any major supernatural event without provisions? Please.”
Flaca narrowed her eyes. “You’ve had marshmallows this entire time and didn’t offer any up during the soul ritual?” she teased.
“I was waiting for the dramatic comedown, thank you very much.” Maritza huffed, delighted with herself. “Snacks taste better when you’ve stared down the void.”
“Okay, I like her,” Rocky said, surrendering as she grabbed a handful of chips. “She’s terrifying and prepared.”
“True,” Maritza agreed, smug. “Just don’t tell anyone our secrets and you’ll be fine. Otherwise, I’ll curse you,” she added, wiggling her fingers threateningly.
Omar cut Julian a look. “She serious?”
Julian nodded solemnly. “Very. She almost flushed me down a toilet once.”
Omar stared at him for a moment before deciding, “I’m not gonna ask.” He turned and gave Maritza a wary glance. “You’ve really done this before?”
“Not this exactly. But you’d be surprised how often things go sideways when you hang around with ghosts and gays.” Maritza shrugged, popping a marshmallow into her mouth.
Omar raised a thick eyebrow. “So, what, stuff like this just happens all the time?”
“More than you’d think,” Maritza said cheerfully, already preening under the attention. “That was actually a pretty mild ritual. You should see what we do during an eclipse.”
Rocky looked alarmed. “There are worse ones?!”
“Oh yeah,” Maritza said, digging around in her snack bag, unbothered. “One time a goat exploded. It wasn’t even part of the ritual. Just—boom. Goat. Gone.”
Omar squinted. “You’re messing with us.”
“Am I?” Maritza asked, raising a single eyebrow and then chomping on another marshmallow. “Either way, no goats tonight. House rules.”
Flaca leaned in. “Okay, but like, seriously—the ghosts, the magic, the whole death goddess thing—is it always this intense?”
Maritza tilted her hand back and forth. “Depends. Sometimes it’s just helping a spirit pass on. Other times it’s … tonight.”
Rocky pointed between her and Yadriel. “So you two are like, official ghost-wranglers or something?”
“Technically, I’m the family’s designated black sheep slash wannabe weapon forger,” Maritza said, flipping her curls. “But I also dabble in badassery.”
“You dabble?” Julian called from the couch. “You cussed out a god and then saved Yadriel from dying!”
“Exactly,” Maritza said, grinning. “I contain multitudes.”
Flaca shook her head, half in awe. “This is actually kind of incredible.”
Maritza beamed. “Keep the compliments coming. I’ll answer anything you want to know—for the low, low price of two Oreos and a respectful attitude.”
Yadriel watched the banter, a familiar warmth settling in his chest. For all the chaos, it felt … right.
“Lita, are you sure we’re okay here?” Julian’s voice broke through Yadriel’s thoughts, drawing his attention back to the living room. Julian stood near the bigger couch, arms full of tangled blankets, his gaze flicking toward the front windows.
His voice was low but tense. “What if Angel shows up?”
Lita didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t insult me, mijo,” she said, sharp but fond, stepping in with a plate of jicama dusted in Tajín. “Do you have any idea how many protections are around this house? More and older than the ones I put on the church. Bahlam himself couldn’t get in here if he wanted to.”
She sniffed. “Not without me slapping him upside the head with my chancla.”
Julian squinted, clearly unsure whether or not she was joking. Yadriel bit back a smile, nudging Julian with his elbow. “She’s not kidding.”
Lita tipped her chin at Rio, clocking the bat across his lap. “Such a strong man,” she added, eyes bright. “Mijo, you keep holding it like that and I might start blushing!”
Rio blinked once. “Senora—”
“Ay, senor, no!” Lita scolded, fanning herself with her free hand. “Call me Lita, please! Or Rosamaria if you’re going to flirt back,” she added, tittering.
A corner of Rio’s mouth almost counted as a smile.
Julian gave him a half-hearted grin, though the worry in his eyes didn’t fade.
Yadriel could see how much the night had taken out of him.
He was trying to stay strong for everyone, but there was a tightness in his jaw, a weight in his posture that he couldn’t quite hide.
Julian cared so deeply, too deeply sometimes.
It made him reckless, but it also made him one of the most loyal people Yadriel had ever met.
The house felt held, by old wards and Lita’s bravado, by Rio’s quiet watch. Safe enough to relax, just a bit.
Enrique paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “Yadriel.”
Yadriel straightened. “Yeah?”
Enrique’s voice dropped. “I should’ve listened when you wanted to tell them sooner.” He glanced toward the living room—Rio, Luca, the others. “I thought secrecy kept us safe. It just kept us apart.”
Surprised, Julian lifted his head.
Enrique met Yadriel’s eyes. “You were right to push. We move together now.”
He gave a small nod to both of them and stepped back into the hall.
The apology landed soft and heavy.
Despite everything, Julian still tried to carry the weight for everyone else—like he didn’t know how to stop. Yadriel ached with love for him, but also worry. No one could keep going like that without breaking.
As everyone busied themselves setting up the living room, Yadriel pulled Julian into his bedroom to grab some clothes. Julian, Yadriel pointed out, was already in his pajamas, but Julian insisted on borrowing some of Yadriel’s again, like wearing Yadriel’s clothes was a kind of security blanket.
“I like wearing your clothes!” Julian argued. He stepped into Yadriel’s room and leaned against the doorframe. “What’ve you got for me? Anything that screams relaxing slumber party chic?”
Yadriel grabbed him a pair of black gym shorts and a faded Selena T-shirt. He then got some for himself—a soft cotton tee and a pair of sweatpants—before turning to Julian.
“Okay, I’ll change first. You—”
“Let me guess,” Julian interrupted with a smirk. “Face the wall? It’s not like I haven’t seen a dude change before!” he teased.
Yadriel’s cheeks turned crimson. “Face. The. Wall,” he said firmly, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
“Fine, fine, fine!” Julian said, rolling his eyes and dramatically pivoting to stare at the wall. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”
Yadriel quickly pulled on his sweatpants and swapped his shirt, tugging it down over his binder with practiced hands. “Okay, your turn,” he said, tossing Julian a pillow to get him moving.