Chapter Thirty. Julian
THIRTY
JULIAN
Julian crouched where the pile of tethers had been, palms blackened with cenote grit as he sifted through the mess one piece at a time.
Nearby, Rio was talking quietly with Enrique, helping the other brujx clear debris from the circle.
He moved slower than usual, still pale from what he’d seen—the flash of light, the shadows, the god.
But he kept his voice steady, his hands sure.
When his gaze met Julian’s across the crypt, he gave a small nod—tired but solid.
Julian examined an amethyst rosary. An old Zippo lighter. A faded red hair bow.
Then—there. A woven bracelet, the knot frayed just so.
Luca’s.
His breath left him in a rough sound he didn’t recognize. He rubbed the braid clean with his thumb, the pattern he’d seen a hundred times suddenly heavy as a heartbeat. He slipped it around his fingers and held it, not ready to pocket it, not ready to let it go.
Angel stood a little apart from the others, their shoulders hunched. They cradled a small bundle of tethers in their hands—a dagger and two rosaries. Remnants of their family, the weight of which seemed almost too much to bear.
Enrique approached them, his expression apprehensive. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the tethers.
Julian watched Angel hesitate before handing them over.
Enrique examined the items carefully. His brow furrowed, and he murmured something under his breath.
“Muéstrame el enlace,” he said, calling on his portaje to reveal the threads that bound the spirits to the objects in Angel’s hands.
Nothing happened.
Enrique’s dagger pulsed faintly but gave no tether. No echo. No trace.
He frowned, eyes narrowing as he tried again—slower, more focused.
Still nothing.
Enrique looked up slowly, confusion giving way to dawning realization. Then his face changed—softened into something equal parts relief and grief.
“They’re not here,” he said quietly.
Angel’s shoulders stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“They were never in Xibalba,” Enrique told her, his voice steady but reverent. “Their spirits … they’ve already crossed over. When they died, they passed peacefully.”
Angel stared at him, blinking rapidly. “But Bahlam said—”
“He lied,” Enrique said, gently but firmly. He placed a hand on their shoulder. “He wanted you isolated. He wanted your grief to stay raw. That’s how he kept his hold on you.”
Julian felt his chest twist.
“If you had come to us,” Enrique continued, “we could’ve checked. We could’ve told you they were never lost. You didn’t have to carry it alone.”
Angel’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her eyes flooded—tears slipping free, no longer contained.
“They’re … safe?” she whispered, almost afraid to believe it.
“Yes,” Enrique said. “They’ve been with Lady Death this whole time.”
Angel made a soft, broken sound. Like the first crack in a frozen lake—not loud but deep. Her hands clutched the bundle of tethers as her legs gave out, and she dropped to her knees.
Julian’s breath caught.
It wasn’t the collapse of someone broken. It was the release of someone who’d been holding it all in for too long. Yadriel was already there at Julian’s shoulder, a steady palm between his shoulder blades, keeping him anchored.
This close, Julian could see just how hollowed out Angel looked. Like someone who had been unmade and hadn’t figured out how to put herself back together yet.
Julian knelt down beside her and tentatively rubbed her back, like Yadriel did when he was upset. Like his father used to.
Angel’s shoulders shook as they struggled to hold back tears. “I’m sorry,” they whispered. “For everything.”
Julian swallowed. The easy thing would be to stay angry. He could feel that choice like a door at his back, simple and heavy. He closed his hand tighter around Luca’s bracelet and turned toward the harder thing.
“Saving you was the right thing to do,” Julian said, honest and exhausted. “And I’m glad we did it.” He drew a slow breath, thumbs worrying Luca’s bracelet. “But you can’t stay here.”
Angel winced, then gave a small, jerky nod. Her eyes were rimmed red, her voice small.
“What happens now?” Angel whispered. “I don’t even know who I am without all of … this.”
“Maybe you figure it out somewhere new,” Julian said, gentler now. “You told me you have family in Mexico, right?”
Angel looked at him, startled. Then she dropped her gaze. “I do,” she said. “An aunt in Michoacán I haven’t seen in years. My two cousins. Their círculo.”
“Then start there,” Julian said.
Angel’s lips parted like she was about to argue. Then she stopped. Thought about it. Her grip on the rosaries tightened.
“Maybe,” she said.
Maritza edged in on Julian’s other side, tone practical instead of sharp. “Start with whoever remembers your mamá—a tía, a cousin. Let them tell you stories you missed.” She flicked her gaze to the rosaries. “Bring those.”
Angel’s breath hitched—just barely—but she nodded.
“You’re still a bruje,” Yadriel cut in. “A powerful one. And I bet your family could use you—not just to make things right, but to do some real good.”
He hesitated, then added, softer, “If you go to them … let them know Lady Death kept your parents’ and sister’s spirits safe. That they never suffered.”
“It’s a place to start,” Julian said, his voice softer now as well. “And you wouldn’t be following the dead anymore.”
Angel gave a small, rough laugh—barely more than an exhale. “That would be new.”
Her gaze dropped to the bundle of tethers still cradled in her hands. She held them like they might still answer her. Like if she stayed still enough, they’d stir.
When she looked up again, her eyes were shining.
“Will it ever stop hurting?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.
Julian responded anyway. “No,” he said honestly. “But you learn how to carry it.”
She nodded, slow and brittle, then turned toward the stone steps that led out of the crypt. Her shoulders were squared, but her steps were uneven—like someone learning to walk again.
At the threshold, she paused and looked back into the crypt. For a moment, she looked younger. Not innocent, but stripped down to something raw and real.
“Thank you,” she said. “For bringing me back.”
Julian met her eyes, steady. “Just don’t waste it, okay?”
Angel nodded once, the smallest shimmer of something like hope in her eyes. Then she turned and started up the stairs, her footsteps echoing into the dark.
The others didn’t speak.
Julian felt the air shift. For the first time in weeks, his chest wasn’t screaming.
His brow furrowed. He pressed a hand to his sternum, fingertips brushing against the front of his shirt. Slowly, cautiously, he tugged the collar of his T-shirt down.
Then, just over his heart, he saw it—his Marca Hueca. Smaller than before. Duller.
Faint and silvered, like the ghost of a scar rather than a gaping wound spilling shadows.
Julian stared at it, stunned.
“Yads,” he said hoarsely, “it’s different.”
Yadriel stepped closer, alarm flashing across his face. “What? Your Marca Hueca?”
Julian nodded vigorously. “Holy shit!” he breathed. “It healed! Well, sort of.” He squinted, trying to get a better look, to make sure he wasn’t just imagining things. “Not all the way. But … it doesn’t hurt like a bitch anymore.”
Yadriel’s hand hovered over his chest, just shy of touching. “It must’ve been Bahlam,” he murmured. “Or—” His gaze flicked toward the stairwell Angel had vanished through. “Saving her. And Luca. Pulling them back from him—it must’ve severed some of the power he had over you.”
Julian let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said. “It definitely feels like something let go.”
He let his shirt fall back into place.
A long beat passed.
“Should we perform a recuperación del alma for you?” Yadriel asked carefully. “We can do it tomorrow, or whenever you’re ready.”
Julian shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Yadriel blinked, startled. “Why not?”
Julian glanced down at his hands, flexing them slowly. “It still hurts,” he admitted. “Not like before, but … it’s there. My dad. That’s not gonna go away.”
Yadriel’s brow furrowed. “But you don’t want to let it go?”
Julian’s voice was soft. “I don’t want to forget.”
They stood in silence, the flickering glow of the cenote casting long shadows across the stones.
“My mom used to say,” Yadriel said eventually, his voice low, “that some pain isn’t meant to be taken away. That grief needs to be felt—really felt—so you can carry it with you.”
Julian’s breath caught. He nodded once, trying to keep his eyes from burning by sheer force of will.
Yadriel reached for his hand, interlacing their fingers. “It’s not about erasing it,” he said. “It’s about healing around it. So it doesn’t hollow you out.”
Julian didn’t say anything for a moment.
“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” he said, touching his chest again. “Not gone. Just … not alone anymore.”
He looked at Yadriel—his boyfriend, his tether, his anchor.
And suddenly it made sense.
The ache would never leave completely. But love could grow around it. And that made it bearable.
As they reached the stairs, Maritza let out a dramatic sigh.
“Tío Enrique better be filling this thing with cement tomorrow like I told him,” she muttered. “Because I am not doin’ this shit again.”
Julian snorted. “Yeah, somebody needs to drop a boulder on it and call it a day.”
Maritza rolled her eyes. “Add it to the list. Right after we all get a solid twelve hours of sleep.”
“More like twenty-four,” Julian muttered. “Or one hundred. However much a week is.”
They stepped out of the crypt, the cool night air biting at their skin. It smelled like earth and ash and something sweet—the last traces of marigolds still lingering.
Yadriel rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced between Julian and Maritza.
They stood to the side while Lita and the others made their way back through the cemetery, leaving the old church behind. The night was cold, but lighter—the kind of quiet that followed survival.
Julian nudged Yadriel with his elbow. “So, Guía de la Llama,” he said, smiling. “Guess we’ll have to celebrate after. Lucky for you two, tonight’s Christmas Eve—which means it’s time for the annual Mario Party championship at my place.”
Maritza perked up. “Hell yes. I’ve got opinions on which maps are good and which ones suck, and none of them are kind.”
“You’re both invited,” Julian said.
“I’ve never done Christmas Eve,” Yadriel said, brows lifting. “Like … ever.”
Maritza smirked. “You mean the holiday where a random old white dude breaks into your house once a year and leaves unsolicited gifts? Sounds like a security threat.”
Julian burst out laughing. “How dare you! Santa is a saint! He gives us presents and all we gotta do is leave him cookies!”
Yadriel shook his head, amused. “I’m gonna need a full rundown of these traditions.”
Maritza slung an arm around both of them. “Perfect. We’ll show up, eat cookies, wreck everyone at Mario Party, and make fun of capitalism. The true meaning of Christmas.”
And just like that, the tension began to lift—the kind of laughter that didn’t erase the night but softened its edges.