Chapter Nine. Yadriel #2
Yadriel’s mind was already racing—the Marca Hueca. The hollow dark spot on Julian’s chest. Angel’s ability to see them. Luca’s mark. All the dots were connecting now, like a constellation only he and Julian could trace.
“They’re called Marca Huecas,” he murmured, more to himself than to Lita. “Hollow marks. Soul scars.”
Lita’s brows drew together. “You’ve seen them?”
“I haven’t,” he admitted. “But Julian can. And so can someone else. Someone who’s been helping him.”
Lita didn’t press, but the wrinkle between her brows deepened. “If that’s true … then Julian may not just be carrying susto. He may be carrying the space where part of his soul should be.”
Maritza sat forward. “So what do we do?”
Yadriel’s voice came out hoarse. “Tell me how to help him.”
Lita’s eyes softened. “You already are. By loving him. That’s where it begins.” She set a steaming mug of alcohol-free ponche on the table and nudged it toward him. “But since you’re asking for the rest—drink.”
He drank. The cinnamon hit first, then the orange peel—comfort scents that made his chest ache. He remembered being the one shivering after his mom died, Lita moving around him the same way.
She gathered a stub of copal and a bundle of tea leaves with quick, practiced hands, her knuckles like knots of a tree. “Keep him fed and warm, and he needs good sleep,” she said. “Souls mend faster in rested bodies.”
Yadriel nodded too fast. Rested bodies. He pictured Julian pretending he wasn’t cold, cracking jokes while he shivered. Had he dragged Julian back wrong? Left a thread behind? The thought bit deep. He shoved it down and listened.
A match flared. Sweet smoke rose. “Limpia—copal over the head and heart—and a ruda tea,” Lita said. “I’ll show you the brew again.”
He watched the smoke curl and imagined tracing the same circles over Julian’s sternum. It’d be hard to get him to sit still. His hands would probably shake. He could practice on himself first.
Her gaze sharpened. “No listening for whispers, no following shadows. If anything calls his name, he turns away and calls you, or me. Names are hooks.”
She tapped Yadriel’s sternum. “Give him an anchor. Something to ground him when the pulling starts.”
“His necklace,” Yadriel said. He pictured Julian’s St. Jude medal on its thin chain, the way Julian thumbed it when he was nervous. Good. A thing to hold on to.
Lita set a candle between them. “At dusk, you can light a candle and breathe with him. In four, hold two, out six. Think of roots.”
Yadriel counted it in his head—four, two, six—and felt his shoulders drop a fraction. He could do that. He could be steady.
“Write down when and where the mark flares. Time, place, what he felt. Patterns tell us how to treat a wound.”
Yadriel was already mentally labeling a notebook page: Date. Time. Trigger. Aftercare. He’d text Maritza to help track when he missed something.
“No heavy places, no stray portajes, and if it worsens—fever, chills, lost time—you bring him straight home to me or your father.” She squeezed his hand. “You love him. Do these, and you’ll hold him steady.”
It still didn’t feel like enough, but at least it was a plan, and a plan was something he could carry.
Yadriel looked down at their clasped hands. The list steadied him—sleep, warmth, smoke, breath, anchors—things he could actually do. But questions pressed at the edges. Julian’s susto, the Marca Hueca, Angel’s strange link—none of it felt separate anymore.
A hand rested on his shoulder. Maritza. “We’ll figure it out,” she said quietly. “He’s not alone. Neither are you.”
Yadriel nodded. The ache in his chest didn’t disappear, but it dulled just enough to make room for something else.
Determination.
Maritza nudged his shoulder. “Conchas for courage?”
“Conchas for information,” Yadriel said, already turning.
If the elders were seeing disturbed vigils and quiet corners, Miguel would be the one to tell them.
The small panadería smelled like heaven—bread and sugar mingling with the faint aroma of cinnamon and chocolate.
Yadriel grabbed a tray and tongs, his movements mechanical as he tried to focus on selecting the perfect concha.
The warmth of the shop, usually comforting, felt oppressive against the weight of his thoughts.
His stomach churned with an uneasy mix of guilt and dread.
“Come on, Yads.” Maritza tapped her foot impatiently. “Miguel’s probably waiting.”
“Relax.” His voice was clipped, sharper than he intended. He softened his tone as he placed the concha in a paper bag. “He’ll appreciate this.”
They walked the rest of the way to Miguel’s house in silence, the tension between them palpable.
Yadriel’s mind churned, replaying every strange thing Julian had told him, every worried glance he’d caught on his boyfriend’s face.
It all felt like puzzle pieces scattered across a table, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see the full picture.
When they turned onto Miguel’s street, the familiar rumble of a motorcycle broke through Yadriel’s thoughts.
Miguel pulled into the driveway, cutting the engine with practiced ease.
He swung a leg over the bike, his mid-length wavy brown hair catching the light in a way that made him look like he’d stepped out of a movie.
His leather jacket gleamed, the boots he wore scuffed but sturdy.
Miguel always exuded a confidence that Yadriel admired, even envied.
“Yads! Maritza!” he called, his broad smile so effortlessly warm it almost made Yadriel forget why they were there. “What can I do for you two?”
Yadriel held up the bag. “A thank-you,” he said, trying to match Miguel’s lighthearted tone, though his voice betrayed a hint of tension.
Miguel chuckled, accepting the concha with a knowing look. “You know me too well. Come inside,” he said, ushering them to the door on the side of the house.
The garage smelled of motor oil and sawdust, a combination of work and comfort that was undeniably Miguel.
The space was cluttered but orderly, walls lined with pegboards holding an assortment of tools, neatly hung like pieces of an intricate puzzle.
An old sofa sat against one wall, its faded upholstery a testament to years of use, while a mismatched armchair faced a small TV perched on a wooden crate.
The faint murmur of a soccer match echoed through the garage, blending with the low metallic clink of tools as Miguel set his keys down on the workbench.
Miguel gestured for them to take a seat, his easy smile comforting the tension in Yadriel’s chest. “Make yourselves at home,” he said, settling into the armchair with a creak of worn springs.
His demeanor shifted from casual to serious. “So, what’s going on? Sounded important.”
Yadriel hesitated, his throat tightening. He glanced at Maritza, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Weird things have been happening to Julian since Día de Muertos,” he began, his voice quieter than he intended. “We’re not sure who else to talk to.”
Miguel’s brows furrowed, concern flickering across his face. “Like what?”
“He’s been seeing these … dark spots,” Yadriel said, the words feeling heavy on his tongue.
“And hearing things. Whispers, voices. Sometimes he sees shadows or glowing eyes,” he explained, thinking about how haunting it had been to find his boyfriend frozen with fright as he stared into the janitor’s closet earlier that day.
Miguel leaned back, his expression grave. “That’s … not good. And you’ve never seen these dark spots yourself?”
Yadriel shook his head, a pang of guilt twisting in his chest. He’d tried so hard to be there for Julian, but this was something he couldn’t see, couldn’t touch. “No.”
Miguel’s gaze flicked to Maritza. “You?”
She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Nope. Just Julian. It’s freaking him out.”
“He’s been seeing them on other people, too,” Yadriel added. “His friend Luca.”
Miguel hummed in response, raking a hand through his wavy hair as he gazed, transfixed, at the dark corner of the garage. Yadriel could see the cogs of his brain working, deep in thought as he mulled over Yadriel’s words.
Yadriel leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “You were sacrificed, just like Julian. Have you ever experienced anything like this?”
Miguel’s expression darkened, his hesitation palpable. “No,” he said after a pause. “Not really.”
“Not really?” Maritza’s tone was sharp, pinning the words down for interrogation. “What does that mean?”
Miguel’s fingers drummed on the arm of the old leather chair, the rhythmic sound a steady counterpoint to the distant hum of a passing car outside.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to wrestle with himself, weighing the words he was about to say.
Finally, his voice came, low and measured, like he was hesitant to let it out.
“Sometimes, places go … wrong,” he said. “The energy of spirits feels a beat off. It isn’t voices or eyes. It isn’t a pull. It’s an absence.”
Maritza squinted. “Since when?”
“I’ve always had a feel for it,” Miguel said. “After I came back, it sharpened. But that’s not ‘I died, so now I’m psychic.’ It’s experience. Any older brujo learns to read a room like that.”
Yadriel leaned in. “Did you tell anyone? About any of this?”
Miguel rubbed the back of his neck. “Some of it. I told Enrique and Lita when spirits started going missing.”
“But not the rest?” Yadriel asked. “Julian says he feels haunted.”
Miguel hesitated. “Not haunted, the opposite. Places that used to hum go flat. Favorite corners go quiet, like a note missing from the chord. I don’t sense anyone coming.
I notice when they should be there and aren’t.
” He glanced away, jaw tight. “Sometimes I get a dull pressure behind my eyes right before we find a stripped altar. That’s all. ”
Yadriel lined it up in his head. Miguel felt absence—spaces gone flat. While Julian felt presence—whispers, eyes—that shone. Different instruments playing the same song.