Chapter Seventeen. Julian #2
Lita passed him his candle—sky-blue wax, silver ribbon, tiny red flames near the base, messy Sharpie skulls, a crooked skateboard, and the words “Para mi papá.”
“Hold it close,” she said, and then reached up to rest her hand lightly on his shoulder.
She murmured a blessing under her breath as she moved the smoking palo santo and copal bundle in a gentle arc around him—first over his head, then down his arms and chest. The scent clung to his clothes and skin, sharp and clean, cutting through the fog in his mind.
Her limpia was quick but grounding, smoke curling over his head and shoulders.
When she stepped back, Julian felt like he could breathe again, just a little.
The brujx gathered quietly, forming a slow-moving line inside the church. A hush fell over the space as Yadriel stepped forward to the front of the altar, where the eternal flame burned in a tall glass lantern flanked by marigolds and saint candles.
With practiced reverence, Yadriel lit his candle from the flame and turned. He passed the fire to Maritza, who lit her own, and together they began spreading the flame down the line.
Julian held his own candle tightly, feeling the warmth bloom through the wax as it caught fire. Around him, a quiet ripple of light spread like dawn breaking.
Two by two, brujx walked out into the cemetery, their candles in hand. They moved in silence, a river of flickering light weaving past ancient tombstones and shadowy mausoleums.
Julian walked next to Yadriel with Maritza and her sister, Paola, just behind, candle held tight, his breath clouding faintly in the cold air. The night pressed close, rich with the smells of earth and incense, marigolds and wax. It should’ve felt comforting, holy, even.
But his thoughts wouldn’t stop.
Luca’s voice from earlier haunted him. It feels like you’re leaving us behind.
Omar’s bitterness. Rocky’s anger. Flaca’s silence.
The way Luca wouldn’t meet his eyes when he left.
And Angel—
He gripped the candle tighter. The flame quivered.
They were supposed to come. They were supposed to stand beside him. To prove everyone wrong.
Instead, Julian had watched them destroy someone.
Angel hadn’t changed. Julian had just been wrong about who they were and now he felt like a fool.
Just thinking about it made Julian’s chest ache, deep and sharp. He could feel the flare of his dark spot, something festering just beneath his ribs. Every step past the grave markers seemed to make it worse until the pain bloomed into phantom heat, his skin prickling, throat tightening.
When the procession turned a curve near the back of the cemetery—near the old, crumbling church—Julian faltered.
He didn’t mean to. But the moment they passed the shadowed chapel, a sudden pull gripped his chest. Like something calling to him, low and ragged. A whisper that wasn’t sound but pressure. The veil felt thinner here, like it had once torn and never fully healed.
His vision wavered. The shadows of the church stretched long and unnatural. For a split second, the back of his neck tingled, the way it had when Catriz had first appeared to him. The Marca Hueca pulsed in warning, the pain sharp and sour.
Julian bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper, forcing himself to look away. To keep walking.
He looked to Yadriel beside him, candle cradled in his hands, the flame flickering softly against his face.
Julian’s breath hitched again, but this time for a different reason.
The light illuminated Yadriel’s features in gold. The curve of his cheekbone, the shape of his lashes, the quiet strength in his jaw. He looked like something holy. Not just because he was a brujo, but because he was Yadriel.
And the fear ebbed.
Julian was safe beside him, like Yadriel’s presence alone could chase back the shadows curling in his chest, could hold the pain of the Marca Hueca at bay.
All around him, the brujx continued forward in their silent walk. He felt removed from it, somehow. Like the silence didn’t belong to him. Like the peace didn’t quite fit around his grief and rage and confusion.
But still, he walked.
Because maybe, if he kept walking, he’d find his way back to the place where he could feel it, too.
The procession circled back toward the main church again, the flickering river of light folding into itself as one by one, the brujx approached the altar.
It was massive, a sweeping structure of crimson poinsettias, embroidered cloth, and hundreds of tiny candles that danced in the soft breeze.
Offerings crowded every surface. Framed photos, little bundles of food, rosaries, trinkets, tamales wrapped in cloth napkins, and bottles of mezcal tucked beside prayer cards of Lady Death.
Julian lingered near the back of the line, heart thudding as he waited his turn.
His hands shook slightly around his candle, not just from the cold.
The weight of everything was pressing in now.
The fight with Angel. The fight with his friends.
The swirling shadows in his chest. The ache that never really went away.
When it was finally his turn, Julian stepped forward.
He knelt.
The worn stone floor chilled his knees as he placed the candle carefully onto the altar, nudging it into an open space near Lady Death’s feet. The flame trembled, then steadied, casting a warm glow over the nearby photos and flowers.
Julian sat back on his heels, staring at the candle. He thought about his dad.
Ramon Diaz wasn’t forgotten. But he wasn’t there, either. And that absence was a cold, hollow thing.
Julian closed his eyes, and the memories surged in like a wave.
His dad’s laugh—loud, raspy, unstoppable.
The smells of motor oil, leather, and the nasty cheap cologne he never changed even when Julian begged him to.
His ridiculous stories, always slightly too wild to believe, like the time he claimed he outran a police horse on foot.
Rio would roll his eyes. Julian would clutch his stomach from laughing.
Julian remembered the way his dad’s hands felt—rough from work, always warm. The way he could make a room feel safer just by walking into it. The way he always made time, no matter how tired he was.
He pictured his dad with him now. Crowding the altar, cracking jokes, piling his plate high with food, proudly embarrassing his son in front of his friends.
He would’ve loved this.
He would’ve loved Yadriel.
The thought tightened Julian’s chest, squeezing his heart. His dad would’ve teased him, definitely. But he would’ve looked at Julian the same way he always did—with pride. With love that never wavered.
Julian’s eyes burned. He blinked hard.
He wished he had something else to offer than just the candle. A bottle of Postobon Uva, a picture of his dad tucked into the Stingray’s dashboard. Or maybe a ticket stub from one of the LA Galaxy matches they’d gone to together that lived in a shoebox in his closet.
His throat tightened until he couldn’t breathe. His head bowed, and for a moment, he just stayed there, hands on his thighs, trying to breathe through the grief.
Julian rolled the St. Jude medal between his fingers, focusing on the cool metal and the steady thump of his heartbeat.
The silence wasn’t heavy. It was soft. Gentle. Like a hand resting on his shoulder. Like his dad, just behind him, just out of reach—but there.
Always there.
Julian heard soft footsteps behind him but didn’t turn, figuring it was another brujx adding their offering.
Then the footsteps stopped just beside him. Julian turned his head.
Rio was standing there.
For a moment, Julian thought he was imagining it.
He knew Lita had invited him, but Rio hadn’t said anything about it.
He hadn’t even hinted. But here he was, dressed in a simple black tee and dark jeans, the hem of his sleeve brushing the forehead of his Santa Muerte tattoo.
His hair was still damp, like he’d just showered and rushed over.
And in his hands, carefully cradled, was their dad’s old hat.
The battered, sweat-stained LA Galaxy cap—its brim slightly frayed, the crown dented just so. Their dad’s favorite hat. The one he wore even when it didn’t match his outfit. The one he once refused to take off for a funeral. The one that, for the longest time, had still smelled like him.
Julian blinked up at Rio. Rio didn’t say a word. He simply knelt beside his brother, leaned forward, and gently set the hat next to the candle.
Julian’s throat burned.
He nodded, too choked up to speak at first. Then, quietly, “He’d like this.”
“Yeah,” Rio said. Reflections of candlelight danced in his dark eyes. “I think so, too.”
They stayed in silence, side by side, facing the flickering altar together.
Julian’s gaze drifted to Rio. The way his profile was lit by the candlelight, the way his fingers twitched like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Rio had always carried the weight of the world as if it were his job—taking over when their dad died, holding the family together with sheer will and hard edges.
He’d never cried in front of Julian. Never really talked about the loss. He just … endured.
Julian had mistaken that silence for not caring. For being cold. But being here now, watching the way Rio’s eyes lingered on their dad’s candle, Julian understood.
Grief didn’t always roar. Sometimes it stood quietly beside you in a church at midnight, carrying a worn-out hat and too many memories.
Julian placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Rio didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just let him.
That was enough.
Eventually, Rio stood. He placed his large hand on top of Julian’s head, his thumb brushing against the short, coarse hair. A small, fleeting touch.
“I’ll be out front in the Stingray when you’re ready,” Rio said.
The quiet lingered even after Rio stepped back, rejoining the crowd with a respectful nod to Yadriel, who stood guard nearby as he passed.