Chapter Twenty. Yadriel
TWENTY
YADRIEL
The inside of the church still glowed with the remnants of the Midnight Vigil. Voices were low now—tired laughter, murmured goodbyes, chairs scraping the floor as people packed up for the night.
And then Yadriel and Maritza burst through the doors, soaked to the bone and wild-eyed.
Every head turned.
A few brujx gasped.
“?Dios mío!”
“What happened?!”
Yadriel’s hair clung to his forehead in dripping clumps, his hoodie plastered to his skin.
Maritza’s curls hung limp and soaked, dyed strands bleeding faint streaks of color into the neck of her shirt.
The hems of their pants were caked with cemetery dirt.
They looked like they’d climbed out of a grave.
But Yadriel didn’t slow down.
He pushed forward, scanning the room with laser focus. “Where’s my dad?” he asked the nearest person.
The woman blinked at him, stunned. “Uh—he’s over there, with your Lita—”
Yadriel was already moving.
Maritza followed closely behind, wringing out her sleeves and muttering to herself.
They found Enrique and Lita behind the altar, deep in conversation with a few elders. Lita looked up first, her smile faltering the second she saw them.
“?Santa Muerte! What on earth happened to you?!” she gasped, rushing toward them.
“We need to talk,” Yadriel said, voice low but firm. “In private. Now.”
Enrique turned, his eyes widening. “What—? Yadriel, are you hurt? What happened—”
“Not here,” Yadriel said through gritted teeth. “Please.”
Maritza backed him up by giving Enrique a tight, no-nonsense look that said she agreed, and this wasn’t the time to argue.
Enrique exchanged a glance with Lita, then gave a brisk nod. “Come with me.”
They ducked into the side room just off the altar—the one used for prayer and planning. It was quiet here, the chaos of the church muffled by thick adobe walls. The faint scent of palo santo lingered in the corners. Candles glowed low in their holders.
Lita closed the door behind them. “All right. Talk.”
Yadriel paced the length of the room, water dripping from his sleeves and pooling on the tile floor. Maritza stood nearby, arms crossed tightly over her chest, jaw clenched.
Lita moved to grab a towel from a cabinet, but Yadriel stopped her with a shake of his head. “No, it’s fine. We don’t have time.”
“What happened?” Enrique asked again, his voice calm, but his eyes were scanning every inch of them, clearly rattled.
“It’s Angel,” Yadriel said. “They’re nonbinary—a bruje from a círculo in Texas,” Yadriel added, his breath still ragged.
“A what?” Enrique blinked, overwhelmed.
“Bruje,” Yadriel said quickly. “Same work we do. They were Julian’s friend—Lita met them once. We don’t have time to unpack it right now.”
“They’ve been working with Bahlam,” Maritza cut in. “Or, maybe, being used by him. We don’t know.”
“They tried to sacrifice Julian’s friend—Luca,” Yadriel added.
Lita gasped.
Enrique’s face darkened. “What?”
“At the old church,” Yadriel went on. “We pulled him out of the cenote. We almost didn’t make it in time.”
Lita’s eyes widened. “No—no, that’s impossible,” she said, shaking her head. “I put up wards after Día de Muertos. Strong ones, mijo. No one should’ve been able to get through.”
Yadriel turned to her, jaw tight. “It didn’t matter. Someone knew how to destroy them. Angel, or maybe Bahlam himself. The wards were shattered when we got there. Completely broken.”
Lita looked stunned. Her mouth parted, but no words came out. She sank slowly into the nearest chair, her expression haunted.
“They’ve been using a cursed portaje,” Maritza said. “A dagger. One Bahlam gave them.”
Yadriel nodded.
Lita’s hand flew to her mouth.
“He’s feeding on them,” Yadriel said, voice shaking. “It’s a cursed portaje—when Angel stabs a spirit, especially one with a Marca Hueca, the dagger corrupts it and the cenote drags it straight to Bahlam. We watched Angel do it to Felipe.”
Enrique’s breath caught. “Felipe?” He looked around, confused. “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”
“He’s a brujo,” Maritza cut in, sharp but controlled.
She didn’t look at Yadriel. She looked at his dad. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
Yadriel blushed, warmth flooding the pit in his stomach.
“It’s all related,” Yadriel said bitterly. “The missing spirits. Angel showing up—”
Enrique frowned. “Wait. You knew about all of this?”
Yadriel stared at him. “We put the pieces together.”
Enrique opened his mouth, but Yadriel cut him off.
“But you knew something was wrong,” he said, not bothering to keep the accusation out of his tone. “Both you and Lita. You knew spirits were going missing. You felt something was wrong in the cemetery. And you didn’t tell us.”
Enrique’s shoulders tensed defensively. “We didn’t know what was causing—”
“But you still didn’t say anything,” Yadriel said, voice rising.
“If we’d known earlier, we could’ve figured this out sooner,” Maritza said. “But you didn’t trust us.”
Enrique was surprised by Yadriel’s words, but frustration was hot on its heels. “I was trying to protect you,” his dad insisted. “I’m your dad, and it is my job to keep you safe, along with the rest of our community. This is serious, Yadriel. It’s not—”
“I don’t need protection!” Yadriel snapped, voice cracking. “I need trust!”
Enrique looked stunned. His brows drew together, mouth parting slightly like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.
“I know I’m not perfect,” Yadriel said, his chest heaving. “But I’m trying to do what’s right. To be what you raised me to be. I can’t do that if you keep treating me like I don’t belong in the room.”
The words hit the air like a step off a ledge—no taking them back now.
“If you trust me, then put me in the room when decisions happen. Let me help—show me what to do, how to protect our people.”
Yadriel paused, swallowing hard. His throat burned—from the cold, from the night, from holding back so much for so long. He didn’t want to cry.
But the truth ached in his ribs.
All he wanted—needed—was to be seen. Not as a kid who needed to be protected. But as someone trying his best to carry the weight that had been put on his shoulders.
Lita stood and touched Enrique’s arm gently. “Quique…”
“We’ve been on the same side this whole time,” Yadriel went on. “But we’ve been acting like we’re not. Not working against each other but not working together, either. That has to change.”
For a long moment, Enrique didn’t move. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of a broom being dragged across the floor outside the door.
Then Enrique exhaled sharply and dropped into one of the wooden chairs like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.
“I’ve been afraid,” Enrique said at last, voice low, rough.
Yadriel blinked. Afraid?
“I see how much you’ve grown. How much you’ve taken on,” Enrique continued. “You’re not a kid anymore. You’ve been through things most people never come back from—and you’re still standing. That scares me more than anything.”
His dad looked up at him now—really looked—eyes full of fear and something closer to awe.
“I thought if I could keep you out of the worst of it, maybe I could keep you safe. I didn’t realize what I was doing was the opposite.”
Yadriel looked down, his fists slowly unclenching.
There it was. Not pride—respect. Not comfort—acknowledgment. Finally, Enrique saw him not as someone to protect, but someone who had already survived the worst and come back with the scars to prove it.
And not just by luck. Not just because he was brave.
Because Lady Death had chosen him.
They’d finally let him in the room. They just hadn’t learned to trust him once he was there.
Yadriel’s dad gave a dry, brittle laugh—not bitter, just hollow. “And to make it worse, I knew something was wrong. I saw the signs. I felt the shift in the cemetery. Lita warned me. Miguel said something didn’t feel right. And I still kept it quiet.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I told myself I was protecting you,” he went on. “That if I could handle it alone, maybe you wouldn’t have to. But the truth is … I didn’t trust you to carry it. And that’s what I can’t stop thinking about.”
He looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly. “You’ve been carrying it anyway. Without help. Without guidance. And doing it better than I ever gave you credit for.”
Yadriel stood frozen, heart pounding.
Enrique shook his head, lifting his gaze again. “You were already in this. Chosen by Lady Death herself. I should’ve trusted you to stand beside us, not tried to shield you from something you were already strong enough to face.”
He sat back slightly, the weight of his own words pressing into him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. And this time it landed like a promise, not just an apology.
Yadriel nodded slowly, something loosening in his chest.
“I appreciate it,” he said quietly. “And I get it. I do. I’ve been scared, too.”
Yadriel hesitated, the next thought already churning in his chest like a storm cloud. “But I’m not the only one you’ve been shutting out.”
Enrique’s brows lifted. “What do you mean?”
Yadriel took a breath, bracing himself. “Julian.”
Lita, who’d been standing silently by, tilted her head. “What about him?”
“He’s unraveling,” Yadriel said, the words spilling out faster now. “He’s trying to hold everything together, but he’s haunted. Literally. He’s in pain. And he’s scared. But the worst part? He’s doing it alone. Because we made him.”
Enrique’s expression shifted, still uncertain.
Yadriel pressed on. “I know we’re not supposed to tell outsiders about us—about what we are.
But Julian’s friends are his family. And they don’t know anything.
He’s lying to them, keeping secrets, pushing them away—because we told him he had to.
Because we told him he couldn’t trust them with the truth. ”
Enrique’s mouth opened.
Yadriel held up a hand. “I know the rules. I do. But how can we keep asking him to carry this when the people who love him the most have no idea what’s happening to him? How can we call ourselves his community if we don’t let him have his?”
Yadriel kept thinking about the look on Julian’s face when he clutched Luca to his chest—the panic, the helplessness. The way he never let himself break down in front of anyone, always trying to hold it together. Always pretending he was fine.
But he wasn’t fine.
And if things kept going the way they were, Julian would fall apart—and no one would be there to catch him. Not unless they let the people who already loved him step in.
Wasn’t that what they were all fighting for? To protect the people they loved?
Yadriel wasn’t going to sit by and watch Julian be torn apart by the very rules that were supposed to keep them safe.
Lita sat down beside Enrique, brow furrowed, lips pursed.
“He needs them,” Yadriel finished. “And they deserve to know. They’re already in this—whether we want them to be or not.”
The silence this time was thicker, denser. Lita and Enrique exchanged a long look. Enrique’s jaw worked.
When he spoke, his voice was careful.
“I hear you,” he said, “but this isn’t small. If word spreads—”
Lita cut in, dry as flint. “We tell people when love brings them to us—spouses, adopted kids, friends who are family. We already make room.” She flicked a look at Yadriel and added, “And no, they’re not getting married yet—”
Yadriel nearly choked, his face setting on fire.
“But he belongs to Julian,” Lita said, nodding to Yadriel. “And Julian belongs to them.”
“I’m not asking to make it public,” Yadriel said. “I’m not talking about posting it online. I’m talking about his brother and four teenagers in East LA who would rather die than betray Julian.”
Enrique stared at his son, something easing in his face. “You’re right—it isn’t fair to him. He’s kept every promise we asked of him.” He nodded once, decisive.
Something in Yadriel unclenched. A knot he’d carried since Día de Muertos. This wasn’t permission, it was trust.
“Thank you,” he said, voice steady. “Tomorrow, under vow.”
Enrique nodded. “Tonight, we have much work ahead of us.”
For a moment, the room was quiet again. But not the tense silence from before—this one held purpose.
“We need to put the wards back up,” Lita said, rising to her feet. “Tonight. Before anyone else gets ideas about that cenote.”
She moved toward the supply cabinet, already switching into task mode. “Maritza, I’ll need your help to start brewing a stronger set. If Bahlam or Angel try again, they’ll feel it.”
The expression on Maritza’s face could only be described as gleeful. “It would literally be my honor.”
“If they got through the first set so easily, I’m not sure wards will work,” Yadriel said.
Angel was working with a god, after all.
“We’ll have to try,” Lita said, not at all swayed.
Enrique stood slowly. “And the spirits in the cemetery?” he asked, frowning. “If Angel’s still hunting…”
“They are,” Yadriel said without hesitation.
Maritza made an irritated sound. “Definitely.”
Enrique nodded grimly. “All right. We’ll double the protections around the graves. I’ll talk to the elders.” He turned to Yadriel. “You’ll come with me to lead the ward team.”
For a stunned second, Yadriel felt seventeen and ten and timeless all at once—seen, chosen, and trusted in the same breath. He straightened. “I’ve got it.”
Enrique gave him a small, approving smile. “We’ll set rotations. No one enters the cemetery alone until we get this figured out,” he said, checking the old watch on his wrist.
It was already nearing 2:00 a.m. and no one had slept yet.
Enrique clapped a hand to the table, decision made. “Let’s move.”
Lita pressed a vial of sacred oil into Yadriel’s palm. Maritza was already thumbing out texts.
Yadriel rolled his shoulders, pocketed the vial, and looked at the door. The nave beyond still smelled like wax and flowers, a thin line of dawn hours away.
“We lock it down,” he said, steady now. “Wards up, watch posted, no one alone.” The others nodded in agreement.
And for the first time all night, everyone moved in the same direction.