Chapter Twenty-Six. Julian
TWENTY-SIX
JULIAN
“What about Angel?” Julian repeated, looking around at everyone who only stared back. “And the others—Marisol, the quince girl, my ghost friends—everyone trapped in there with Bahlam. What happens to them if we break the dagger first?”
Enrique answered like he already knew it would land hard. “If the portaje breaks before the vessel is freed, the recoil drags the vessel down. The tethers don’t dissolve. They hold where they are.”
“What does that even mean?!” Julian barked, frustration mounting.
“Break the knife first, and Angel gets yanked into Xibalba,” Lita said gently, plainly. “And everyone she’s tied down stays trapped.”
Images rose whether Julian wanted them or not.
Marisol’s careful smile, the screams of the quinceanera. Angel at his door, gold eyes gone wrong and terrified underneath.
Xibalba pressed at the back of his teeth—cold, dark. No one deserved to be pinned there forever. Not even the one who’d thrown Luca in.
“We can’t win by leaving them behind,” Julian said, louder than he meant to. “There has to be another way.”
“Name it,” Dona Clara challenged, grief sharpening her voice.
Julian looked to Lita because if there was a way, she’d see the thread. “If we break Bahlam’s hold on her first—if we pull Angel back to herself—would the recoil hit only him when the dagger breaks?”
Lita didn’t look away. “It is dangerous. But—sí. If the vessel is no longer his, the blow lands where it belongs.”
Maritza flipped to a clean page. “Then plan A becomes: free the vessel, then unmake the portaje, then seal. We run it as one continuous ritual so he doesn’t get time to regroup.”
“How?” Enrique asked. Not dismissive. Demanding an answer that would keep people alive.
Lita set her beads down and spoke like she was arranging chairs around an invisible circle.
“We build at the cenote. Wards first, to keep his teeth off us. I conduct the work at the center. The caller stands with me—the voice Angel will hear. Four anchors hold the caller to this world. Healers ring the room. Mateo’s trucks wait outside the gates.
If the circle fails, we fall back. If Bahlam breaches, we pour. ”
“The caller is Julian,” Yadriel said immediately.
Heat crawled up Julian’s neck. He didn’t argue. “She’ll hear me.”
“Anchors?” Maritza looked up. “We need people who can keep his head and heartbeat steady, and who won’t flinch when Bahlam approaches.”
“I’m one,” Yadriel said, already reaching for Julian’s wrist.
“I’m another,” Rio said from the doorway, voice quiet and iron. He stepped in far enough that the candlelight caught the scar under the Santa Muerte tattoo on his arm. “If he starts to drift, I’ll yank him back.”
Julian’s chest stuttered. Rio hadn’t been part of the talk until now and suddenly he was the anchor that mattered most.
For a second Julian was eight again, hiding behind him at a street fair, and now he was here, about to step into a god’s mouth. He wanted to say I don’t need you to—wanted to lie—but the truth hit harder.
He did.
Julian nodded once, yes and thank you and I’m scared all shoved into the same gesture.
“I can anchor him, too,” Maritza said, already flipping to a fresh page. “I’ll lay the wards first, hand them to runners, then park on a corner and bully him into breathing.”
Enrique’s gaze moved around the table, then settled. “I’ll take the fourth while Lita Rosamaria leads the ritual.” He didn’t dress it up. “If Julian calls a soul back from a god, he won’t do it without an elder holding the line.”
Lita nodded once, turning the plan into positions. “Quarters: East—Yadriel. South—Rio. West—Enrique. North—Maritza. You each keep a hand on him. Do not look away.”
Enrique rapped the table softly. “Dona Clara coordinates the outer ring when the circle is live. Ward team moves first and lays the circle. Maritza hands off to runners, then anchors North. Lita calls when the ground is right. We free Angel, then break the portaje on her count. If Bahlam manifests before Lita begins, we fall back to the chapel and reset. If the circle breaks—”
“We pour,” Mateo finished, already pulling out an ancient flip phone to text.
Julian looked around the table and made himself say the names again, anchors against the panic trying to lift him off the floor.
“We’re doing this for Marisol. For Felipe. For the quince girl. For the others we don’t even know yet.” He felt everyone’s attention shift, like the room leaned with him. “If this works, nobody stays in the dark.”
Something moved in Enrique’s expression—grief or pride or both. “Entonces por todos,” he said.
Lita stood. “No secrets. No running alone,” she said with authority. “We move together.”
Chairs scraped. Assignments flew. Maritza tore sheets from her pad and handed them off—wards, healers, trucks. The machine they needed started to turn.
Yadriel edged close enough that their shoulders touched. “You don’t have to be the one,” he said, soft and stubborn at the same time.
“I know,” Julian said. “I want to be.”
Yadriel swallowed, then nodded. “Then we’ll hold.”
The weight in Julian’s chest didn’t lift, it settled. If they failed, he’d be the first one under—but if they got it right, no one would be left behind.