Labyrinth Lost: Chapters 1–6

Mom’s Circle usually brought cellophane-wrapped dishes and jars of dirt and tubs of brackish water that made the Hudson River look clean.

Not even the morticians, the Magos de Muerte, could fix her once-lovely face.

Raspy voices called out to our gods, the Deos, asking for blessings beyond the veil of our worlds.

Her body jerked upward. Her black hair pooled in the air like she was suspended in water. There was still dirt on her skin. The white skirt we buried her in billowed around her slender legs.

Black smoke slithered out of her open mouth. It weaved in and out of the circle—one loop over, under, two loops over, under. It tugged Aunt Rosaria higher and higher, matching the rhythm of the canto.

Her body purged black smoke, lowering her back to the ground.

It’s almost impossible to lie to Rose. Not just because of her gifts, but also because she speaks with a quiet steel and those big, unwavering, brown eyes.

“We have to make the ambrosia before we leave for school. You also might want to clean your altar before the canto tonight.”

There’s a cereal bowl and spoon on the drying rack and a green votive candle next to my mom’s favorite good luck rooster.

Do their condiment shelves share space with jars of consecrated cemetery dirt and blue chicken feet?

Do they keep the index finger bones of their ancestors in red velvet pouches to ward off thieves?

She takes a white taper candle and a peacock feather.

Ambrosia is the food of the Deos, and Lula seems to think it’ll be a nice incentive to get them to give us answers. I doubt the gods are interested in bribes made of sugar, but she’ll try anything.

It’s easy for Lula to talk about power. She sees magic as something to be revered.

I put the picture back in place beside my turquoise prex—a bruja’s rosary—and a candle that’s been burned to a tiny stub and not replaced for months.

She walks with her head tilted to the sky, and a knowing smirk on her face because she can feel heads turning.

Lula fawns over him—his dark hair, his new shirt, the irreverent shape of his earlobes.

I hate the recoil, the unyielding give-and-take of the universe. My sister can heal, but it comes at a price.

When I was a kid, my mom used to put good luck charms in my backpack without telling me, so they’d fall out at school and scare the other kids. No one likes a real rabbit’s paw strung with smelly incense pouches and seashells that jingle with every step.

Instead, I’m the girl with a jar of sugar and an impending magic spell waiting for her at sunset.

The last thing I heard before I took off was Rishi and Lula looking for me in the throng of students.

She lets me wallow in my guilty silence.

Then I look at myself in the mirror on the kitchen wall: tangled, sweaty hair; bags from sleepless nights under my big, brown eyes; the sickly green pallor to my tan skin.

“You conjured, Ale! I mean, he’ll probably have nightmares for a few nights, but the snake disappeared when you did. What did he do to you?”

Everyone has a theory of why Patricio Mortiz, benevolent brujo and loving family man, disappeared without a trace.

It was an accident. Back then, I repeated that like a mantra.

My body shook with recoil. My veins buzzed with freed magic.

Mountains of books balance in precarious stacks, because Deos forbid you need the book all the way at the bottom.

Rose picks up a jar of human eyes, each one with a different color iris. A blue one moves around of its own volition.

The fringe on her clothes bounces when she waves.

Lady has always been an enigma to the younger generation of brujas.

I try to blend into the corner of dusty books, but when I don’t move, Lady makes a beeline for me.

I take a step back, knocking against an armoire.

The sun is crowned by the sideways crescent of the moon.

He’s got three more matching nicks, one on each cheek and the last on his chin, like the cardinal points of a compass.

His smile falters, but not for long.

His eyes brighten with surprise, then appraisal.

He chuckles, and it makes his face look softer. “That’s a little morbid, even for me.”

His blue-green eyes flick from my lips to my clavicle.

My magic swirls at the base of my stomach and I yell at myself internally to quell it.