Bruja Born

by Zoraida Cordova

  It’s working. It has to be because when I look up, Maks’s eyes are trained on me. I don’t dare look away from his face. There’s a nick on his chin I didn’t notice before. He must’ve cut himself shaving, but when I push my magic into his skin, the red cut disappears. His lips part, and we’re so close I can feel his intake of breath, the race of his heartbeat.

  When he closes his hand around mine, I shut my eyes and memorize the feel of us, skin on skin.

  When I kiss Maks, the world falls out of focus, everything around us pixilated except for him. The bus speeds down the highway, dozens of horns blaring, and we slide against the window. I rest a hand on his jawline, freshly shaven and smooth. I push away all other thoughts and focus on us. Whatever broke between us, I can fix.

  The kiss feels like a thousand years, but it’s been seconds. I pull back to catch my breath, and he leans forward, like he can’t be apart from me. He kisses my cheek. My forehead. The tip of my nose.

  “I said sit!” Coach shouts at a group of guys dancing in the aisles.

  Maks starts to wrap his arms around my waist, but every part of me turns cold. Maks looks down at me, worry riddling his features. Our breath comes out in icy clouds.

  There’s the crackle of static as the music cuts out. I stand to look around at what’s going on. Then the bus swerves, and my feet are no longer on the ground. I don’t have time to scream as I struggle to find something to hold on to. Maks’s hands grip me hard and pull me back.

  “Are you—”

  The screech of tires is followed by the warped crush of metal. Then, down is up. Windows shatter. Something hard breaks inside me, at first a dull, pulsing ache. The pain shoots from my belly button right to my heart, and I scream and scream as the bus spins in a fury of broken glass and bodies.

  I shut my eyes, and warm liquid splatters across my face. When I open them, blood blurs my vision. I hear my name, distant as a memory, called out until there is nothing but piercing static.

  There’s a final slam. My body so numb I can’t move. Can’t stay awake. But I know I’m alive because of my thundering heart. Maks and I lie face-to-face on our sides. I can’t feel a thing but see his hand resting on my arm, giving me a tiny shake.

  “Stay awake,” he tells me, choking on the blood that bubbles from his mouth.

  “Maks.” Pain slams into me all at once, concentrating on my abdomen, where a metal pole stabs straight through my torso and into his chest.

  3

  La Mama was lonely up in the sky,

  chasing after El Papa, night into day.

  Her light so great it left him in shadow.

  —The Creation of the Deos, Antonietta Mortiz de la Paz

  “Look at me,” Maks tells me. His mouth is full of blood. “Lula.”

  Maks’s ragged voice falls away amid the screams for help and the crackle of fire nearby. I try to reach for him, but a sharp pain stabs at my rotator cuff. Every part of me fights to hurt more than the rest, so I stay as still as possible. There is one thing I can do. I search for my power, burrowed within me protectively, and picture my sister’s face. Alex. I shout her name in the dark corners of my mind and hope that, wherever she is, she can sense me. She has to know I’m alive. She has to know I’m still here.

  I move my arm again, screaming through the ache that follows. If I can’t heal myself, then I can at least heal Maks. But my arm won’t go any farther, and the edges of my vision darken with shadow. My throat burns, liquid choking my windpipe, the taste of a thousand coins in my mouth.

  “Look at me,” Maks repeats.

  When I do, it isn’t his face I see. It’s my own.

  • • •

  Voices. Familiar and strange. Angry and hopeful. Near and far.

  “We can’t save them both.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before. How are they both still alive?”

  “He won’t be for much longer.”

  “If we remove the boy, she might have a chance.”

  “Get them on the gurney. Clear it out!”

  “God dammit! I’m losing her.”

  “What’s the count?”

  “Forty-five dead.”

  “Forty-six now.”

  “Get me a crash cart!”

  “Come on, Lula.”

  “Lula, baby? It’s Mom. We’re all here.”

  “Can you hear me? It’s Alex. I felt you. I felt you right here.”

  “I’m here with you too.”

  “You have to live, you hear me? You have to fight—I swear to gods, I will summon your spirit and kill you myself.”

  “Miss, please, you need to leave.”

  “Nurse, get them out of here.”

  “I can’t. Let go of me! She’s my baby girl—”

  “Maksim! Where is he? Where is my son?”

  “Get them all out of here!”

  “Stay alive.”

  “Scalpel.”

  “It’s not time yet, nena. I’m watching over you. I’ll always watch over you girls. You have a great destiny. All three of you.”

  “She’s tachycardic.”

  “Lula Mortiz. The Deos blessed you. The Deos will always bless you. Do not betray us.”

  “She’s crashing.”

  “Baby, it’s cold here.”

  “Pressure’s rising! She’s back.”

  “Stay with us, Lula. You’re stronger than this.”

  “Would you like to do the honors and close?”

  “Her eyelids are fluttering. She shouldn’t be awake yet.”

  “Pushing one milligram of Midazolam.”

  “Lula Mortiz. Do not betray the Deos.”

  4

  Sana sana, the body endures.

  Sana sana, the body endures.

  Sana sana, the body endures.

  Sana sana, the body endures.

  —Healing Canto, Book of Cantos

  When I dream, I relive every moment of the crash. Maks is throwing himself around me like a shield as shattered glass rains down around us. The bus keeps spinning until there is silence. But when I stand over my own body lying on the bus ceiling, I know this is a more than a dream.

  Two dozen broken bodies lie in heaps inside the overturned bus. Some are still alive and crying out. Others lie still. I recognize Kassandra, eyes shut but her fingers twitch with life. I move to hold her, heal her, but I’m an apparition and I pass right through her. I spin around at the sound of Maks’s voice.

  Maks tries to lift his hand to touch mine but he’s broken. He tells my body to look at him. Begs me to open my eyes. He’s still holding me, even after everything that happened.

  I move on, walking through the bus and onto the scene outside. A dozen cars are rammed into each other. The second bus is turned on its side, and a lucky few are being removed from the wreck by civilians and paramedics. Red, blue, and white lights swirl all across the highway as more emergency vehicles try to make their way through. Cars try to move out of their way as best as they can, driving into ditches off the sides of the road. People leave their stalled cars and rush out to help, taking off clothes to staunch open wounds and wrap around bone jutting through skin.

  That’s when I notice her.

  She was always there, I suppose, lingering in the edges of the dark. An omen at the crossroads.

  She stands at the center of the highway, dressed all in black. Her face is pale as the moon and her eyes are black as the longest night. She’s completely bald, wearing a crown of twisted, gold thorns that dig into her skull but don’t draw blood. Her dress blows in the breeze and she walks with a spear, the sharp end of it a metallic spike that sparks when she slams it on the ground.

  She walks right through the bus and I follow after her.

  “You,” I say as she approaches Maks and me.

  Her
inhuman black eyes lock on me. “You know my face.”

  The woman at the crossroads. She looks different now, but I know her the way I know the comfort of a sunrise and the power in my blood that allows me to heal. Lady de la Muerte. Goddess of Death and the Mortal Earth’s Dawn.

  She moves in slow, careful steps, like she’s on delay. She motions outward with her arm. The sleeves of her dress fall back to her elbows, exposing translucent, white skin. Names appear up and down her arms. His name makes my breath catch in my throat. Maksim Horbachevsky. The names keep scrolling, and there are many I recognize: Ramirez James. Samori Jones. Kassandra Toussaint. Noveno—they scroll too fast for my eyes to keep track of them all.

  “Why did you do this?” I demand.

  “I do nothing,” she says. “I collect.”

  “You can’t take him!”

  “That is not for you to decide. That is for the Deos to decide.”

  “You ask too much. You have always asked for too much!”

  “Watch yourself, Lula Mortiz. The Deos have also blessed you. Do not betray us.”

  Lady de la Muerte takes her eyes off me and turns to a boy face down on top of two other bodies. The number twelve is on his letterman jacket.

  “Do not betray us,” she repeats as she lifts her spear straight in the air and slams it into the boy’s back. A great light crackles and winds around the spear, absorbing into the metal.

  She’s collected his soul.

  • • •

  “She’s awake,” Rose says.

  Her eyes are puffy and her round cheeks are flushed. She’s sitting at my bedside, carefully avoiding all the wires I’m hooked up to. Behind her, my dad and Alex snap awake from their sleep.

  “Don’t try to sit up,” Alex tells me. There’s a limp in her step and violet bruises dot her neck. They’ve been healing me.

  “I heard you,” I say.

  “I felt you. When it happened, I mean.” Alex presses her hand on mine and looks over her shoulder nervously.

  “Maks,” I say. “Is he okay?”

  “Baby,” my mom says, rushing through the open hospital room door. Her skin is covered in angry cuts and fresh bruises. Dad too. I try to think of the healing cantos they’d have had to go through to fix everything wrong with me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Alive, thanks to you,” I manage. My tongue is thick and my head throbs at the back of my skull.

  “We’ve been healing you slowly since you got out of surgery,” Ma says, gently brushing my arm. “We still have the smaller cuts, but the police want a statement.”

  “Let her rest awhile longer,” Dad says softly.

  I shut my eyes, tears flooding at the corners.

  “What hurts?” Rose asks, looking over my body to see how she can make me comfortable. “I can push the morphine button.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to keep replaying the accident. I don’t want to see Lady de la Muerte’s ghoulish face.

  “What about Maks?” I ask again. I didn’t see Lady de la Muerte take him, but I saw his name on her arm and I remember the voices around me when I was being brought in. He won’t live for much longer.

  “He’s in a coma,” Dad tells me. He looks older than ever. His gray eyes are heavy with sorrow and the wrinkles on his forehead are like cracks in the sidewalk.

  “But he’s alive,” I say, my voice breaking. “Can we heal him?”

  There’s a knock at the door followed by a man in brown leather jacket. His cigarette-stained teeth and suspicious eyes mark him as a detective.

  “My sister just woke up,” Alex says. With the spine-crushing black boots she’s wearing, she’s almost as tall as the detective. “She needs more time to rest.”

  The detective gives my sister a side-eye look, and it’s that gesture which jogs my memory. He’s the same detective that ran the investigation on our “home robbery.” When we returned nearly dead from Los Lagos, no time had passed on this realm. Windows were shattered, feathers burned into the walls, floorboards ripped right out. Yeah, a robbery. There was no other explanation that wouldn’t reveal us or our magical community. But the cops bought it, and the case was closed. Now, Detective Hill is back and his muddy-brown eyes settle on each and every one of us.

  “We’re old friends now, aren’t we?” Detective Hill asks, trying for charming but ending at patronizing. He looks my dad up and down, then my mother and sisters. “You’re all pretty banged up, there.”

  “We were in one of the accidents on the BQE,” Alex lies.

  “It’s a mess out there,” Detective Hill says, running his hands over his thick salt-and-pepper hair as he turns to me. “That’s where you come in, Miss Mortiz.”

  “Yes, Detective,” I say, sounding like I swallowed a cheese grater. But the sooner he leaves, the sooner I can check on Maks.

  “First of all, I’m glad you’re feeling better. It’s been a hectic couple of days.”

  “Days?” I try to sit up but a shooting pain keeps me pinned to the bed. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Four days.”

  “Four days?”

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Ms. Mortiz,” Detective Hill says. “But there were a number of casualties and we’d like to get to the bottom of what happened. You’re the only survivor who’s awake.”

  “The only one?”

  Detective Hill nods gravely. “Do you remember anything?”

  “How many—” I’m not sure what to ask. How many dead? Alive? But Detective Hill understands what I want to know.

  “Five players and three cheerleaders are in comas. Others are out of surgery, but it doesn’t look good. The victims of the pileup behind the bus are still unconscious and the ones who walked away with broken bones say they didn’t see anything. No one has been able to give any statements, and you’re the only soul who can string a sentence together. So you can see my frustration. This accident added fifty bodies to the morgue and I’ve got no answers as to how this happened.”

  “Fifty,” I repeat. Then I remember my vision. “Kassandra?”

  He flips open a notepad. “Kassandra Toussaint. She goes back into surgery to remove debris from her stomach. Really rare blood type and not enough to go around.”

  The machines measuring my heart rate go off like a carnival ride.

  “Calm down, nena.” My mom pushes past the detective to get to my side.

  I open my mouth, but it’s like I’m breathing through a straw and the rest of me is buried under cement. My mother’s hand is warm, resting behind my neck. At first I think she’s going to use her magic, but then she simply brushes my hair away from my face, blowing cool breath against my eyelids. Something about her presence calms me in ways I can’t explain. I’m not better, not by a long shot, but at least I can breathe again.

  “You all right?” Detective Hill asks.

  “I don’t care who you are,” Alex says suddenly. “But I’m going to call the doctor to kick you out if you don’t have any more actual questions.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Ms. Mortiz. I thought I’d seen the last of your family five months ago, but here we are again. It seems bad luck follows you.” His tongue pushes against his cheek, like he’s digging for food particles stuck in his teeth. Then he mutters, “Curious, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t remember much,” I say. “I was sitting with Maks. Everyone was listening to music and dancing, like usual. They were excited for the game.”

  “Does the driver always let you stand up and party?”

  “What? No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “But you said ‘like usual.’”

  “Yes, but—” My head aches at the temples.

  “You’re twisting her words,” Alex snaps.

  “Stay out of this, Miss Mortiz,” he shouts.

  My vision blurs with tears
and I breathe fast because my heart is racing. Dad tries to step in, but Ma puts an arm on his shoulder, because we know it would be worse if he gets involved.

  “Will you let me talk?” I shout at Alex and Detective Hill. “Yes, everyone was extra excited. It was the final game and most of the team are seniors. Coach kept telling everyone to sit, but they didn’t listen. The next thing I knew, the bus swerved and everything turned upside down.”

  I shut my eyes but can’t stop the images from flooding my mind. Blood and flesh and glass and bones and a woman dressed in black. “When I came to, Maks was trying to keep me conscious. Then I woke up here.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Mortiz. You’ve been most helpful. I hope you have a speedy recovery.” Detective Hill looks at Alex. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  I nod and we wait in silence as he slowly makes his way out the door.

  “One last thing.” Detective Hill turns around. “The scars on your face. They’re older than the accident. How’d that happen?”

  “We used to have a dog,” I say, touching the claw marks raised with scar tissue. “Rabies.”

  We’re locked in a staring match. I’m afraid that if I look away first, I’ll be admitting to the lie. Who we are is cloaked in so much secrecy that when it comes time for sinmagos to believe us, we’re too suspect. That’s why our kind doesn’t go to hospitals. We don’t seek the police. We get justice ourselves, save our own, protect our magic.

  I win our staring match, and it’s a small victory. He looks away, eyes heavy with dark circles and distrust. He starts to leave, shaking his head as he says, “Shame. Such a pretty face.”

  5

  La Mama cried and cried, waiting for El Papa

  alone, with no one but El Cielo,

  who loved her, who greeted her with arms wide open.

  —The Creation of the Deos, Antonietta Mortiz de la Paz

  My grandmother always said that our magic was about belief. It’s also about intent. The first time I tried to heal, I had no idea what I was doing. I was six and a bird had fallen out of a nest in our backyard. The power slumbering in my body woke, pure and innocent. I just knew that I wanted the bird to be okay. I reached out with my power, unsure of the primordial magic that cycled between us, until the sparrow stretched its wings against my palms and took off into the sky.