Cemetery Boys: Chapters 1–4

It was one of their inherent powers, given to them by their Lady. The powers of life and death: the ability to sense illness and injury in the living, and to see and communicate with the dead.

There were aboveground sarcophagi and some mausoleums large enough to fit an entire family.

It’d be nice if Felipe could pass on already, then Yadriel could get a good night’s rest without being woken up by Felipe and Claribel’s bickering or, worse, his terrible renditions of “Wonderwall.”

There was no look of trepidation on Maritza’s face as she watched him.

Under the orange lights of the church, he seemed solid enough, though he was the faintest bit transparent compared to the very corporeal garden shears in his hand.

Three tall windows made up the apse of the church.

She had many names and iterations—Santa Muerte, la Huesuda, Lady of Shadows, Mictecacihuatl. It depended on the culture and language, but each representation and image came down to the same thing.

Men and women who’d emigrated from all over—Mexico and Cuba, Puerto Rico and Colombia, Honduras and Haiti, even the ancient Incas, Aztecs, and Maya—all bestowed with powers by the ancient gods. A mix of beautifully nuanced, vibrant cultures that came together to make their community whole.

For women, portajes often took the form of a rosary (a symbol that had begun as a ceremonial necklace and was altered with the rise of Catholicism in Latin America).

“Nothing gaudy and ridiculous like Diego’s,” she said with a roll of her eyes, referring to Yadriel’s older brother.

“They’re gonna feel real stupid once you show them. And I want you to savor that moment, Yads! Really”—she took in a deep breath through her nose and clasped her hands to her chest—“savor that taste of sweet, sweet vindication!”

His dad’s expression had been stoic and pensive, a deep sadness in his dark eyes.

His dad’s expression had been stoic and pensive, a deep sadness in his dark eyes.

Precariously stacked boxes full of prayer candles, silk monarch butterflies, and hundreds of colorful, meticulously cut papel picado were piled on the worn leather couch.

Precariously stacked boxes full of prayer candles, silk monarch butterflies, and hundreds of colorful, meticulously cut papel picado were piled on the worn leather couch.

The brujx practices were built on ancient tradition. Going against those traditions was seen as blasphemous.

Their blatant rejection felt personal because it was personal.

Adornments were impractical and completely unnecessary.

Yadriel was always forgiving people for being callous.

Short on the sides with a swath of hair on top, Yadriel put a lot of time into styling it.

While he couldn’t get button-up shirts to fit right—either they were too tight across his chest and hips, or comically huge—he could at least get his hair faded and use what little allowance he got on Suavecito pomade.

In a community built on such staunch tradition, the news that Yadriel couldn’t heal, to them, meant he didn’t have magic.

At least they had each other, and Catriz understood Yadriel’s yearning, unlike Maritza, who was entirely uninterested in being a part of the brujx and had no qualms about being an outcast.

But now, with the dilution of power over the generations, such extravagant use of their powers was impossible. Their magic was not a bottomless well. Drawing on your power to heal the living or guide the dead pulled from that well, and it took time for it to fill up again.

Living in a multigenerational Latinx household meant privacy was always fleeting.

“There you are!” Lita Rosamaria announced with a huff, snapping the hem of her apron with a flourish.

“You don’t run off like that!” she chided.

Sacred regalia and featherwork were kept in the house in fancy containers away from light until they were taken out for special occasions, like Día de Muertos.

Lita turned, consternation pinching her wrinkled face.

“Ay, poor Claudia and Benny,” Lita lamented as she fanned herself with a hand, not even noticing his reaction.

Without her, Yadriel was floundering.
“What do I do?” he asked, hating how desperate and defeated he sounded.

Lancet windows lined the walls, set in intricate molding.

“It might be attached to someone who’s gone maligno,” Maritza said, casting a pointed look around the dilapidated church.

“Do you happen to know how you got here?” Yadriel tried in an attempt at being tactful.

Julian’s head canted to the side, sparing Yadriel a confused squint.

He’d summoned a spirit, and now they had to placate Julian before he’d let Yadriel release him to the afterlife.

Julian’s mouth pressed into a surly line, the muscles in his sharp jaw jumping.

Trial and error had shown he was no good at soothing people or bringing them comfort. It had never been his forte.

Julian let out an indignant groan but somehow refrained from arguing further.

Yadriel’s skin grew hot under the scrutiny.