whipping it into fluffy peaks, she moves onto the next item of the

canto. She takes a white taper candle and a peacock feather. With the

hard tip of the feather, she carves our intention into the wax. “Wake

Alejandra Mortiz’s power.”

This is Lula’s fourth attempt to “wake” my power. 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. Lula believes in ways that I

don’t.

“There,” Lula says. “Now when we get home from school, we have to

light the candle at sunset and do the chanting half of the canto.”

“I’m not sure about this, Lula,” I say. “Maybe we should save the

spells for a day I’m not so busy.”

Lula reaches over and slaps the back of my head. “Spells are for

witches . Brujas do cantos.”

“Semantics,” I say. “All brujas are witches but not all witches

are brujas.”

“You’re impossible,” Lula mutters, returning the Book to the

family altar.

The kitchen fills with the sweet, rose-scented smoke. I turn off

the burner and drain the rosewater into a mason jar. While Lula isn’t

looking, Rose sticks her finger in the ambrosia. I bite my lips to

keep from laughing.

“You always claim to be so busy,” Lula says, tracing her

shimmering nail across the page. “It’s just school, Alex. This is your

life.”

“You’re starting to sound too much like Mom.”

“And you don’t sound like her at all.”

“You never want to listen to me. I have a really long day. First

period gym, then student council, then class, then the paper. I have

to use my lunch period to finish the reading on Romeo and Juliet . I

have indoor track practice and lab and-”

“Oh my goddess, please stop. No wonder your magic is blocked.

You’ve got a broomstick up your butt.”

“My magic isn’t blocked .” I bite my tongue.

Lula shrugs and taps the metal whisk against the bowl to get rid

of the excess ambrosia. Then she separates it into two clean mason

jars. “I don’t know why you’re more worried about school than your

powers. You’re going to overthink yourself to death.”

You don’t understand , I want to say but don’t. Lula isn’t the one

who got left back a year because she was too afraid to leave her room

and missed too much school. Lula isn’t the one who’s seen or done the

things I have.

“I know it seems scary,” Lula says, reaching over and tucking my

hair behind my ear. “But this is important. Waking your magic could

really bring us together. We all know that ever since what happened to

Dad, Ma hasn’t been the same. All we need is a little push and you’ll

see. You can’t have your Deathday until your powers show. You’re going

to be sixteen in less than two weeks. It’s the perfect time. I know

the other cantos didn’t work, but that’s why we’re going to try

again.”

Deathday: a bruja’s coming-of-age ceremony. While some girls are

having their bat mitzvahs, sweet sixteens, or quinceañeras, brujas get

their Deathday. There’s no cut-off age, but puberty is when our magic

develops. Sometimes, like with Rose, when you’re born with powers, the

family chooses to wait a little while for them to mature. Over the

years, modern brujas like to have Deathdays line up with birthdays to

have even bigger celebrations. Nothing says “happy birthday” like

summoning the spirits of your dead relatives.

Lula ignores my worry and keeps trying to convince me she’s right.

“Remember my Deathday? Papa Philomeno himself appeared. And he’s been

dead for like a hundred years. I went from healing paper cuts to

mending your ankle that time you fell from the tree. Magic is in our

blood. We come from a long line of powerful brujas.”

“A long line of dead brujas, you mean,” I say. Why do I bother?

Lula doesn’t want to hear the bad parts. She just wants to concentrate

on the power instead of the consequences.

“You say that now. Magic transforms you. You’ll see.”

I breathe deep, like there isn’t enough air in the whole world. I

brush my messy hair out of my face. It’s easy for Lula to talk about

power. She sees magic as something to be revered. All I can think of

is the blood and rot and smoke and whispers of my dreams. All I can

think about is the terrible thing I did. The secrets I keep from my

family every day.

Lula’s phone chimes three times. Maks must be outside.

“Trust me on this,” Lula says. “And hurry up and get dressed. Maks

is here.”

I start to head back up the stairs when I hear Lula shout, “Rose!

That’s an offering!”

Rose is licking the excess ambrosia from the whisk, a guilty smile

spreading to her round cheeks. “What? The ambrosia’s a metaphor for

our divine offering. It’s not like the Deos are going to eat all of

it.”

Lula looks up at the ceiling and asks, “What did I do in my last

life to deserve you two?”

“You were a pirate queen who stole a treasure from Cortés and then

ended up deserting your crew to man-hungry sharks,” Rose tells her.

“We’re your punishment for every lifetime to come.”

Lula rolls her eyes. “Seems excessive.”

I leave them and run upstairs to get dressed.

I can’t believe I let Lula talk me into doing another canto. I

still haven’t learned how to say no to her. I’d like to meet someone

who can. I know if I’m not careful, I’m going to get caught. The

cantos she picks are harmless really, unless you account for

attracting ants because of the ambrosia. Maybe I can stay late after

school and come home after sunset. She’ll be mad, but she’s always mad

at me for something.

I get a tight feeling in my chest and brace myself against the

wall. Something feels different today. Even Rose felt it.

I can hear Lula shout and Maks press down on his horn. A cold

breeze blows through the window and knocks a photo off my altar. It’s

a picture of Aunt Rosaria. In it, Aunt Ro is alive and smiling. Her

dress is as blue as the summer sky and in her arms is a crying baby.

It was a few days after I was born, and my parents chose her as the

godmother for my Birth Rites. It’s how I want to think of her. Not

dead. Not rotting. 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.

Something inside of me aches. “I miss you. Mom’s getting crazier

every day without you.”

I put on jeans and a plain gray T-shirt and fasten my watch. I

gather my hair in a long ponytail. I stare at myself in the mirror.

Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to wake up and my magic is going to

show. It shows on Lula. It makes her radiant, breathtaking. She walks

with her head tilted to the sky, and a knowing smirk on her face

because she can feel heads turning.

I’m not jealous or anything. Lula’s the beauty in the family, and

I’m okay with that. Rose is the special one, and I’m okay with that

too. I’m not sure what I am yet, but I’m certain I wasn’t born to be a

bruja.

I grab my backpack and double-check that everything I need is in

there. Another breeze knocks Aunt Ro’s photo from my altar again,

kicking up the dust. I’ll have to clean it when I get home. Rose’s

altar has a picture of our father and a statue of La Estrella, Lady of

Hope and All the World’s Brightness. Lula’s altar is the only clean

part of her bedroom. It’s a shrine to La Ola, Lady of the Seas and

Changing Tides. Lula’s got a prex made of every kind of stone, and she