picks up a jar of human eyes, each one with a different color iris. A

blue one moves around of its own volition.

“I don’t like him,” she whispers, setting the jar back on the

shelf.

“What’s not to like?” I ask.

Lady, the storeowner, Alta Bruja of the Greater New York area, and

my aunt by marriage, greets us with a smile.

Her dark laugh makes me think of cigarettes being crushed into an

ashtray. “Don’t mind the eyes, Rosie. They can’t hurt anyone from in

there.”

The fringe on her clothes bounces when she waves. Her black

lipstick makes her mouth look like a bruised plum. She stands behind

the register, a rickety, black metal thing with large, white buttons

for the numbers. It probably survived the Coney Island fire of 1911.

Lady has always been an enigma to the younger generation of

brujas. Only the Viejos know her real name. After her second husband

died trying to make the journey back to Cuba, she married an aunt on

my dad’s side. She became part of our community and teaches the

younger brujas everything, from our history to magic realms to cantos.

Lula and her Circle have a bet about how old Lady really is. They’ve

guessed everything from thirty to ninety-one. When we were little, I

had a theory she was a vampire, but Lady likes browning under the sun

like Sunday bacon.

“Alejandra, come here.” Lady refuses to call me Alex. She says the

Deos don’t take kindly to false names. I just hate the way some people

say “Alejandra.” It’s like trying to say it right makes their tongue

have a seizure.

I try to blend into the corner of dusty books, but when I don’t

move, Lady makes a beeline for me. She grabs my hand and spins me in

place. Then she traces the map of lines on the palm of my hand. She

grabs my chin, and one of her long, black nails digs into my skin. I

try to pull back, but she holds on harder. Her dark eyes widen.

“You have it.” Her deep voice is soft as smoke. “It” makes me

think I’ve been diagnosed with some incurable plague. “An encantrix,

like Mama Juanita. The highest blessing of the Deos.”

“What?” I shake my head. I can’t be an encantrix.

Lady turns to my mother. “Carmen, did you know?”

“It’s been two generations since one appeared in the family,” Mom

says. “I thought the gift was lost. Mama Juanita-she could do

everything. Command the elements. Heal the sick. Speak to the dead.

She wrote her own cantos. And she made the best sopa de pollo in all

of Brooklyn.”

“Didn’t she get struck by lightning?” I ask, moving from denial

and on to panic.

Lady waves her hand in the air, dispelling my worries. No big

deal. It’s only lightning .

“How do you know that’s what I am? I just made a few things

float.” I also made a snake of smoke come out of a boy’s throat… I

also killed Miluna. I made my father leave us. That’s not a blessing.

That’s a curse.

“You’re a late bloomer, mi’jita,” my mom says.

“Our magic isn’t as strong as it was when we were free to

practice.” Lady crosses her arms over her chest, and her long, fringe

shawl dances around her. “Nowadays, some brujas are lucky if they can

make a pencil float, even with years of practice. Some can only see

the future in two-minute intervals. Some can only heal shallow cuts.

The gifts of the Deos get weaker with each generation. That’s why you

are so very curious. What you did-what your mama told me-that’s

physical. That takes power . Only an encantrix has that kind of power.

You might be a great one.”

A feather falls from somewhere and brushes my skin. I take a step

back, knocking against an armoire. The knob digs into my spine. I try

to turn around to hold the structure steady, but a small, bleached

skull falls off and smashes on the ground.

“Encantrix or not, you’d better clean that up,” Lady says. She

points to the black velvet curtain that leads to the back of the

store. Lula scoffs and tries on a prex made of sparkling crystals, and

Rose mutters something to the mounted head of a jackalope. My mom goes

over the list of things we need for my ceremony with Lady.

I rush to the back, where she keeps the cleaning supplies. There’s

a door painted dark purple. At eye level is an etching of a golden sun

and silver moon for La Mama and El Papa. The sun is crowned by the

sideways crescent of the moon. It’s the same moon I wear as a

necklace, a gift from my father. I trace the painted symbols on the

door. Directly below the sun is a gnarly-looking tree with thin,

stringy leaves.

“Encantrix.” I sound the word out.

The seashell wind chime snaps me out of my thoughts. I grab a

broom and dustpan and head back out to clean up the mess I made. Some

of the bone dust gets up in my nose and makes me sneeze.

“Gross,” I mutter, dumping the contents in the garbage can near

the register.

“Gross yourself,” he says.

A guy, possibly around Lula’s age but trying to look older, stands

on the other side of the counter. He’s got brilliant diamond stud

earrings and a fresh, buzzed haircut like the boys around the block. I

find myself staring. His hands are covered in tattoos, like he dipped

his arms in solid ink up to his wrists. From there, the ink continues

in swirling lines, like jellyfish tendrils drifting on the sea of his

light-brown skin.

Thick, dark lashes fringe his eyes, which can’t decide between

green and blue. When he sees me, he smiles, revealing a tiny dimple,

like a comma at the edge of his mouth. He licks the cold off his full

lips. Touches his necklace. Blue beads like a long rosary. A prex.

My face burns when I realize this is the same guy we almost ran

over the other day.

He grabs a few things on the way to the counter. I should probably

go to my mother, but I don’t want to deal with Deathday things. So I

stay put and try to ignore the guy’s presence, even though he seems to

take up the whole room with the way he walks right up to me. He sets a

red votive candle, some dove feathers, and a jar of tongues on the

counter. The tongues swim in the murky, green liquid like they’re

mocking me. I flick the bell at the register to let Lady know she’s

got a customer.

“I’ll be right there,” Lady shouts from the front of the shop.

I put the broom and dustpan in the back. When I return, he’s still

standing there. Again, he smiles when he looks at me.

“What?” I ask. I wonder if he’s aware of how his stare makes me

want to turn around and run.

“You look familiar.”

“I just have that kind of face.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, smirking. “I remember you. Red Civic.

Riding with that pretty boy that wore too much cologne.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You weren’t the one driving.” He crosses his arms over his chest,

making his muscles more pronounced. It makes his tattoo appear like

it’s moving. The ends of the inky tendrils stop at the finest points.

“My eyes are up here,” he says, making a V with his middle and

index finger and points them at his eyes.

I’ve never seen a boy with such bipolar eyes, let alone a

permanent wrinkle between his brows, like he spends more time frowning

than anything else. I ring Lady’s bell a few more times.

“Deathday shopping?” he says, smirking. “You look excited.”

“How’d you know?” I ask, matching his sarcasm.

“Overheard your mom. I’m Nova, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” The pads of my hands itch. It’s like the magic I’ve

tried to push back so long has gotten a little bit of freedom and now