When it doesn’t, I know something is wrong. My family healed me, and while their magic can’t fix everything that’s wrong with me, I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t feel like there’s broken glass at my feet and fire in my muscles.
Right now I want my sisters, even if it means listening to Alex yell at me for being reckless and leaving the house in this condition. For being marked by Lady de la Muerte. For not saying a word about this sensation that’s pulling me toward an unknown. Sea breeze caresses my face, and a swell of angry tears spill down my cheeks as I keep pushing forward.
I follow the silver thread across uneven boardwalk planks toward the parachute tower. When I see the carousel, I freeze. My heart runs laps in my chest and I turn around so I won’t have to look at it. Instead, I watch the dark blue waves and the seagulls that fight for scraps in the sand. This is where Maks brought me on our first date.
The carousel had just been brought back to Coney Island, original wooden horses and all. I rode a white horse decked out in gold filigree and brilliant pastels, and Maks stood beside me. No one has ever looked at me the way he did. He watched me like I was a marvel that could vanish at any moment, like surf breaking over the shoreline—there and then gone.
We went ’round and ’round on that carousel all night, stopping once to buy cotton candy. I don’t even remember what we talked about. But I remember the world spinning around us, the twinkling lights, the bell-chime music. I remember the way he leaned in to kiss me, a kiss like the melting of spun sugar across my tongue.
The thread in my chest tugs again—hard. I turn in its direction and face the carousel. The sea air has made the paint crackle and chip, and though the gold accents have lost their shine, there’s still something magical about it.
There are other couples and groups of kids on the ride. They casually glance at the guy with the stark gray skin and the scars on his face. They stare at the stained T-shirt that hugs his bruised arms and the red stains around his mouth that looks like blood. But in his hand is a snow cone, cherry ice dribbling down his hand and onto his worn jeans.
The silver thread pulses brighter, faster, and the other end drives into his chest. He looks down, then follows it back to me. Dull blue eyes stare at me without recognition.
I swallow hard and breathe slowly, trying to quiet the fear in my heart. Because there’s nothing in any world that could’ve prepared me for this.
I stand at the edge of the ride and wait for it to come to a full stop. Words fail me as I watch him stand, watch his chest rise and fall.
“Lula,” he says, eyes darting around my face, like he’s coming out of a fog.
He skips the bottom steps and flings his arms around me. I swallow the cry that gathers in my throat.
“I got lost,” he says, gripping my hair and squeezing me until I’m afraid my stitches will rip.
I hold him tighter out of the fear that my legs will give out beneath me. I don’t know how this is possible. His skin is cold and his wounds still look fresh, but he’s breathing. He’s here. La Muerte’s warning flits through my mind. You have betrayed the balance of the worlds. But I don’t care.
Maks is alive.
And nothing—not even La Muerte—will tear us apart.
11
Las Memorias, sisters two,
one who forgets and
one who thinks of you.
—Twin Sisters of the World’s Memories, Book of Deos
“A third body was found today in Brooklyn. An unidentified man was discovered dead on a Coney Island–bound Q train this evening. Witnesses describe a young Hispanic boy running off the train in a hurry before the body was discovered. If anyone has information on the suspect, contact the police.”
The news plays on the small screen in the back of the taxi that takes Maks and me back to my house.
He stares out the window the entire time. His eyes focus on the strangest things, the flurry of dust in the air, the play of light and shadows as we drive through an underpass, the peeling stickers on the partition, and the single drop of water that hits the window announcing rain.
Every few minutes, he looks at me, and it’s like nothing has changed, even though the stitches on both of our faces and bodies say otherwise.
I reach for his hand. The cold of his skin is jarring, but slowly, he stares at our hands and threads his fingers with mine. Familiar.
“What happened to me?” he asks.
I think of my mother’s words at the hospital. I don’t know who you’d get back, but it might not be Maks.
I don’t know what to tell him. You were dying and I tried to save you? You were gone and now you’re here? I try to form a coherent explanation, but what if it scares him? When I was little, when my dad first disappeared, I remember asking my mom, “Where did Dad go?” And she looked at me with a smile and eyes glistening with tears too stubborn to fall. She talked about everything but. “Do you want to see something cool?” she asked me. “Want to see the Circle make magic?”
And I did, because magic was the best thing in my life. Magic was a living, beautiful force that coursed through my veins.
That’s when my mom took me to her High Circle meeting and I watched them dance around an ailing person. They covered her in wet corn leaves and used bushels of branches to slap her skin red. They threw flower petals in the air and lit bundles of sage and prayed to the Deos in the Old Tongue. I watched from a corner, promising not to move, to touch, or to make a sound. Respect the Deos, protect our magic.
Now, when Maks asks me what happened to him, I know why my mother always changed the topic. Maks is different. He defies reason, magic, science. But he’s still mine, and I have to help him find answers for the both of us.
“Want to see something cool?” I ask him.
The cab driver stops in front of my house. Our car is gone, which means that my family is probably out looking for me and I have time to hide Maks. I don’t have anywhere else to take him, and despite the tension of the past few months, home has always been the safest place I know.
I dig into my jeans and discover I don’t have enough cash to cover the ride. The cab driver starts clucking his tongue, demanding his money.
“I got it. Hang on,” I say.
Maks stares at the divider. He traces the crack that splinters from the center.
Then I realize, Maks isn’t wearing his own clothes. They’re too tight and dated. Where did he get them? Who did he take them from? How did I just notice the dark stain on the pant leg? But before I can start to answer all of this, we have to get inside.
I reach into his back pocket and pull out a thin leather wallet. A voice in the back of my head tells me there’s something wrong. To put it back and listen to the warnings I’ve been given. You’ve betrayed me. You must free me.
But instead I open the wallet and pull out the bills I need, plus a big tip to keep the driver’s mouth shut. I put the wallet in my hoodie pocket and decline the receipt he offers me. The taxi pulls away the second I shut the door.
Maks walks ahead of me and through the front gate, looking up at my narrow, old house.
“You’ve never let me in here before,” he says, holding his hand out for me to take.
I smile, but it hurts, and I take the arm he offers. Maks always wanted to plan dinners with my parents, but I always came up with an excuse. Relief gives me a moment of clarity. Maybe he’s slowly getting his memory back. Maybe everything will work out.
I turn the key and leave my sneakers at the front door. The statue of La Mama with her broken hand stares at me as I shut the door.
“It smells like Christmas,” he says, every word slow and thoughtful. Maks always had a calm, relaxed quality about him that I loved. He wasn’t as hyper or loud as some of the other boys on the team. But the stillness of the way he’s speaking now feels wrong.
“Rose baked,” I say. I might be imagining things. I should be happy he’s here. He’s really here. “Are you hungry?”
He jerks back when he sees my hand reaching for his cheek. His eyes widen, the blue turns pale, his pupils shrink to pinpricks. He rakes his nails across his throat, leaving sharp red lines.