Her breath hitches, and I swear she’s letting herself feel sorry for him, despite swearing to every Deo in existence she’d never forgive him. Meanwhile, Maks is busy admiring the scars that riddle his body. I want to look away from Nova’s pain, but I can’t because as much as I hate it, I know what he’s feeling.
Alex places her hand on his. “I’m not asking you to come. But I won’t go see her without your okay. Not after everything we’ve been through.”
Nova looks at my sister’s face, and I see how much he cares about her. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked into his armpits. Then his glance falls to me. Does he wonder if we’re the same? Desperate and willing to do anything? Whatever it is, he nods once, and I suppose that’s as good as we’re going to get.
“Who are you going to see?” Maks asks me.
“The scariest bruja in all of Brooklyn,” I tell him.
Nova’s laugh is bitter as he says, “But I call her grandma.”
20
Pero he descubierto que el veneno más puro es la amargura en los corazones humanos.
—The Art of Poison, Angela Santiago
Bay Ridge is bright with new shops and an excess of hipsters priced out of Williamsburg. I don’t come down this way a lot, but the pizza and bagel shop Dad used to love is still open, sandwiched between a barbershop and a dollar store, where bearded old men bake in the sun on a rickety wooden bench. Kids about our age gather in groups at bodega corners and under the shade of bus stops, cutting school because it’s June and the end of school is so near you can taste the sweetness in the summer heat.
Alex and I cross the street and turn a corner that marks the start of the poor side of town. Within a block, the houses are more rundown, more worn. Not even a fresh coat of paint would fix the cracks and lopsided porches or tilting foundations.
A group of guys whistles at us, but we keep walking, linking our arms together. They laugh and shout out obscenities. Alex’s hand tightens around mine and the surge of her magic prickles my skin.
Something pops, and I whip around to see a lamppost shattering over the catcallers. Some of them scream. Some cross themselves. None of them bother us anymore.
Alex’s smile is feline and I can’t help but laugh. But a block later, when we reach the little bakery with frosted windows, we stop.
The awning over the store is ripped, and though it’s a dirty brown now, I can see splotches in the fabric where it used to be red. There’s a wreath on the door I recognize as a protection spell. Black branches are twisted into a ring, and at the center is a cat’s cradle of copper wire with a glass eye at the heart. El Mal Ojo. When I was little, and I saw other brujas place the eye on their doors or walls or wear it as jewelry, I thought the eye could truly see. Even though now I know it doesn’t, it still gives me the creeps. I always thought it was strange that a curse and the thing that protects you from the curse are called the same thing.
When we open the door to Angela’s Bakery, the bells at the top jingle a pleasant chime. Despite the shabby exterior, the floors are clean, there are two tables where people can sit and eat their pastries, and the cloying sweetness of citrus and lemongrass clings to the air.
“Hello?” I call out.
No one comes to the door, despite the chiming bell.
“Deos help me,” Alex says, pressing a hand on her belly and shutting her eyes. “It smells incredible.”
We both inhale dreamily. Butter, fresh bread, and burned sugar waft across my senses, and, for the first time in so long, my mouth waters with hunger. I press my hands against the glass separating me from rows of decadent cupcakes topped with sugared rose petals. They almost look too pretty to eat and remind me of the canto Alex used to do for me. I touch the scars on the side of my face.
“Do you think Nova would kill me if I bought some empanadas?” she asks.
“Why do you even care if he gets mad?” I ask her. “You treat him like he killed your pet. Huh. Technically you killed your pet…”
Alex practically growls in my direction. “I’m going to ignore that. Anyway, I thought Nova and I could be friends after he showed up with Dad. I could get over the betrayal. But sometimes, when I sit and think about how lucky I am, how I love Rishi and how she makes me happy, how my family is safe, Nova just breaks into my thoughts and I feel helpless and stupid all over again. I just wish he didn’t get under my skin.”
I tap my nails on the glass and consider what my sister is feeling because I’m the one who hasn’t let her forget what she did. Maybe I’m the one who has to tell her what she doesn’t want to hear. “I think there are many different kinds of love. I think you want to love him as a friend because you share a darkness that no one else can understand. You’ll never really be friends if you keep blaming him. But for right this second, you just have to be allies.”
She acts like she didn’t hear me and presses her finger against the counter. Her eyes are set in a frown as if the rows of fried puff pastries oozing caramel did her wrong.
“See something you like?” a raspy voice asks behind us.
I grab Alex’s hand and jump.
A tall old woman waits behind us. Brown skin sags along her jawline, and her long neck is ringed with big, colorful, wooden jewelry. Her thick, curly hair is white as salt and decorated with black feathers. The petals in the resin-covered orchids that dangle from her long earlobes bring out the fuchsia accents in her wildflower-printed dress. There’s a softness to the curves of her body.
But her eyes—sharp circles the color of raw tourmaline framed by high-arched eyebrows—betray everything else. They belong to someone who has seen more than her share of dark days, and when they settle on me, I feel like she knows all my secrets.
“The Mortiz sisters.” She almost sounds amused. She nods her head at Alex and holds out her hands in a display of welcome. “The encantrix herself. What can I do for you?”
Alex’s jaw is set, and I pray, I pray she doesn’t ruin this. Angela is the woman who let her own grandson live on the streets. She’s a woman who dreams up poisons the same way others do wishes. My sister frowns, leans forward to speak, but I cut her off.
“We beseech your help and information,” I say, squeezing Alex’s hand as hard as I can.
“My, my—” Her dark eyes flick from Alex to me, a wicked glee sparks at the center. “Can I offer you something? Pan de bono, right from the oven? Un cafécito?”
And because it would be an insult to turn her hospitality down, we croak out, “Yes.”
While Angela busies herself behind the counter, Alex and I sit at an empty table. She does not look amused when I yank her ponytail and hiss, “Behave.”
“I’m not a dog,” she mutters, and slaps my arm.
It’s only the lightest tap, but I can practically feel myself bruise. The ache pulses hot, and when Alex turns her face to watch Angela, I lift the sleeve of my shirt and my heart sinks at the sight of the black and blue. I hide it and tell myself I’ll deal with this later.
“I figured you take yours black and bitter,” Angela says to Alex. The older bruja sets three steaming cups on the table and takes the empty seat in front of us.
Alex purses her lips and I pinch her thigh under the table. I take my coffee and hold it up to my nose, inhale the frothy milk and a hint of sweetness. Alex stares into her cup as if she can see her future reflected in the rippling, black surface.
“It’s coffee, not poison, ni?a,” Angela says, her voice losing its amusement real quick.
Alex fake smiles but sets her cup down without taking a sip. “Well, you did write the book on the subject.”
“Believe me, if I wanted to hurt you, I’d be more creative.”
“Mmm, this smells great. Thank you.” In an effort to find a middle ground between them, I drink. The coffee is strong, the milk creamy and sweet with brown sugar and honey.
Angela quirks a brow, and her demeanor softens when she turns to me. “Only the finest coffee from Santo Domingo. Does your mother know you’ve come to see me? Why not turn to Lady Lunes and the rest of the High Circle?”