Embedded Files
Protection is supposed to keep the darkness out. But when something learns how to move through it — how to twist it, feed from it, live inside it — the line between safety and danger disappears. In a house built on faith and family, Nellie must step beyond what she understands, guided by instinct and something older than fear, while Jack holds the line between here and somewhere far worse. Because sometimes the only way to save someone is to follow the thing that’s trying to take them.
Word Count: 16.6k
TW: canon-typical violence.
- - - - - -
The house is warm, not just in temperature but in the way it feels lived in. Lights glow softly in the kitchen, the hum of a television murmurs somewhere in the background, and the faint smell of something cooked earlier still lingers in the air. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes at the end of a long day. In the bedroom, a small lamp casts a golden light across the walls. A young boy sleeps beneath a worn but well-loved blanket, curled slightly on their side, breathing slow and steady. At the foot of the bed, an older woman kneels, her hair pulled back, streaked with gray. Her movements are careful, practiced. Intentional. She lights a candle. The flame flickers once before settling. Then another. And another. Three in total.
She murmurs softly under her breath, voice low, rhythmic; prayer and protection woven into one. “Protégelo… Mantenlo a salvo… que nada lo toque… (Protect him. Keep him safe. Let nothing touch him.)”
Her hands move with quiet certainty as she reaches into a small cloth pouch. From it, she pulls a charm bundle, tightly wrapped herbs, thread, something small and metallic hidden inside. She presses it briefly between her palms and closes her eyes. A moment of stillness. Then she rises just enough to place it near the child’s pillow. Not under. Not hidden. Just close. Where it will work. Where it will protect.
She brushes a hand gently over the child’s hair. “Duerme (Sleep),” she whispers.
The child shifts slightly but doesn’t wake.
The woman watches for a moment longer, then nods to herself. Satisfied. Everything done right. Everything as it should be. The house settles deeper into the night. Lights go out. Doors close. The world outside grows still.
Hours later, a sound breaks the silence, soft and barely there. A faint crack. The boy stirs. A small whimper escaping as their breathing changes, uneven now. Too fast. Too shallow. They shift under the blanket, restless. A sheen of sweat forms across their skin.
“Mamá…” Their voice is weak. Barely audible.
Down the hall, a door opens. Footsteps. Quick. Concerned.
The mother enters first, flipping on the light. “What is it—?” She stops.
He is sitting up now. Barely. His chest rising and falling like something is pressing down on it. Too heavy. Too much. “I — I can’t—” He gasps.
She rushes forward, grabbing their shoulders. “It’s okay, it’s okay — breathe, just breathe—”
Behind her, the abuela appears in the doorway, already alert, already knowing something is wrong. Her eyes go straight to the bed and her grandson. Then, to the charm. Still sitting exactly where she placed it. Untouched. Unmoved. Her brow furrows.
Another crack. Sharper this time. The mother flinches, looking toward the nightstand. A glass of water cracks clean down the middle. Water spilling silently across the wood. The lights flicker. Once. Twice.
The boy gasps again, harder this time, like something invisible is tightening around their ribs.
The abuela steps forward quickly now, her calm shifting into something more urgent. “Levántalo (Lift it up),” she says sharply.
The mother doesn’t question it, helping him sit up straighter. “Breathe,” she whispers. “Please — just breathe—”
But his eyes are wide. Panicked. Looking down. At their own chest. Like something is there. Something pressing.
The older woman moves to the other side of the bed. Her eyes scan the room. Quick. Precise. Then, she drops to her knees and looks underneath the bed. For a moment, there is othing.
Just darkness and stillness. Then her hand reaches forward and pulls something out. The small bundle had fallen under the bed, but it looks different now, like it had aged years in just a few hours.
She stands quickly, clutching the bundle. “No…” It’s quiet. But firm. Certain.
The room seems to darken at the edges. Shadows shifting just slightly, like they’re not staying where they should.
She grips the bundle tighter. Her voice drops. Low. Grave. “Esto no debería estar sucediendo (This shouldn’t be happening).”
The lights cut out. Darkness swallows the room. And something unseen tightens its hold.
• • •
The Arizona diner is quiet in that way that only roadside diners can be in the late afternoon, not empty, but settled. A couple sits in a booth near the window. A trucker leans over his coffee at the counter. Some old country song hums low from a speaker that’s seen better decades. Jack and Nellie sit across from each other in a worn vinyl booth. Their plates are mostly cleared, what’s left of fries pushed to the side, a half-finished burger sitting forgotten on Jack’s plate. Nellie’s water is nearly gone, the straw tapping lightly against the glass every time she absently spins it. There’s a kind of tired quiet between them. Not awkward, just post-hunt quiet.
“So,” Nellie says, leaning back slightly, arms loosely crossed. “Who’s driving first?”
Jack glances up from his laptop, one hand still resting on the keyboard. “I drove last time.”
“You drove after I drove six hours straight.”
“You said you liked driving.”
“I like driving when I’m not covered in ghost ash and regret.”
He almost smiles at that, looking back down at the screen. “That seems subjective.”
“Jack.”
“Fine,” he says easily. “I’ll take first shift.”
She nods, satisfied, reaching for her glass. “Thank you. I’d like to not hallucinate the road.”
He scrolls through one of the hunter forums, half organized, half chaos. A place where information gets passed around quickly, but not always cleanly. He pauses. “…Huh.”
She glances at him over the rim of her glass. “That good ‘huh’ or bad ‘huh’?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
That gets her attention. She leans forward slightly. “What is it?”
He tilts the screen just enough for her to see, though he keeps reading. “Someone’s asking for help. Southern California.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“No, but—” he scrolls again, brow furrowing slightly. “They’re saying it’s… ‘bru-jer-ia’?” He pronounces it carefully. Incorrectly.
She blinks. “…Brujería?”
He looks up. “You know what that is?”
“It sounds like Spanish,” she says, already reaching for a fry she doesn’t actually want.
He types quickly, running it through a translator. “It means witchcraft.”
She nods once. “Yeah, but not like—” she gestures vaguely with the fry. “Not the kind we deal with.”
He looks back at her. “There’s a different kind?”
“There’s a lot of different kinds,” she says, setting the fry back down. “This is more like… everyday practice. Cultural stuff. Protection, blessings, warding off bad energy. Things like that.”
He considers that. “So not harmful.”
“Not usually,” she replies. Then, after a beat, “Actually, rarely, if it’s being done right.”
Jack looks back at the screen. “They’re asking for help.”
Nellie’s expression shifts slightly at that. Subtle but there. “If a family’s asking for outside help, something went wrong.”
He glances up again. “With the ritual?”
“Or something took advantage of it.”
He watches her for a second, recognizing the shift. The way she leans in just slightly. The way her attention sharpens. He’s seen it enough times now to know what it means. “You want to take it.” It’s not a question.
She exhales softly through her nose, glancing back at the screen. “They wouldn’t reach out if they didn’t need it.”
He nods once. “They’re a few hours out and we’re already on the road.”
There is a small pause. “Yeah,” she says, pushing her glass aside. “We take it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He closes the laptop. “Okay.”
She grabs her jacket, sliding out of the booth. “Also,” she adds casually, “if this is what I think it is, I might actually be useful beyond just shooting things.”
He raises an eyebrow slightly as he stands. “You’re useful in general.”
She gives him a look. “You know what I mean.”
He nods. “I do. They’ll help like they always do.”
She shrugs lightly, but there’s a quiet honesty under it. “They believe in it,” she says. “That usually makes things… louder.”
He studies her for a second, just enough to clock that. Then nods once. “Then we’ll listen.”
They head for the door. The bell above it jingles as she pushes it open, warm desert air bleeding into the diner as they step outside. The sun is lower now. Long shadows stretching across the parking lot. The Impala waits where they left it. She tosses him the keys. He catches them easily.
“Your shift,” she reminds him.
He nods, heading for the driver’s side. “Try not to fall asleep.”
She snorts, moving around to the passenger side. “No promises.”
• • •
The road stretches out ahead of them in long, sun-warmed lines, the desert slowly shifting into the outskirts of Southern California. The car hums steady beneath them. Jack drives with a careful ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting nearby, still mindful of the healing arm. He is glad to finally be out of the cast, but he is still mindful of it.
Nellie sits angled slightly in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under her, her phone in hand as she scrolls. “Okay,” she says after a moment, squinting slightly. “So, I’m reading this as I go, just so we’re not walking in blind.” So, brujería is basically just everyday witchcraft, but not in the way we deal with it. It’s cultural. Protective stuff, mostly.”
He listens, glancing over briefly before looking back ahead. “Not inherently dangerous.”
“Yeah, no,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “It’s supposed to be the opposite. Evil eye comes up a lot. That’s probably the most common thing tied to it, protection against jealousy, bad energy, people putting negativity on you whether they mean to or not.”
“So preventative?”
“Usually. Or reactive, if something feels off.” She pauses, rereading the original post from the hunter. “They didn’t say exactly what was done,” she adds, more thoughtful now. “Just that something went wrong.”
His brow furrows slightly. “And you don’t know how that would happen.”
She lets out a small breath, leaning back slightly. “Not really,” she admits. “This isn’t… my wheelhouse.” She gestures vaguely with her phone. “This is cultural practice. Passed down, learned within families and communities. Not always something you just pick up from a book or a lore site.”
“So, we’re walking into something we don’t fully understand.”
“Yes, which means we don’t assume anything.” She glances over at him briefly. “We listen first. The only thing we really do know is that it’s not supposed to go bad like this.”
He glances at her again. “So, something changed it.”
“Or something’s using it.”
• • •
By the time they reach the address, the sun is low enough to cast everything in that soft, golden-orange light that makes even unfamiliar places feel quieter than they are. The neighborhood is modest, well-kept. Not flashy but lived in. There are cars in driveways, lights beginning to turn on in windows, the distant sound of a television drifting from somewhere down the street. A couple of kids ride bikes along the sidewalk, their voices carrying faintly before fading as the Impala makes a slow stop along the curb. Nellie looks out the window, taking it in. It feels normal. Which somehow makes it heavier. Jack cuts the engine, and for a moment, neither of them moves. The quiet settles in. Not the easy kind. The kind that comes before stepping into something unknown.
It’s a single-story home. Warm light spills through the front windows. There’s something comforting about it. Family photos probably line the walls inside, dinners at the table, routines that have nothing to do with what she and Jack deal with every day.
She reaches for the door handle, then pauses. “Remember, no aliases.”
He shakes his head slightly. “Right.”
She huffs a small, almost amused breath. “That feels weird. We just walk up and say hi like normal people?”
“I believe that’s how it works.”
She narrows her eyes at him slightly. “Don’t make it sound like we don’t know how to do that.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I didn’t.”
She gives him a look. Then she opens the door and steps out, the evening air cooler now, carrying the faint scent of someone cooking nearby. He follows, closing his door a little more carefully than usual out of habit. They reach the front door. She hesitates just long enough to feel the weight of it, then she knocks.
The door opens just enough for someone to look out before it fully swings wider. A woman stands there, mid-30s, maybe early 40s. Tired eyes, guarded expression. The kind of look that says she hasn’t been sleeping well. She takes in the two hunters quickly. Strangers. Unfamiliar. Not what she was expecting.
“…Can I help you?”
Nellie offers a small, careful smile. Not overly friendly. Not forced. “Hi,” she says. “Um — Are you Mrs. Reyes? My name is Nellie and this is Jack. We heard you might be looking for some help. With… brujería?” The word lands a little awkwardly in her mouth, not wrong, just unfamiliar enough to show she’s not from here.
The woman’s expression tightens almost immediately, confusion shifting into suspicion. “How did you hear that?”
She hesitates just a fraction of a second, glancing at Jack.
He steps in smoothly. “We’re not exactly sure how it was passed along,” he says, calm, even. “But we saw a notice on a message board. Someone was asking if anyone had experience with something going wrong.”
The woman’s grip on the door tightens slightly. That doesn’t reassure her. If anything, it makes her more wary. “This isn’t—” she starts, already shaking her head. “I think you should—”
“¿Quién es (Who is it)?” The voice comes from behind her. Older. Stronger.
The woman at the door turns slightly. “Nadie, mama (No one, mom)—”
But the older woman is already there. She steps into view, moving with quiet purpose. Her eyes land on the hunters immediately, not suspicious, not confused. Certain. Like she’s been waiting. She says something quickly in Spanish, her tone firm.
The younger woman exhales sharply. “Mamá, no sabemos quiénes son (Mom, we don't know who they are)—”
The abuela cuts her off again, softer this time, but no less certain. Another line in Spanish, slower. Intentional.
The mother looks back at the two strangers, still hesitant. Still unsure.
Nellie takes a small step forward, not into the doorway, just enough to close the distance slightly. “We can take a look,” she says gently. “If you’re not comfortable, we’ll leave. No questions asked.” There’s no pressure in it. No assumption. Just an offer.
The woman studies her. Then Jack. Then back again. Something shifts. Not trust. Not fully. But willingness. She exhales, stepping back from the door. “…Fine.” She opens it wider, moving aside. “But if this is some kind of—”
“It’s not.”
She gives her one last look. Then gestures inside. “Just… come in.”
The hunters step through the doorway. The house is louder on the inside. Not chaotic, but full. Voices overlap in that familiar way where no one is really trying to talk over each other, it just happens. A mix of Spanish and English fills the space, bouncing between rooms. The sound of a TV plays somewhere off to the side, kids arguing softly over something that doesn’t matter, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. It’s alive. Busy. Normal. A couple of younger kids sit on the floor with notebooks spread out, one half-paying attention to homework, the other watching whatever’s on the TV. Two teenagers move between the living room and kitchen, grabbing things, answering questions, getting pulled into conversations mid-step. In the kitchen, a few adults work around each other with an ease that comes from routine. Someone stirring something on the stove, someone else cutting vegetables, another answering a question from one of the kids without even looking up. It’s a home, even with something wrong. Nellie feels it. Not immediately. Not like a hit. But like threads brushing against her senses as she steps further in. Most of it is normal. Low. Familiar. The kind of background energy that comes with people living in a space together. Emotions, routines, presence. But underneath that there is something unstable. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just unsettled, like something’s pulling at the edges.
The abuela moves ahead of them, gesturing toward the living room. “Vengan (Come),” she says, waving them in.
A couple of kids are sprawled across the couch, and she shoos them off with a few quick words in Spanish. They scatter without much protest, grabbing their things and moving to the floor. The hunters exchange a quick glance before sitting. Jack stays quiet, observant. Nellie watches and listens.
It doesn’t take long before a few of the adults from the kitchen follow. They stop short when they see the two strangers sitting in the living room. Immediate confusion. Suspicion. One of them says something quickly in Spanish, looking between the abuela and the woman who answered the door. Another follows, sharper this time. Nellie doesn’t catch every word, but she doesn’t need to.
Who are they?
Why are they here?
We didn’t agree to this.
The tension shifts slightly. Not hostile. But defensive.
She glances at Jack once, then looks back at them. “Estamos aquí para ayudar (We are here to help),” she says, her accent not perfect, but understandable. “No para decir que están mal (Not to say that they are wrong).”
The room quiets just slightly. Attention shifts to her.
She keeps going, slower now, choosing what she knows she can say without fumbling it. “Queremos entender… qué está pasando. Y ayudar… sin cambiar lo que ustedes hacen. Sin arruinarlo (We want to understand what is happening. And help without changing what you do. Without ruining it).”
There’s a beat of silence. Then the abuela nods once, firmly. “Eso es lo que dije, (That is what I said),” she says, almost satisfied.
The adults glance between each other, still unsure but less rigid now.
The woman from the door crosses her arms slightly, studying Nellie more closely. “…How much Spanish do you actually know?”
She lets out a small breath, a faint, self-aware smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Solo un poco (Just a little),” she says. Just a little.
It earns a few subtle reactions, nothing big, but enough.
Jack looks at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his expression. “You didn’t mention that.”
She shrugs lightly, glancing at him. “Texas.” That’s explanation enough. She looks back at the family. “I’m not fluent,” she adds, this time in English. “But I understand enough. And if I miss something, you can correct me.” There’s no ego in it. Just respect.
The room settles a little more. Not fully open. But no longer pushing them out.
She shifts slightly, her focus sharpening again as she looks between them. “We’re not here to take over,” she says. “We just want to figure out what changed. Because something did.”
The abuela watches her closely, like she already knows that part is true. “Me llamo Luisa (My name is Luisa).”
“Me llamo Nellie. Y este es Jack (My name is Nellie. And this is Jack).” She leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees. “Can you tell me what you normally do?” she asks gently. “Around the house. With… everything.”
Luisa nods, like she’s been waiting for that question. She settles into the chair across from them, hands folding loosely in her lap. “Cosas pequeñas (small things),” she says first. She gestures lightly as she speaks, her words slipping between Spanish and English with ease. “Protección… limpieza… bendiciones (Protection, cleansing, blessings). Things my mother did and her mother before her. For the home. For the family. I keep things safe. Siempre (Always).”
“And it’s always worked?”
She nods. “Yes… Until recently.”
Marisol, the mother, still standing nearby, exhales and steps a little closer. “We didn’t think anything of it at first,” she says. “It’s just… part of how she does things. Tradition, you know. But then my son got sick. And he just… wasn’t getting better.”
“What kind of sick?” Jack asks.
She shakes her head slightly. “Doctors don’t know. They say he’s fine, but he’s not.” Her arms fold tighter across herself. “He just… weak and drained.”
“Has anything changed recently? In the house? In your routines?”
There’s a brief exchange of looks between the adults. Then, a few small shakes of heads.
“No.”
“Nothing.”
“Everything’s the same.”
Nellie watches them carefully, listening. Not just to the words, but how they land. There’s no hesitation. No obvious lie. If something changed, they don’t know it. She nods once, then looks back to the abuela. “Would it be okay if I looked at what you use?” she asks. “The charms, anything you’ve placed around the house… markings, if there are any.” She gestures lightly, careful not to make it sound invasive. “I’m not going to move anything. I just want to understand how it’s supposed to work. So I can see where it isn’t.”
Luisa studies her for a moment, long enough that the room holds its breath just slightly. Then she nods. “Sí (Yes).” She stands, already motioning for them to follow. “I show you.” She moves slowly through the house, not hurried, just careful. Like she’s letting her see something that isn’t shown to just anyone. She reaches above a doorway first, fingers finding something tucked just out of sight. A small bundle wrapped tight with thread, worn from time. She hands it to the girl. “Para protección (For protection),” she says.
Nellie takes it gently, turning it over in her hands. “Can I—?” she starts, gesturing slightly.
She hesitates just a second then nods. “Sí. Con Cuidado (Yes. Carefully).”
She nods back, already careful. She works at the thread slowly, easing it apart rather than pulling. Inside, dried herbs fall into her palm, something brittle, something softer, a small piece of metal tied into the center.
Luisa begins explaining, her words moving between Spanish and English. “Esto—para limpiar (This for cleaning)… This one… keeps bad things out… Para la casa… para los niños (For the home, for the children)…”
Nellie listens closely, nodding as she picks out what she understands, filling in the gaps. She glances at Jack. “Cleansing,” she translates quietly. “Protection for the house… for the kids.”
He nods, already jotting things down in his notebook. “Materials?” he asks.
She tilts the bundle slightly so he can see. “Herbs, mostly. Some kind of metal piece, probably symbolic.”
The abuela nods at that. “Sí (Yes).”
They move to another one. Then another. Each tucked somewhere intentional. Above doors, near windows, along walls where most people wouldn’t think to look. Each one slightly different but built on the same idea. Protection. Balance. Keeping something out.
She opens another bundle then pauses. She doesn’t say anything at first, just turning one of the dried pieces between her fingers. It flakes a little too easily. Older. Worn down. She glances at the older woman. “How long has this one been here?”
She thinks for a second. “…Mucho tiempo (A long time).”
Nellie nods slowly. She sets it back carefully, not making anything of it. Old things wear down. That’s normal.
They move deeper into the house. Luisa begins pointing out other items now. Not hidden. Placed. A small charm hanging near a window. A string of beads near a doorway. Something older resting on a shelf, clearly an heirloom, worn smooth by time and handling.
“This was my mother’s,” she says, touching it lightly.
Nellie steps closer and that’s when she feels it again. Stronger here. Not overwhelming but clearer. She reaches out, hovering her hand just above the object. There’s something there. Not the steady, grounded energy she expected. Something uneven. Like a thread pulled just slightly too tight.
Jack watches her from a step back. “You feel something,” he says quietly.
She nods, eyes still on the object. She finally touches it lightly. And there it is, that same unstable edge she felt when they walked in. Subtle but wrong. She pulls her hand back slightly, studying it then looks around. Now that she knows what she’s looking for, she can feel it in more than one place. Some of the items look worn, aged. That makes sense. But others, it’s not just time. There’s something sitting on them, pressing into them, twisting just slightly.
She exhales quietly. “…Okay.”
He looks at her. “What?”
She glances at him, then back at the room. “Some of this is just age. Things breaking down over time. But not all of it.”
Luisa watches her closely now. “You see something?”
She hesitates just a fraction, then nods. “I feel something,” she corrects. She gestures lightly to the items around them. “Some of these… they’re not just worn down. They’re being pushed.”
“…Pushed how?”
She doesn’t know how to answer because she’s still figuring that part out. She steps back from the shelf, her attention still caught on the uneven pull in the room. Then she turns toward Marisol. “Can I see him?” she asks gently. “Your son.”
She hesitates. Not out of refusal but out of instinct. Protective. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the hallway, then back to the hunter. “He’s still very sick. You need to be careful.”
Nellie nods immediately. “I will.”
She exhales and gestures for them to follow. “Come.”
They move through the house, past the noise of the living room, the warmth of the kitchen, into a quieter part toward the back. The shift is immediate. Less noise. Less movement. More weight. Marisol opens a door slowly. Inside, a small bedroom. Two beds, but only one is occupied. The boy is small, too small to look like that. Pale. Still. Breathing but shallow, uneven, like something is pressing down on it. Not visible but there. Nellie feels it the second she steps inside. Stronger. Sharpened. That same unstable thread, but here it’s concentrated, wrapped tight around the space. Around the bed. Around him. There are charms everywhere. Hung above the bed. Tucked near the pillow. Wrapped along the frame. Careful. Intentional. And on the floor are chalk markings, worn slightly from movement, but still visible. Protective. Layered. Trying. Jack stays near the doorway, arms loosely at his sides, watching.
She steps closer to the bed, slow and deliberate, her eyes moving over everything without touching. She takes in the details. The placement. The intent. Then the damage. It’s subtle. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you’d miss it. But she doesn’t. Edges of chalk lines that look wrong. Not smudged. Not worn. Something else. The charms. Some of them brittle. Some darkened in ways that don’t match age.
She glances at Luisa. “Have you ever seen this happen before?” she asks, gesturing lightly.
The older woman slowly shakes her head. “No.” There’s something uneasy in her voice now.
“Esto no es... normal (This is not normal).”
Nellie crouches slightly, holding her hands just above one of the chalk markings. The moment she focuses, she feels it. Clearer than before. The brujería, it’s there. Steady. Layered with care, intention, protection. But wrapped through it is something else, something that doesn’t belong. It doesn’t match. Not in structure. Not in feel. It’s sharper. Hungrier. Like it’s feeding through what’s already there instead of replacing it. She pulls her hands back slowly, her expression tightening just slightly.
Jack watches her carefully. “You found something,” he says quietly.
She nods once, her voice low. “It’s not the brujería.”
Marisol tenses immediately. “What do you mean?”
She looks at her, steady. “Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s supposed to help. And it is. Or it was. But something else is using it.” She gestures lightly around the room. “Can I put something of my own here? Just temporary. Protection. Until we figure out what this is.”
Marisol hesitates and then nods. “Yes.”
Nellie looks to Luisa.
The older woman studies her for a moment then also nods. “Hazlo (Do it).” She reaches for a piece of chalk and hands it to her.
She takes it, nodding in thanks. She moves carefully, not disturbing what’s already there. Just adding. Small sigils along the edges of the floor. Along the bed frame. Nothing large. Nothing invasive. Just reinforcement. When she finishes each one, she pauses and lets her energy settle into them. She opens her eyes again, stepping back. It’s not fixed, not even close. But it’s something.
She turns to leave but pauses. The child shifts faintly in the bed with a small, strained breath. She steps back toward him. She places her hand gently against his forehead. Light and steady. For a moment nothing. Then, the tension in his face eases, just slightly. His breathing evens out a fraction. Not healed but less strained. She exhales softly, then pulls her now shaky hand back.
That’s all she does. She steps away from the bed and moves toward the door, Jack falling into step beside her.
They step out of the hallway, the noise of the house settles back in around them, but it’s different now. Tighter. Voices lower, but sharper. A few of the adults have gathered near the kitchen, speaking quickly in Spanish. Not yelling but close enough to it. Nellie catches pieces as they walk past.
We don’t know them.
This isn’t safe.
We already tried—
What if they make it worse?
Before she can step fully back into the living room, Luisa reaches for her hand. It’s sudden but not aggressive. Her eyes are steady as she speaks, her voice quieter now. “¿Tú practicas brujería (Do you practice brujería)?”
She pauses then answers carefully, her words moving between the languages she knows. “No… no exactamente (No, not quite),” she says. She gestures lightly between herself and Jack. “Ayudamos a personas… con cosas así (We help people with things like that).” We help people with things like this. She searches for the right phrasing. “I know… enough. Para proteger… para entender un poco (to protect, to understand a little).”
The older woman studies her closely. “Tú podrías hacerlo (You could do it).”
She blinks, caught slightly off guard. “¿Sí (Yes)?”
“Eres sensible (You are sensitive).”
“…¿Sensible (Sensitive)?”
Luisa gestures lightly toward her, like it should be obvious. “El don (The gift).”
She exhales softly, a small, almost uncertain smile touching her mouth. “Sí. Tengo… algo así (Yes. I have something like that).” She glances briefly at Jack, then back to the woman. “I just—” she switches back to English for a second, then corrects herself, trying to keep it simple. “Quiero ayudar a la gente (I want to help people).”
The abuela nods again. That’s enough for her.
Nellie gently slips her hand free, turning back toward Marisol, who’s now standing a little apart from the others. “We’re going to need to do some research. Figure out what this is before we try anything else. What’s in that room, it’s not something we want to rush.”
She nods slowly. “…You’ll come back?”
“Tomorrow. If that’s okay.”
“Yes. Please.” Her voice softens just slightly. “…Thank you. For coming.”
She gives a small nod in return. “Of course.”
As they turn to leave, the mother steps forward again, grabbing a piece of paper from the counter. She writes something down quickly, then hands it to Nellie. “There’s a market,” she explains. “Run by a couple who’ve been here a long time. They sell… things. For this.”
She glances at the paper. An address and two names.
“Ingredients. Supplies. They might know more.”
She nods, folding the paper carefully. “Thank you.”
Jack gives a small nod to the family as well. “We’ll figure it out.”
They make their way to the door, the house still buzzing quietly behind them. Different now. Watching. Waiting. Outside, the air feels cooler. Lighter. But not by much. Nellie exhales as they step off the porch, pulling the door shut behind them. She looks down at the paper in her hand. Then at him. “So,” she says, a little tired but focused. “Field trip tomorrow.”
He nods once. “Seems that way.”
They climb into the car. The engine starts, the low rumble filling the space as he pulls away from the curb. She leans back in her seat, the paper with the address still folded in her hand, her thumb tapping lightly against it. They drive in silence for a minute or two, the neighborhood slipping past them.
“I’m impressed.”
She glances over at him, one brow lifting slightly. “With what?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Your Spanish.”
She snorts softly, shaking her head. “That is not impressive.”
“It was effective.”
“That’s not the same thing.” She shifts in her seat, tucking the paper into the console. “Seriously, that’s just… survival skills from working in a diner in Texas. You pick up the basics real quick if you don’t want to mess up someone’s order.”
“You understood most of it.”
“I understood enough. Everything else was guesswork.” She gestures lightly. “Tone, body language, who’s getting louder. Context clues do a lot of heavy lifting.”
“That’s still a skill.”
“Maybe. It’s not like I’m gonna start holding full conversations anytime soon.”
The road opens up a bit as they move further from the neighborhood, streetlights flickering on as the sky darkens. Nellie exhales, her expression shifting back to thoughtful. Jack notices.
“You’re thinking about the house.”
“Yeah.”
“I think you’re right,” he says. “About something using it.”
She glances at him. “What makes you say that?”
“The structure. From what you described, it’s not designed to cause harm.”
“It’s not,” she confirms. “It’s supposed to protect, stabilize, keep things out.”
“Then whatever we’re dealing with isn’t coming from the practice itself.”
“Yeah. It’s not.” She looks out the window for a moment, watching the passing lights blur slightly. “I felt it. It doesn’t match what she’s doing.”
His grip shifts slightly on the wheel. “Then it’s external.”
“Probably. I just don’t know how.” She leans her head back against the seat, frowning slightly. “That kind of work — what she’s doing — it’s low level. It’s meant for everyday use. Protection, balance, nothing big. I don’t know if it’s even supposed to hold something like what I felt.”
“But something’s found a way.”
“Apparently.” She exhales again, quieter this time. “I just don’t know enough about how this kind of practice is structured. Like, how it behaves when it’s interfered with.”
“Which is where the market comes in.”
“If those people have been around a while, they’ll know more about how this is supposed to work. Not just what we think it is from the outside.”
He glances at her. “You want context.”
“I need context,” she corrects. “Otherwise, we’re just guessing.”
A small pause settles between them again.
“You did well in there,” he says.
She blinks, caught slightly off guard. “Thanks.” She looks back out the window, a small, thoughtful expression settling in. “They needed someone to not come in and tell them they were wrong.”
“And you didn’t.”
“They weren’t.”
He doesn’t argue that.
The glow of a motel sign appears up ahead, flickering slightly at the edges.
Jack signals and turns in. “Motel sweet motel.”
Nellie lets out a quiet breath. “Good. My brain needs a reset before we start digging into this.”
The Impala rolls into the lot, gravel crunching softly under the tires. They make the quiet stop at the front desk and get a room key. The door shuts behind them, she dropping her bag near one of the beds without much thought. He sets his down more carefully, already taking in the room out of habit; windows, exits, layout. Routine. She exhales, rolling her shoulders slightly as she moves further into the room.
“Tired?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
She shakes her head automatically. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches her.
She moves to the dresser, pulling open a drawer that doesn’t open all the way, grabbing a towel without really looking. Her movements are a little slower than usual. A little less precise.
“Nell.”
She pauses. “Yeah?”
“Rest.”
She huffs a quiet breath, not turning around. “I am resting.”
He leans back slightly against the table, arms loosely crossed. “That’s not what I meant.”
She turns now, giving him a look. “I didn’t even do that much tonight.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you’ve been using your abilities for the past few days.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. “Jack—”
“Your hands are shaking.”
That stops Nellie. She glances down. Just slightly. Like maybe if she doesn’t look too closely, it won’t be true. But it is. Subtle but there.
“And you get that look,” Jack adds, a little softer now. “When you’re about to get a headache.”
She exhales through her nose, running a hand back through her hair. “It’s not that bad.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
She leans back against the dresser, crossing her arms. “I can still work.”
“I know.”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not saying you can’t,” he cuts in gently.
She looks at him. He’s not pushing hard. Not forcing it. Just steady.
“This case isn’t going anywhere tonight,” he continues. “And when we go back tomorrow, you’re going to need your abilities.”
She knows that. That’s the problem.
“It’s not a physical hunt. We’re not dealing with something we can just shoot and be done with. You need to be at full strength. Not pushing through it.”
She watches him for a second. He’s not wrong. She knows he’s not wrong. That doesn’t make it less annoying. “…You’re very persistent,” she mutters.
“I’ve been told that.”
She narrows her eyes at him slightly. Then she relents. “Fine,” she says, grabbing the towel again. “I’ll shower first.”
He nods once. “Good.”
She heads toward the bathroom, pausing just long enough to glance back at him. “I’m still helping with research after.”
“We’ll see.” She scoffs lightly and disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her. The sound of the shower starts a minute later.
Jack moves quietly around the room, settling into the space. He pulls out his notebook, flipping it open to the notes he started earlier. He writes a few things down, then pulls out his phone, cross-referencing. Traditional witchcraft and brujería. He starts comparing. There are similarities, but not the same. Not structured the same way. Not used the same way. Intent plays a bigger role here. Protection tied to people, not just space.
He leans forward slightly, focused. “If something’s using it…” he murmurs quietly to himself, “it would have to adapt to that structure.” Not override it. Work through it.
He flips a page, jotting something else down. He starts broad. History. Origin. Not just what it is, but where it comes from. Brujería is not one thing. That’s the first thing he notices. Not a single origin. Not a single structure. He scrolls, reading more carefully now. Different regions. Different influences. Mexico. Caribbean. South America. Each one slightly different but connected. Syncretic. A blend. Indigenous belief systems. African spiritual practices. Catholic influence layered over time.
“It’s not… separate systems,” he mutters. “It’s one system built from many.” He writes that down too.
Another section catches his attention. Rituals. Not grand. Not theatrical. Cleansing. A ritual meant to sweep away negative energy. Sometimes with herbs. Sometimes with an egg. Sometimes with a lemon. Simple things. Accessible things.
He leans back slightly, processing. “They’re not trying to control anything. They’re trying to restore balance.”
He scrolls again. Another term. Mal de ojo. He recognizes it this time. Nellie mentioned it earlier. The evil eye. But the explanation is more nuanced. Not just malice. Not just intent.
“Even admiration,” he reads, “can cause harm.” His brow furrows slightly. “So it’s not just… what people mean to do.” It’s what they feel. What they project. Whether they realize it or not. That connects. To what she said. To what she felt.
He scrolls further. Now it shifts from ritual to philosophy. Brujería doesn’t rely heavily on the objects themselves. Not in the way other practices do.
The objects aren’t the power. They’re the conduit. The focus. The symbol. The power comes from spirits, forces, or presence. He stills slightly. That matters more than anything else so far. He writes slower now.
Objects = vessels. Not source.
Power = external / invoked / connected.
He exhales quietly, leaning forward again. “That’s how something gets in.” Not by breaking it. By using it.
He flips the page and starts organizing.
Traditional witchcraft (what they know):
- Ritual structure
- Controlled outcomes
- Power directed
Brujería:
- Fluid practice
- Emotion + intent driven
- Spirit-based interaction
He taps the pen lightly against the page. This isn’t about one person performing a ritual.
It’s about relationships. Emotion. Trust. Which means if something wanted to feed, it wouldn’t need to force anything. It would just need access.
The bathroom door opens. Steam spills out into the room, soft and warm. Nellie steps out, hair damp, towel slung over her shoulder as she pulls on a clean shirt. She glances at him then at the table. “You went full research mode, didn’t you?”
Jack nods once. “There’s more to it than we thought.”
She walks over, slower now, leaning slightly against the back of the chair as she looks down at his notes. Her eyes scan the page. “…Okay, yeah,” she murmurs, nodding faintly. “That makes sense.” She taps lightly near one of his notes. “‘Not about the objects’—that tracks. It wasn’t the charms themselves that were wrong. It was what was moving through them.”
He watches her for a second. Not just listening. Watching. Her movements are slower. Her focus still there but heavier. She keeps reading, eyes moving across the page, blinking slower.
“…Emotion-driven,” she murmurs, reading one of his lines. “Yeah… that explains a lot…” Her voice trails just slightly at the end.
He leans back in his chair. “You’re falling asleep.”
“I am not.” She doesn’t even look up when she says it.
He just waits.
She blinks. Long. Then rubs at her eye. “…Okay, maybe a little.”
“You should sleep.”
“I said I was gonna help.”
“You are. Tomorrow.”
She shifts, trying to straighten up again. “I can still read—”
“You can read it in the morning.”
She frowns slightly, looking down at the notes like she’s trying to argue with them. “And if something happens tonight?” she asks.
“They have our number,” he answers. “They’ll call and we’ll go.”
She exhales, quieter now. The fight leaving her in small pieces. “You’re annoying when you’re right.”
He smirks. “A small thing you love to remind me about.”
She huffs softly, pushing off the chair. “Fine.” She moves to the bed, grabbing the blanket without much thought, dropping onto the mattress like she didn’t realize how tired she actually was. Then she’s out, faster than she expected.
He watches her for a moment, just to be sure, then looks back down at his notes. The room is quiet again. He taps the pen once against the page, thinking. Because this isn’t just something feeding. It’s something that understands structure, emotion, and connection. Something that knows how to hide inside something meant to protect. And they need to find what it’s attached to.
• • •
The void is quiet. Not empty, just waiting. Nellie walks. There’s no ground she can see, but she can feel it beneath her feet. Something solid, something real, even if everything around her isn’t. Dark stretches in every direction. Not pitch black, there’s movement in it. Low, shifting fog that curls around her ankles, her calves, brushing against her like it’s alive. It hums.
She keeps moving. Slowly at first, like she’s expecting something to step out in front of her. The air feels charged. Not like a place she’s been before, but close enough to something familiar. Like standing on a leyline. Energy pressing at her senses, brushing against her skin, threading through her awareness. But it’s wrong. Not structured. Not grounded. The fog thickens, clinging more now, wrapping around her legs. Her steps slow. Just slightly at first then more.
“…Okay,” she mutters under her breath, trying to push through it. It feels like walking through something heavy now. Like mud that doesn’t want to let her go. She pushes forward anyway.
The hum shifts. Not louder. Closer. Suddenly, something brushes the back of her neck.
She freezes. “Nope.”
She turns slightly, trying to catch it. Nothing. Just fog. Then something latches onto the back of her head. Sharp and sudden. She gasps, her hands flying up instinctively, grabbing at it.
It’s there. She can feel it. Digging in. Like it’s hooked into her. Not just skin. Deeper.
“Get off—”
She claws at it, fingers slipping against something she can’t quite grasp, her pulse spiking as she tries to rip it free. It tightens. For a second then it tears loose. She stumbles forward slightly, sucking in a breath as her hands come away from the back of her head. She spins, trying to find it. Nothing. But she can hear it. A low shifting sound. Somewhere in the fog. Moving. Circling. Her body won’t move. Her feet feel locked in place, like whatever she pushed through earlier has closed in around her again.
“Show yourself,” she says, quieter now. Even if her pulse hasn’t caught up yet.
The sound stops. For half a second, there’s nothing. Then it moves. Fast. She doesn’t see it, she feels it. It hits her face. Something wraps around her, clings to her. Her mouth, her eyes, her nose. She tries to breathe but can’t. Her hands come up again, grabbing at it, trying to tear it off, but it’s already in. Not physically. Not like flesh. Deeper. It drains. Not blood. Not air. Energy. She feels it pull from her, that same place her abilities come from, that steady current she’s learned to hold. It rips through it. Her strength drops out from under her. Her knees buckle. The fog rushes up to meet her, and everything goes white.
Nellie jerks awake with a sharp inhale. The motel room snaps into place around her. Morning light bleeding through the thin curtains. The hum of the AC. The familiar, grounded reality of the bed beneath her. She sucks in another breath, hand pressing briefly against her chest like she needs to remind herself she can breathe.
Across the room, Jack stirs immediately. He’s already halfway up before he’s fully awake. “Nellie?”
She sits up slowly, still catching her breath, running a hand back through her hair. “I’m—” she exhales. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
She gives a small, breathless huff. “Bad dream.” She presses her fingers lightly against the back of her head. There’s nothing there. No pain. No mark. But she can still feel it. “That wasn’t random,” she says quietly.
His attention sharpens. “What do you mean?”
She looks at him, still a little shaken but already thinking. “I think it’s residue. From last night. From… whatever I was reading in that house.”
She exhales softly. “It got into my head.”
He frowns slightly. “As a warning?”
“Maybe. Or just bleed-through.” She swings her legs over the side of the bed, grounding herself. “But it felt—” she pauses. “Specific.”
“What happened?”
She hesitates. “It latched on. Like it was feeding.”
His expression tightens slightly. “That matches what we thought.”
“It didn’t feel like it was just feeding on anything, though. It went straight for my energy.”
He doesn’t like that. It shows.
She looks back up at him. “It might be a clue. Or it might just be my brain trying to process what I felt. But either way, whatever this is, it’s not random and it’s hungry.”
The room falls quiet again. But this time, it’s not just morning. It’s anticipation. The motel coffee is bad. Not surprising. Still disappointing. Jack pours it anyway, handing Nellie a cup as she sits at the small table, already pulling his notebook closer to her. She takes a sip. Immediately regrets it and makes a face. But she doesn’t push it away. Just lets it sit there like a necessary evil.
She flips open the notebook and pauses. “You were up awhile.”
He shrugs lightly, leaning back against the counter with his own cup. “There was a lot to go through.”
She hums softly, already scanning the pages. Her eyes move quickly. She taps one of the sections. “The blending of practices. That tracks with what she was doing.”
“It’s not a single system. It’s layered.”
She flips the page. “Did you find anything about negative energy? Like how something like this could turn?”
He shakes his head slightly. “Not directly. It’s mostly framed as positive. Protective. Cleansing. Restorative. The outcomes depend on the spirits involved. Whether they respond. Whether they don’t. But nothing suggests that the spirits themselves would act like this. Not in the way we saw.”
She leans back slightly in the chair, processing that. “That’s what I thought,” she says quietly. She glances down at the notes again. “Because what I felt, that wasn’t neutral. That was wrong. If this whole thing is built around intention and connection, then something like that doesn’t just… happen.”
“No.”
She leans forward again, elbows on the table now. “It felt like something was attached to it. Not part of it.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “That aligns with what I found.”
“My dream. This thing latched on. Like it was feeding. It didn’t just feel like it was pulling from anything, though.” She looks down at her hands briefly. “It went straight for energy. That’s why I don’t think this is part of the practice. I think something’s using it.”
“A parasite.”
“Yes.”
They sit in that for a second. Then Nellie reaches for her coffee again, taking another reluctant sip. Still bad. Still necessary. “Which means,” she says, setting it back down, “we need to figure out what can attach to something like this and how.” She taps the folded paper the mother gave them, still sitting on the table. “Hopefully, those people at the market can give us something we’re missing.”
• • •
The market sits on the corner like it’s been there longer than anything around it. Not flashy. A hand-painted sign hangs above the entrance, the lettering slightly faded but still clear. The windows are lined with posters, handwritten notes, small advertisements, mostly in Spanish. The bell above the door jingles softly as the two hunters step inside. It smells different. Not like a chain grocery store. Not sterile. Real. Spices, dried herbs, fresh produce, something cooking faintly in the back. Layers of scent that feel lived in, familiar to the people who come here every day. Shelves are packed close together, stocked with things they recognize and things they don’t. Brightly colored packaging. Glass jars filled with dried leaves and powders. Candles, some plain, some labeled in Spanish, some with images of saints printed on them. There’s a quiet rhythm to the place. A few customers move through the aisles, speaking softly, picking things up without needing to check labels too closely.
At the counter, an older woman stands behind the register, speaking to a customer. Her tone is easy, familiar, like she’s known the person for years. Nellie and Jack wait off to the side. The conversation wraps up, the customer thanking her before heading out with a small bag. The woman turns back toward the counter and immediately clocks them. Her gaze is sharp. Assessing. Not unkind but not welcoming either.
Nellie steps forward slightly, pulling the folded paper from her pocket. “Hola (Hello),” she starts, careful but not stiff. “Um—busco a (I'm looking for)…” she glances down at the name written there, then back up. “…María Alvarez?” She pauses, then adds quickly, “No hablo mucho español (I don’t speak much Spanish).”
The woman doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at them. “…Soy yo (It’s me).” Her eyes flick between the two, suspicion settling in clearly now. “¿Qué quieren (What do you want)?”
“We’re helping a family,” she says, switching between English and Spanish where she can. “La familia Reyes. Marisol and Luisa said we should come here. They thought you might be able to help us understand what’s going on.”
Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens. “¿Quiénes son ustedes (Who are you)? And why are you asking about this?”
Nellie glances at Jack for half a second then answers plainly, “We help people with supernatural problems. The Reyes family — something is wrong. Their brujería. It’s not working the way it should.”
She watches them closely. Quiet. Weighing. “…¿Cazadores (Hunters)?”
“Yes ma’am.” She turns to Jack. “She asked if we are hunters.”
His eyebrow raises in surprise.
She nods once, like that confirms something she already suspected. “Claro (Of course),” she mutters under her breath. She steps back from the counter, already making a decision. “Vengan (Come).” She turns, calling out toward the back in Spanish.
A teenage girl appears a second later, earbuds half in, half out, already moving toward the counter.
“Cuida la tienda (Watch the store),” the woman tells her.
The girl nods without question, sliding behind the register like she’s done it a hundred times.
María just gestures for Jack and Nellie to follow her toward the back of the store. They follow her past a curtain, into a quieter space behind the shop. The sounds of the store fade just slightly behind them. Shelves line the walls, stacked with extra inventory—boxes of dried goods, bulk herbs, candles still in their packaging. Everything is organized in a way that isn’t obvious at first glance but clearly makes sense to the people who work here. She leads them past it all and toward a second door. The office is smaller, more personal. There’s a desk off to one side, papers neatly stacked, a pair of reading glasses resting near a ledger. Behind it sits an older man, pen in hand, mid-note. He looks up, freezing slightly when he sees them. His eyes flick to his wife. A question without words. She says something quickly in Spanish, gesturing toward them. The man’s brows lift slightly. He sets his pen down slowly and leans back in his chair, studying them more carefully now.
“My husband,” she says, nodding toward him.
Jack gives a small nod. “Jack.”
“Nellie,” Nellie adds.
The man nods back, still watching them. “Marco,” he says simply.
María doesn’t waste time. “They’re here for the Reyes family.”
That shifts something in Marco’s expression.
Jack steps forward slightly. “We heard they asked for help. We wanted to see what was going on. We just want to help them, however we can.”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to come,” the woman admits.
Nellie frowns slightly. “You knew they asked for help?”
She gives a small, almost amused exhale. “Of course I knew. We were the ones who requested the help.” She gestures lightly around the space. “We used to help hunters. A long time ago.”
Marco nods once from his chair. “Charms. Protections. Things like that.”
“People would come through. Ask for things they didn’t understand. Sometimes they listened, sometimes they didn’t. Nowadays, we just help our community.”
He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. “We don’t see hunters much anymore. Especially not young ones like you.”
“We don’t usually ask hunters for help. But this…” she trails off slightly, shaking her head. “I have not seen this before.” That lands heavier than anything else she’s said.
“Neither have we,” Nellie admits. “But after visiting the home, we think that something
“Attached how?”
“Like something is feeding off of it.”
Jack shifts his weight slightly, glancing between María and Marco. “We want to make sure we’re not missing anything. Would you mind explaining… what brujería means to you? How you practice it?”
Marco studies him for a moment. “It’s not one thing. Around here, it’s tradition. Family. What is passed down. Some people think it is just witchcraft. Something dark. It is not. It’s intention. Protection. Guidance. You ask for help. You give respect. You keep balance. For the community, we provide what they need.” He gestures toward the apothecary setup. “Herbs. Candles. Charms. Things that help focus intention.”
María picks up from there. “People like Luisa, know what she is doing. She just needs support sometimes.”
Nellie nods slightly. “That’s what it felt like. Structured. Intentional.” She shifts her weight, then asks, “What have you been giving them? Recently.”
“Protective bundles. Cleansing herbs. Candles for stability. I also gave her materials to strengthen the mal de ojo.”
That catches her attention immediately. “The evil eye? Can that… go wrong?”
The woman’s expression tightens slightly. “Not like this. Luisa placed it before the boy got sick,” she explains. “There was a bit of tension in the family. Stress. Conflict. Nothing big.”
Marco nods once. “It was meant to protect them,” he adds.
“But after, it was like…” She searches for the word. “…like it turned.”
Her brow furrows. “Turned how?”
“Instead of guarding them, it felt like it was… pressing on them.”
The man leans forward slightly. “Like the protection became weight.”
“It’s affecting all of them,” Jack says. “Not just the kid. Is it possible that something, like a parasite could be attaching to their brujería?”
Marco leans back slowly, considering that. “Not in the way it is meant to work
The spirits either respond or they don’t.”
“They don’t twist it,” María adds.
Nellie exhales softly. “Yeah. That’s what we thought.”
She turns, moving toward one of the shelves. She reaches for something small and ceramic. She brings it back and places it in the girl’s hands without explanation. Nellie looks down at it. It’s a small, hand-painted circle — white base, deep blue eye at the center. The paint is slightly uneven, clearly done by hand. Not decorative. Functional. She glances up, confused.
María doesn’t explain. She just watches. “Look at it,” she says.
She hesitates then looks back down. At first nothing. Then she shifts. Focuses. Not just seeing it. Reading it. The room seems to pull in slightly around her. A familiar quiet hum creeping in at the edges. And then— CRACK. The ceramic splits clean down the middle in her hands. She freezes. “…I—” she starts, then looks up quickly, a flicker of apology in her expression. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
The woman nods, like that was exactly what she expected. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Luisa spoke to me this morning about you two. She said the girl had a gift. She was right.” There’s something like approval in her tone now. “It’s not common. To see a hunter who is sensitive. You can feel it. The difference. And that is what you will use. To separate it. To pull it away.” She turns her attention to Jack. “And you. You are just as important.”
He blinks, a little caught off guard.
“You will be the anchor.”
Nellie’s head turns toward him immediately.
Marco nods once, backing her up. “If she reaches into that space, she will not be fully here.”
María’s voice is steady. “She will be between. And if there is nothing holding her, she could get lost.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.” Immediate. Certain.
Nellie looks at him. There’s something soft there. Proud. Grateful.
He just gives her a small, steady look back, like it’s not even a question.
“If you are close,” María says, “the anchor will be stronger.” That lands quieter, but deeper.
He doesn’t look away.
Nellie exhales softly, then shifts her focus back to the woman. “What do we need to do this without hurting them?”
Marco is already moving. Drawers slide open. Glass jars clink softly. Paper rustles. Everything deliberate. Everything familiar.
María motions them closer to the table. “This is not something you rush. You find it first. Not just feel it. You locate it.”
She nods. “I can do that.”
“And when you do, it will feel you. If it has been feeding, it will not stay quiet.”
“So we don’t give it time.”
The man sets several items on the table. A small pouch of herbs. A folded cloth bundle. A shallow dish. Three short candles. A small vial of liquid.
She begins arranging them in a line. “This is the order. She taps the pouch first. “Step one. Weakening. This goes down first. You break its hold on the space. On the family. On the object it is feeding through.” She taps the folded cloth. “Step two. Containment. You create a boundary, so when it is pulled, it cannot run.” Her finger moves to the candles. “Step three. Pressure. These force it to choose. Stay and be exposed… or try to move.” Then the vial. “Step four. Separation. This is when you pull it. Not before. This is what will separate the parasite from attaching again.” She reaches out, placing the small charms into the girl’s hand. “These will help conceal you while you search.” She gestures to the disc amulet around her neck. “That one already does. It keeps things from seeing you clearly.” She steps back slightly and turns to Jack. “You are the anchor. This is how you do it. You stay with her. Close. Always touching. Hand, wris t— does not matter. But you do not let go. When she reaches, you will feel it.”
Marco adds quietly, “Like a pull. Like something is trying to take her away.”
Jack’s jaw tightens slightly.
“That is when you ground her,” María says. She steps closer, demonstrating, placing one hand firmly against the table. “You keep her here.”
“How?” he asks.
“You call her name,” she says. “You speak to her. You remind her where she is. Who she is. If she gets too far, you pull her back.”
His brows furrow slightly. “How?”
She picks up the vial, holding it between her fingers. “This. You use it only if necessary. You break the connection. It will hurt, but it will bring her back.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Okay.”
María watches him closely, making sure he understands what that means. “You do not hesitate.
“I won’t.”
“You will also be the one to finish the steps if she cannot. If she is too far in, you complete the sequence and pull her out.”
Marco speaks again, quieter but firm. “If you lose focus, it will use that.”
She looks between them both now. “You work together. Not separately.” That part matters most.
Nellie exhales softly, grounding herself.
Jack gathers the items carefully, committing their placement, their order. No more guessing.
No more theory.
María’s arms loosely cross, expression still measured but soft. “You have what you need. Now you just need your strength.”
She exhales quietly, nodding once. “Yeah,” she mutters. “That part. Any food recommendations around here? We didn’t get breakfast. And I’d rather not go into… whatever this turns into… on motel coffee.”
That gets the faintest hint of a smile from Marco.
The woman huffs lightly, already turning toward the front. “There’s a place down the street. Family-owned. Order the carne asada. And the tamales, if they still have them.”
“Noted.”
She gives them one last look. “Eat. Then go.”
Jack nods once. “Thank you.”
Nellie echoes it, a little more casual but just as genuine. “Yes, thank you. For all of it.”
She doesn’t make a big show of it. Just a small nod.
Then they’re back through the store. Past the shelves. Past the quiet rhythm of the place. The bell jingles as they step outside. The air feels different again. Brighter. Grounded. They get into the Impala.
She exhales, leaning back in her seat. “Okay. Game plan. We eat, then we go back to the Reyes’.”
He nods. “Agreed.”
She starts the car. A few minutes later, they pull into a small parking lot just off the street. The place doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it smells amazing.
She grins slightly as they get out. “Okay, yeah. This already beats diner food.”
Inside, it’s warm and lively. Voices overlapping in Spanish, the clatter of dishes, music playing softly somewhere in the background. Menus up on the wall. All in Spanish.
She steps up to the counter, glancing back at Jack. “You trust me?”
He grins. “Always.”
She smirks slightly. “Bold choice.” Then she turns back, switching into her careful, practiced Spanish. Not perfect, but enough. She orders what María recommended, stumbling once or twice, correcting herself, adding a quick “lo siento (I’m sorry)” under her breath when she does. The woman at the counter doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she looks a little amused. When she finished, she steps aside with a small exhale. “Okay. I think I got that right.”
He nods. “You did.”
“You have no idea.”
They find a small table tucked off to the side. Food hits the table, still hot and steaming.
She takes one bite, pauses, then points her fork at the plate. “Okay, yeah. María wasn’t messing around.”
He nods, taking a bite himself. “It’s good.”
“It’s really good,” she corrects, already going in for another bite like she hasn’t eaten in days.
For a minute, it’s just that. Food. Noise. People talking over each other in Spanish. Plates clinking. Something normal. But Jack notices it anyway. The way she slows down after a couple bites. The way her eyes drift, not unfocused, just thinking. Running it over.
He sets his fork down. “Nell.”
She hums, still looking at her plate.
“You okay?”
That pulls her out of it. She looks up at him, holding it for a second “…I don’t know,” she answers honestly. She leans back a little, shifting in her seat. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Not like this. The whole… in-between thing. I don’t know what that’s gonna feel like or how it’s gonna work. And I don’t want to screw it up. Not with a kid involved.”
“You’re not going in alone. Not entirely. I’ll be right there.” His voice is steady. Certain. “You won’t go too far. I won’t let you.”
“It might hurt. And if it does, don’t pull me out too early. Because if we break it before it’s ready, we could make it worse. For them.”
He exhales slowly. Doesn’t like that at all but he nods. “Alright.”
She studies him. “I mean it. Even if it looks bad.”
He meets her gaze. “I hear you.” Not arguing. Not pushing Just trusting her.
She gives him a small smile and reaches for her food again, grounding herself in something simple. “This is one of those hunts where I’m really glad I’m not solo anymore. That I’ve got someone I can rely on, when it matters.”
His expression shifts to a proud smile. Simple. Real.
She smirks just a little, picking her fork back up. “Alright. Eat. Then we go deal with whatever nightmare we just signed up for.”
• • •
The house feels different the second they step up to it. Marisol opens the door before they even knock, like she’s been waiting. Her expression is one of relief but strained.
“You came back,” she says quickly.
Nellie nods. “Yeah. We said we would.”
She steps aside immediately, letting them in. “Things were okay last night,” she says, already talking as they walk. “After you left, everything was… calm. But this morning —” she exhales, shaking her head. “It’s worse. My son. He’s more sick. He won’t wake up for long. And Mamá, she’s getting worried.”
“We talked to the Alvarezs this morning,” Jack says as they walk through the house.
“We think it’s something attached,” Nellie adds. “Not part of the brujería. Like a parasite Using what your family is already doing to… feed.”
Marisol’s face pales just slightly.
“But we know how to deal with it,” he adds quickly.
“They gave us instructions. We can use what’s already here, what your family has been doing, to protect you while we remove it.”
Marisol exhales, some of the tension easing just a little.v“Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay.”
Footsteps sound from the hallway. Luisa appears. She’s already listening before she fully steps into the room.
Nellie turns toward her immediately. “Necesito tu ayuda (I need your help). You’ve been maintaining everything here. Las protecciones. Los encantos (The protections. The charms). I need you to keep everything steady, make sure nothing breaks while we work.”
Luisa nods seriously. “Bien (Good),” she says.
“…¿Dónde está el mal de ojo (Where is the evil eye)?
She gestures toward the back of the house. “El cuarto del niño (The boy's room).”
She nods, already expecting that. “Before we go in there. I want to check the rest of the house.”
Jack nods. “Make sure it’s not spread out.”
She glances at him, then back to Luisa and Marisol. “Just to be safe. Can you show me where you usually place everything?” she asks. “Los lugares… donde pones los encantos (The places where you place the charms).”
The older woman nods without hesitation. “Sí (Yes).” She starts moving through the house, slower than before, more deliberate.
First spot is near the front door. A small charm tucked just out of sight. Nellie crouches slightly, one hand hovering over it. The other holding the charms María gave her. She closes her eyes. “It’s clean,” she murmurs. “Just worn. A little strained.”
They move. Second spot is in the kitchen, near the window. Same process. Same stillness. She reads, feeling the threads. The connections running through the house. “Same thing. No attachment.”
Jack’s gaze shifts slightly. The air feels off. Just for a second. A faint flicker in the overhead light. He frowns slightly.
They move again. Third. Fourth. Each one the same. No direct attachment. But “Corruption,” Nellie mutters at one point. “Like it’s bleeding through everything.”
Luisa tightens her grip on her hands.
His attention sharpens. Because now he sees it too. A picture frame shifts slightly on the wall. Barely noticeable but not normal. They move toward the back of the house. The air gets heavier. Nellie feels it. He can tell. Her shoulders tense slightly. Her breathing just a little more measured. Another spot, closer to the boy’s room now. She kneels again, hand hovering. This time, something pushes back hard.
He steps a little closer. “Nellie,” he says quietly.
“I know,” she murmurs. She focuses, pushing through it.
Something snaps. The chair behind them launches straight at them. He moves without thinking. Steps in front and grabs it mid-flight. The impact jolting through his arms, but it doesn’t hit the women.
Nellie’s eyes snap open. She looks at him, heart racing.
He sets the chair aside, already scanning. “It knows we’re here.”
“Yeah. It definitely knows.” She pushes herself to her feet quickly, turning toward the hallway. “We’re done checking,” she says. “It’s only in the room.”
He grabs the bag, already moving with her. The room feels worse the second they step inside. Not just heavy. Pressing. The air is thick with it. That unstable energy she felt before now sitting right at the surface. Her eyes go immediately to the bed. The boy looks worse. Paler. Smaller somehow. Like something has been slowly taking pieces of him that no one else can see.
She swallows. Focus. “Where is it?” she asks, turning to Luisa. “El mal de ojo (The evil eye).”
The abuela moves quickly, going to the side of the bed. She lifts the dust ruffle slightly revealing the hardwood floor beneath. A simple chalk drawing. An eye. Hand-drawn and worn at the edges. Nellie steps closer, crouching slightly. She can feel it. Not just energy. A pull. Her gaze lifts and she spots them. Small charms. Evil eye pieces hanging from the bed supports.
“I’m going to need to take these down,” she says calmly. “All of them. Is that okay?”
Luisa nods immediately. No hesitation.
She turns to Marisol. “I need you to hold him. It’ll help. Keep him grounded.”
The woman doesn’t question it. She moves quickly, sitting on the bed and pulling her son carefully into her arms, holding him close.
Nellie turns back to the task. She reaches for the first charm. The second she touches it, the bed shudders with a low, rattling vibration. She doesn’t stop. She takes it down and places it carefully inside the chalk drawing. Another charm. The bed rattles harder. The frame creaks. Marisol tightens her hold on her son. Luisa stays close to the girl, helping where she can. One by one, they remove them. Each time the room reacts. The air shifting. The pressure building. By the last one, the bed is shaking. Not violently but enough. Enough to know it’s not happy. She places the final charm into the circle and moving into a crisscross position. Jack is already there. The items from María and Marco laid out exactly how they were shown. He looks at her, concern clear but steady.
She exhales once. “This is where it gets interesting,” she mutters. “I’m gonna need both hands.”
He nods immediately. He scootscloser, placing his hand firmly on her shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’ve got this.”
She glances at him with a flicker of something softer. Grateful. She then places both hands on the floor on either side of the mal de ojo. She reaches. It takes effort, more than usual. Like pushing through resistance that doesn’t want to give. He feels it before he sees anything. A shift. A pull. His grip tightens slightly on her shoulder. Her breathing slows and steadies. Then she finds it. A thread. Thin. Buried. But there. She follows it. The room fades. Sound dulls. Edges blur. And then she’s somewhere else. She opens her eyes. The void. Just like her dream but different. The furniture is still there, but there are no walls. All of it sitting in place, like a shadow of the real world. But everything is muted, covered in fog. Mist curling around her feet, thicker than before. Heavier. She looks around quickly. Luisa, Marisol, and the boy? Gone. She turns and sees Jack, still sitting beside her exactly where he was. But still. Too still. His eyes unfocused, staring straight ahead into nothing. She exhales softly. He’s here. That’s enough. She shifts her attention back to the space around her. The chalk drawing, the charms, the mal de ojo are gone. Of course it is. The important things aren’t where it should be. Which means, she has to find it.
• • •
Jack doesn’t move. His hand stays firm on Nellie’s shoulder. Grounding. Anchoring. Her eyes are open now but not here. That silver sheen spreads across them, catching the light in a way that isn’t natural. She stares straight ahead, unblinking. Her breathing is steady. He watches her carefully. Waiting. Feeling for any shift. Then, she moves slowly and deliberately. Her hand reaches for the first item. The small bundle of herbs. She places it inside the chalk drawing right on top of the pile of charms. The reaction is immediate. A sharp rattle. Crack. The charms twitch against each other like something inside them is trying to break free. The air pulses. Her hands hover just above the pile, not touching but holding it in place. Containing it. He feels it. That pressure. That push. His hand tightens slightly on her shoulder.
Across the room, the lights flicker. Marisol pulls her son closer instinctively, holding him tight against her chest. The boy lets out a weak, uneven breath. Luisa’s voice rises softly in the background, praying in Spanish. Low and steady. Nellie doesn’t react. Her hand moves again to the second item. The cloth. She unfolds it slowly and lays it over the drawing, the charms and the herbs. The second it settles. The room hums. A low, vibrating buzz that sinks into the walls. Into the floor. The boy gasps, a sharp, wheezing inhale, like something just tightened around him. The mother panics for half a second, but doesn’t move, doesn’t break. Jack’s eyes flick to them then back to his partner. She’s still steady. Still moving. Still holding whatever is trying to push back in place. And they’re only halfway through.
• • •
The void stretches around her. Nellie moves carefully through it. Step by step. The fog clings more this time. She exhales slowly and listens. Feels. There. The thread. Not clean like before.
Not steady. This one twists. Unstable energy weaving through everything else like something that doesn’t belong. She follows it. The deeper she goes, the heavier it gets. The air thickens.
She slows. Something’s different. She looks up and freezes. There’s a figure, standing still, holding a lantern. Not human, not fully. But not wrong either. It feels ancient. A presence that belongs here. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands and points. The lantern casting a soft glow through the fog. Her gaze follows the direction. The thread. That’s where it leads. She looks back at the figure. Still unmoving, watching. Not threatening. Not interfering. Guiding.
“…Okay,” she breathes. She turns and keeps moving.
• • •
In the real world, Nellie’s hand moves. She places the three candles into shallow bowl. She strikes the match. The flame flares, brighter than it should. For a split second, the light feels too sharp. Too intense. Then she lowers it, lighting the first candle. The wick crackles louder than it should. Second. Third. Each one catching with that same sharp, unnatural sound. The dish hums faintly as the flames steady. Her hands hover over them, her shoulders tense slightly now. Still steady, but it’s taking more.
Jack leans in just a fraction closer, his hand still firm on her shoulder. He watches her face. The way her expression tightens just slightly. He starts talking. “Nellie… you’re good,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. You’re still here.” His voice stays steady. Measured. “You’re doing it right.” He doesn’t know exactly what she’s seeing, but he knows she needs to hear him, needs something to hold onto.
• • •
The fog changes before she sees it. It darkens. Not like night, but like something has settled into it. Nellie slows. Her breath steadies, but her body knows this is it. She steps forward. And there it sits. The mal de ojo. Mirrored. Twisted. Same shape, same symbol but wrong. The lines aren’t clean. They shift like they don’t want to hold their form. She lowers slowly to her knees in front of it, placing her palms into the drawing, just like before and pushes. Energy surges through her.
The response is immediate. The space contracts, the fog pulling inward. Cold. Sharp. Her breath hitches slightly then steadies again. She doesn’t stop. She pushes harder. The pressure builds. Her nose starts to bleed. A slow drip at first, then more. Her palms burn, like she’s pressing against something that doesn’t want to let go. And then a sound, shrieking. Not loud but everywhere. Echoing through the void. Through her. She clenches her jaw and keeps going.
“I’m not letting go,” she mutters under her breath.
The energy fights back, harder now. But she holds. Pushes. Forces it to respond.
The dish rattles violently. Then it starts to spin. The candles flicker wildly, flames stretching unnaturally as the dish clinks and scrapes against the floor. Smoke pours upward and twists, curling through Nellie’s fingers. Her hands tremble slightly now. Blood drips steadily from her nose.
Marisol gasps softly. “Is she okay?” she whispers, panic creeping in.
Luisa’s prayers grow louder, more urgent.
Jack doesn’t move. Even as his chest tightens at the sight of the blood, at the way her body is straining. He doesn’t pull her out. Not yet. He knows it is too early. Instead, he shifts closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders, both hands firm now, holding her steady. “Nellie,” he murmurs. “You’re still here.”
The dish spins faster. The air hums louder.
“You’re doing it,” he continues. “Just stay with me.” His grip tightens slightly. “I’ve got you.”
• • •
Nellie keeps her hands pressed into the drawing, even as the heat spikes. It burns. Not surface-level either. Deeper. Like something is pushing back through her palms, trying to force her out. She grits her teeth and leans into it. Then something hits the back of her head. Sharp. Fast. It latches. She gasps, one hand immediately flying up, fingers tangling into something that absolutely should not be there.
“Oh, absolutely not—” She grabs it anyway and yanks it off, feeling it tear free like it had hooked into her skin. “Yeah, that’s — nope—” She throws it as far as she can. It disappears into the fog like it was never there. She scrubs the back of her head quickly, breathing a little harder now. “…cool. Cool. Love that. Very Alien of you.”
Her eyes snap back to the mal de ojo. Still there. Still holding. She drops back down, planting both hands again. This time she doesn’t ease into it. She pushes. Hard. The pressure slams back into her, the shrieking rising, her nose bleeding faster now.
“Break,” she grits out. “Just — break—”
• • •
Everything goes wrong at once. The candles flare too high, flames stretching and snapping like they’re being fed too much air. Jack sees it immediately. Her hands are too close, too still. The heat is wrong. He grabs for her wrist, trying to pull her back, but her arms don’t move. Completely locked. The dish rattles violently, spinning, clinking against the floor as the wood beneath it starts to crack. The sound is sharp. Splintering. Then a clean, snapping break. The wood that mal de ojo sits on splits in half. Just like that. The air in the room cuts. Everything stops. The pressure drops out so fast it almost feels like silence has weight. The flames shrink. The buzzing dies. The energy is gone.
His eyes snap back to her. She hasn’t moved. Still sitting there. Still staring straight ahead. Her eyes an opaque unnatural silver. “…Nellie?”
Nothing.
He doesn’t wait. “Marisol. Out. Take him, go.” His voice is sharp enough that she doesn’t question it this time.
She grabs her son and moves, Luisa right behind her, still praying under her breath as they leave the room.
He shifts closer immediately. “Hey. Nellie. Come on.”
No response. Her body is still.
He knows she’s still not all the way back yet.
• • •
In the void, Nellie feels it give. The pressure snaps. The mal de ojo cracks clean in half in front of her. The sound echoes through everything. For a second, the space goes still. She pulls her hands back, breathing hard, looking down. Her palms are burned. Red. Angry. Real. She starts to stand and something hits her. It slams into her face and latches. She doesn’t even get a full breath before it’s there. Her hands fly up, grabbing at it, but it’s worse than before. Stronger, tighter. It clings like it’s fused to her. It’s pulling. Not just surface but deeper. Draining Her strength drops almost instantly.
“Get—off—!” she chokes out, stumbling back a step. Her fingers slip against it, unable to get a grip as it tightens. Her legs give slightly.
The void tilts. Her vision blurs at the edges. And for the first time and she can’t push back.
• • •
In the real world, Nellie’s body reacts all at once. She gasps sharply, choking on air that won’t come right. Her chest heaves, but her body still won’t move. Her hands are still locked where they were. Burned. Shaking.
Jack’s heart drops. “Nell — hey — hey, look at me—”
Her breathing turns jagged, uneven, like something is squeezing the life out of her from the inside. The candles sputter then go out. All three at once.
He doesn’t hesitate anymore. He grabs the vial, the one meant to break the connection. “Sorry,” he mutters under his breath, already moving. He dumps it across the broken mal de ojo and her hands.
Her body jerks violently. A cry tears out of her as she collapses backward.
He catches her immediately, one arm bracing behind her shoulders before her head can hit the floor. “I’ve got you — I’ve got you. Hey — come on. Stay with me.”
Because now, it’s just a matter of whether she made it all the way back.
• • •
Nellie can feel herself slipping. Her hands are still clawing at it, but her strength is fading fast, her grip weaker, her movements slower. The thing on her face tightens, clinging harder, feeding. Her knees buckle. The fog presses in. Everything starts to dim. Then it shrieks. Not her. Not this thing. Something else. Sharp. Cutting. Wrong in a different way. The parasite jerks violently against her face, like something just struck it. Its grip falters. Then it peels away, dripping off her like something melting, unraveling as it lets go. She gasps, dropping hard to the ground, her hands catching her just barely as she sucks in a full breath for the first time in what feels like forever. She looks up. There it is again. The figure, lantern glowing softly through the fog. Still unmoving. Still silent. But now, it’s pointing in the opposite direction.
She blinks at it. “…right. Yeah. Got it.” She pushes herself up, a little unsteady but moving. “Thanks,” she adds, a little awkward, like she’s not entirely sure if she’s supposed to say that out loud.
The figure doesn’t react. Doesn’t move. But it doesn’t disappear either.
She follows. The fog feels different now. Lighter. Less hostile. Still thick but not fighting her anymore. Every so often, the figure appears again ahead of her, lantern raised, pointing the way.
Like it’s making sure she doesn’t get turned around. Doesn’t get lost. She doesn’t question it. She just keeps moving, despite the dizziness. Eventually, the space starts to shift. The outline of the room comes back. The furniture. The bed. The shape of things where they should be. And Jack, still sitting where she left him. Waiting.
Relief hits her harder than anything else has. “…hey,” she mutters under her breath, like he might hear her.
She moves toward him, each step a little easier now, a little more real. She lowers herself back down into place. Right where she started. The world rushes in. Sound. Weight. Everything all at once. And then black.
• • •
Jack doesn’t let go of her. Not for a second. He shifts her carefully in his arms, one hand coming up to catch hers then both. Her hands are burned; red, raw, angry against his palms. His chest tightens at the sight.
“Nellie,” he says, a little sharper now. “Hey—come on.”
No response.
He adjusts his grip, holding her a little tighter, like he can physically keep her from slipping any further. “Pull back,” he says, softer but firm. “Come on, Nell. You’re back. Just stay with me.”
Nothing. She’s completely out.
He swallows hard, trying not to let the panic win.
Luisa comes back into the room. One look at them and her expression shifts immediately. Concern. Understanding. She moves quickly, already reaching into her pockets, pulling out small items. She places them carefully around both of them, speaking softly in Spanish.
He doesn’t understand the words. But the tone is steady. Grounding. Like a rhythm.
Like something meant to guide someone back. He stays still, lets her work. His hands never leave Nellie’s. “…Come on,” he murmurs again, quieter now. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”
A second passes. Then another. Then she stirs. Barely. A small shift A breath that catches differently. Her brow furrows slightly. Then her eyes open. Squinting. Disoriented. “…ow,” she mutters faintly.
He exhales hard, relief hitting all at once. “Hey,” he says quickly, leaning closer. “Hey — you’re back.”
She blinks slowly, trying to focus. “…yeah,” she rasps. “I noticed.” Her voice is weak but it’s her.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Don’t do that again,” he mutters, half serious, half relief bleeding through.
She lets out a small, tired huff. “…not exactly on my to-do list.”
Luisa’s voice softens as she finishes whatever she was placing around them. The room feels normal again or as close as it’s going to get.
She blinks a few more times, letting everything settle back into place. Then she turns her head slightly toward the abuela. “Está bien ahora (It's fine now),” she says. “La casa… está Segura (The house is safe). You should do a limpia (a clean). Una barrida (A sweep). Just to clear everything out completely.”
Luisa nods more firmly this time. “Sí.”
She exhales, then immediately winces as she looks down at her hands. “…yeah, okay, that’s—” she flexes her fingers slightly and regrets it instantly, “—that’s gonna hurt for a bit.”
Jack helps her sit up properly, one hand steady at her back. She doesn’t argue. Just leans into the support.
“Vengan (Come),” the older woman says, motioning toward the doorway. “We take care of that.”
He nods, slipping an arm around Nellie as he helps her to her feet. She’s upright, technically. But he doesn’t let go. They move out of the room together and she feels it immediately. The difference. The house is lighter now. Not perfect, but clean. As they pass through the living room, her attention catches. Marisol is on the couch, holding her son. He’s awake. Color back in his face. Eyes open, alert in that quiet, recovering kind of way. The family members that were home gathered close, voices overlapping, relief thick in the air.
The mother looks up and sees her. Immediately starts talking; fast, emotional, grateful. Nellie catches pieces of it, enough to understand. She gently pulls Jack in that direction.
“Nellie—” he starts.
“I’m okay,” she murmurs.
They make their way over, a little slower than usual but determined.
“It’s okay,” she says softly as she kneels in front of the couch. “You’re safe now.”
Marisol nods, still talking, still thanking her.
She smiles faintly, then looks down at the boy. “…hey,” she says gently. She lifts her hand.
Jack’s voice behind her. “Wait—”
Too late. She places her hand lightly against the child’s forehead. Just for a second. Feels. No trace of what was there before. She exhales. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “You’re good.”
The boy relaxes under her touch.
She pulls her hand back and immediately sways. Jack catches her before she tips any further. “Okay, yeah, we’re done doing that,” he says, a little sharper now.
She lets out a weak huff. “…just had to make sure.”
Luisa steps in, guiding them both toward the kitchen, already fussing under her breath. “Demasiadooo much. Siempre demasiado (Too much. Always too much).”
She gives a small, tired smile. “…yeah, I get that a lot.”
The older woman already pulling out chairs like this part had been decided long before the hunters had any say in it. Jack helps Nellie into one, slower this time, careful of her balance. She doesn’t protest, just lets herself be guided, shoulders a little slumped now that the adrenaline is gone. He takes the seat beside her, close enough that his knee bumps hers, still angled toward her like he hasn’t quite convinced himself she’s okay yet.
Luisa disappears into the kitchen for a moment and comes back with a small assortment of things. Cloth strips, a bowl of something that smells herbal and sharp, a few items Nellie doesn’t recognize but doesn’t question. “Yo no hago magia, pero sé cuidar (I don't perform magic, but I know how to take care of things).”
She gives a small, tired nod. “I’ll take it.” The second Luisa starts working, she inhales sharply through her teeth. “…okay, yeah—yeah, that’s—” she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, “—that’s worse than it looked.”
Luisa makes a quiet sound, not quite disapproval, not quite sympathy. “Claro que sí (Of course it is).” She works with steady hands, applying the salve with practiced care. The coolness cuts through the burn almost immediately, and the girl’s shoulders drop just a little.
“…okay, that’s actually—yeah, that helps,” she admits, voice softer now.
Jack watches the entire thing like it’s part of the case; eyes tracking every movement, every reaction. His jaw tightens slightly at the sight of the burns, but he doesn’t interrupt. He grabs a damp cloth and starts cleaning up the blood on her face.
The woman starts wrapping her hands, careful but efficient, the kind of muscle memory that comes from years of doing this for family. “Empujas demasiado (You're pushing too hard),” she mutters, mostly to herself.
Nellie huffs quietly. “Yeah… I’ve been told.”
He gives her a look at that.
She pointedly ignores it.
Footsteps start filtering in. Voices, low at first, then growing as more of the family gathers in the kitchen. Marisol comes in first, her son now in someone else’s arms, still talking, still emotional but steadier now. A couple of the aunts follow, already mid-conversation in Spanish. Their attention lands immediately on the two hunters.
“Necesitan comer (They need to eat),” one declares.
Another woman nods emphatically, switching to English just enough to make it clear. “Too thin.”
A third chimes in, “Muy flacos (Very thin).”
Nellie blinks, a little taken off guard despite herself. “Okay — wow. Alright.”
Jack looks mildly confused, like he’s trying to figure out how they got here.
Marisol gestures toward the kitchen, her tone softer but no less firm. “You helped us. You eat.”
Nellie and Jack share a glance.
“You really don’t have to—” she starts.
Several voices immediately overlap.
“No, no.”
“Claro que sí (Of course).”
“Es lo mínimo (It’s the least I can do).”
“It is nothing, we cook anyway.”
She opens her mouth again, like she’s going to try one more time, then stops and looks at Jack. “…we’re not winning this, are we?”
He shakes his head once, already accepting it. “No.”
She exhales, a tired smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Okay. Yeah. We surrender.” That seems to satisfy them.
The kitchen shifts into motion almost instantly. People moving around each other in a way that looks chaotic but clearly isn’t. Pots, pans, voices, the smell of food starting to build in the air. Nellie leans back slightly in her chair, hands now wrapped and resting in her lap. The exhaustion is still there, heavy, but there’s something else now too. Relief.
“I walked right into that,” she mutters.
He lets out a quiet breath, something like a laugh under it. “Yeah. You did.”
She nudges his knee lightly with her own. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.”
She huffs, but there’s no bite to it.
Across from them, Luisa watches for a moment longer, then nods once to herself, satisfied, before turning back to help with the food. The moment Nellie even tries to stand — hands lifting like she’s about to help— she turns and immediately waves her back down. “No, no. Siéntate (Sit down).”
“I can still—”
She gives her a look.
Nellie slowly lowers herself back into the chair. “…okay.”
Jack, already sitting beside her, nods like this was the only logical outcome. “Good call.”
She nudges his knee again under the table. “You’re supposed to pretend to be on my side.”
“I am on your side. Your side just needs to sit down.”
She huffs, but lets it go.
One of the aunts pulls up a chair across from them, resting her arms on the table as she looks at Nellie. “You speak Spanish.”
“A little,” she answers.
“How?”
“I’m from Texas. Did as a language class in high school. I also worked in a diner. You learn fast when you don’t want to mess up someone’s order. “So, solo un poco (just a little).”
The aunt smiles.
Jack is trying. He really is. He’s following tone, watching expressions, catching the occasional word, but most of it is slipping past him. Still, he sits there with that attentive, respectful focus, nodding along like he’s tracking every word. Nellie notices and has to look away so she doesn’t laugh.
Another aunt leans in slightly, her attention shifting to him. She looks him over for a second, then says, “Eres un buen novio. Muy atento. No la dejas sola ni un momento (You are a good boyfriend. Very attentive. You don't leave her alone for a single moment).” She tilts her head just a bit, like she’s confirming something she already decided was true. “Así debe ser (That’s how it should be).”
He has absolutely no idea what she just said. But she’s looking at him expectantly. So, he nods, polite as ever. “Yeah.”
The aunt smiles, clearly pleased.
Across the table, Nellie is turned toward Luisa, who is still trying to convince her of something with quiet persistence. “La brujería… te serviría (it will serve you well),” she says, gesturing lightly. “Con tu don—muy bien (With your gift, very good).”
She shakes her head, smiling despite herself. “If you knew my history with witches, you’d say otherwise. That and I’m not ready for a career change.”
The abuela hums like she doesn’t quite believe that.
Jack glances back at the aunt across from him, who is now looking at him with that same knowing smile. He gives her another nod. She looks delighted.
Nellie finally turns back, catching that exchange. “…what did you just agree to?”
He blinks. “I don’t know.”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “That didn’t sound reassuring.”
“I think she said something nice?”
“You think?”
He shrugs a little. “She seemed happy.”
“…that definitely makes it worse.”
Food starts appearing not long after that, filling the table faster than Nellie can keep track of. She leans forward slightly, eyes lighting up despite how tired she still is. “Okay, yeah—this already beats anything we normally eat on hunts.”
Jack nods. “Easily.”
They eat. And for a minute, it’s quiet between them, not because the room is, but because the food demands attention.
She closes her eyes briefly after the first bite. “…oh, wow. Yeah. That’s—yeah.”
He glances at her hands automatically, watching how careful she’s being. “Hey,” he says quietly, “slow down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just burned through half your energy and—”
“I’m fine,” she repeats, softer this time.
He studies her for a second, then nods, easing back. “Just… be careful.”
She gives him a small look. “I will.”
Around them, the conversation picks back up, Spanish and English weaving together. Nellie follows what she can, responding here and there. Jack listens, still trying, still nodding at the right moments even if he’s only catching half of it. They stay longer than they probably should. Long enough for the tension to fully settle. Long enough to feel normal again.
Eventually, Nellie leans back slightly, letting out a quiet breath. “…successful hunt.”
Jack nods, glancing at her. “Yeah.”
She flexes her wrapped fingers just a little, wincing but not complaining. “It’ll take a couple days. Once I rest, it’ll heal.”
“I know.” He looks at her again, just to be sure.
She catches it. Smiles, tired but steady. “I’m okay.”
He nods. And this time, he lets himself believe it.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse