Grachi |link| «Easy →»

That was the day Grachi learned the second rule: magic has consequences. And Mía Valdez, it turned out, was not just the daughter of a real estate mogul. She was the granddaughter of a woman who had been burned—literally and figuratively—by witches before. Mía’s grandmother, Doña Sofía, was a cazadora . A hunter.

Doña Sofía staggered back, the smoke dissipating. Her face, for the first time, was not cruel. It was old. And tired. And maybe, just maybe, sorry.

“Abuela, I’m kind of freaking out—” grachi

“Same thing, usually.” He pulled a crumpled pastelito from his jacket pocket—guava and cheese, her favorite—and handed it to her. “My abuela used to tell stories about the tejedoras . She said they weren’t scary. She said they were lonely. Because the magic wants to be used, but it doesn’t care how.”

The old chapel smelled of incense and neglect. Doña Sofía’s people—three hulking men in black windbreakers—were already there, ransacking the pews. Grachi and Diego slipped in through the bell tower, hearts hammering. That was the day Grachi learned the second

Doña Sofía stepped out from behind the altar, furious. “Clever. But heart won’t save you from me.”

“Gracia Alvarez,” the old woman said, her voice dry as old bone. “You damaged my granddaughter.” Mía’s grandmother, Doña Sofía, was a cazadora

“We are not brujas malas , mija,” Abuela said, extinguishing the flame. “We are tejedoras . Weavers. The magic is in the blood, but the intention is in the heart. You cannot let the spark control you. You must control the spark.”