Song of the Coquí

Even though it was well past midnight, the streets of Old San Juan still held a warm glow from the antiquated lanterns flickering along the cobblestones. My heart hadn't slowed since our narrow escape. Every muscle in my body trembled, and the dull ache in my shoulder where the attacker had struck me throbbed in time with each footstep.

Elias led the way down twisting side roads and narrow passages. He moved like someone who knew every hidden corner of the city—doubling back, cutting through empty courtyards, avoiding well-lit plazas. Soraya and I trailed behind, doing our best to keep up while our thoughts buzzed with questions.

Finally, we reached an unassuming stone archway half-tucked behind a row of dumpsters. I never would've noticed it on my own. Elias paused there, laying a hand against the worn masonry. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the silent alley, then nodded for us to follow him through.

The arch opened onto a cramped corridor that sloped gently downward. The walls were centuries-old brick, reinforced here and there with modern concrete patches. My nose wrinkled at the damp, musty smell—like an old basement left shut for decades. Soraya clicked on her phone's flashlight, illuminating the passage in a shaky white glow.

I couldn't resist the urge to speak. "Where are we going?"

Elias's dark eyes flickered in the shifting light. "Someplace safer."

He offered no more explanation, so I clamped my mouth shut, though panic churned in my gut. Behind my ribs, the coquí pendant radiated a low, comforting warmth. It reminded me of Abuela's gentle touch—both reassuring and cautioning.

We descended for what felt like forever. At last, the tunnel opened into a large, dome-like chamber lit by a ring of old-fashioned lamps. Faded murals decorated the walls, depicting figures in bright swirling outfits—dancers, perhaps, or warriors. In one corner stood a battered wooden table strewn with papers, a few crates, and clay jars that gave off a faint herby scent.

Elias exhaled, shoulders dropping. He gestured around. "We can talk here. At least for a moment."

Soraya glanced at the murals, her curiosity burning through her fear. "What is this place?"

He hesitated, eyes darting to me. "It's… an old hideout. My—our group uses it sometimes, to stay hidden."

At that, Soraya and I exchanged looks. A group? Before I could ask another question, Elias nodded at the crates. "Sit. You're both shaken up."

We lowered ourselves, still breathing hard. Up close, I could see just how exhausted Elias was: bruises on his arms, a shadow of pain in his eyes. Yet he moved with a tense grace, like a dancer who'd practiced until every muscle memorized the routine.

Soraya raised her camera, then set it aside. "I'm Soraya," she said softly, voice still shaky. "And this is Mateo. I guess we owe you our lives."

Elias managed a thin smile. "I'm Elias." He tugged off his hoodie, revealing a simple black T-shirt beneath, sweat-soaked around the collar. "But you already know that," he added, recalling the attacker's snarl: Traitor.

I swallowed hard. "Elias… what was all that? That—red energy?" My fingers hovered near the bruise on my shoulder. "I've never seen anything like it."

His jaw tightened. "It's… magic, in a sense. Old magic—older than most people realize." He paused, weighing his words. "The man who attacked you is part of a faction called the Crimson Mantle. They want to control the island's power, drain it for their own purposes."

Soraya's eyes gleamed with the thrill of a journalist catching a lead. "Control how?"

Elias knelt by the table, rummaging under scattered papers. "Puerto Rico sits on powerful ley lines—spiritual currents beneath the land. The Crimson Mantle taps into them like they're an endless resource, using violence and fear." He found a small jar of ointment, stood, and offered it to me. "For your shoulder. It's a healing salve of sorts."

I opened it hesitantly, the strong herbal smell filling my nostrils. Beside me, Soraya scribbled notes in her phone. My pulse throbbed with a mix of dread and awe. Magic? Ley lines? It sounded unreal, yet I'd seen the scorching blasts and felt the heat of that unearthly power.

As I daubed ointment onto my bruised shoulder, something made Elias's gaze drop to my chest. He must have noticed the faint outline of my pendant through the fabric. "Where did you get that coquí?" he asked, voice hushed.

My fingers curled around it protectively. "It was my abuela's. She used to tell me stories about Taíno spirits and how the coquí frogs protect the island." I hesitated, the memory of Abuela's lullabies slicing through me with a bittersweet ache. "It—sometimes it feels like it's… alive."

Elias exhaled slowly, as if I'd just confirmed something for him. "That pendant is linked to the island's ancient guardians. People like you, with a strong ancestral connection, can sense the magic in it." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You were drawn to the fight because the magic recognized you as an ally. Or a threat. I'm not sure which."

My brain stuttered. Me, an ally? I was just some kid caught in the wrong place. But deep down, the pendant pulsed in agreement, reminding me of Abuela's whispered stories about spirits, heartbreak, and resilience.

Soraya closed her phone's note app. "So you're saying there's a secret group that uses old magic to keep Puerto Rico safe, and another group—this Mantle—abuses it?"

Elias nodded, relief evident that she understood so quickly. "Yes. It's more complicated than that, but that's the heart of it."

She breathed out slowly. "And you're part of the… good group, right?"

His gaze flickered away. "I was. Or I guess I still am, but not everyone sees it that way." The word traitor echoed in my mind from the earlier fight. I wondered what lines Elias had crossed—and what it meant for us now.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump. Dad. Shoot. The screen glowed with his name. Soraya's eyes widened, and Elias tensed.

I hesitated. If I answered, Dad would know I wasn't where I claimed to be. If I didn't answer, he'd worry more. My throat tightened with guilt. I mouthed I have to to Soraya, and she gave a tiny nod.

Pressing the phone to my ear, I forced steadiness into my voice. "Hey, Dad."

"Where are you?" he demanded. His voice held that mix of anger and worry I knew all too well. "You said you'd be home right after Soraya's, but it's nearly one in the morning!"

My stomach lurched. One in the morning. Time had slipped away in the chaos. "I—I'm sorry," I stammered. "We, um, lost track of time."

"Teo…" My father's voice trembled on the other end. "I don't know what you're up to, but I want you back here now. Or I'm coming out there."

Panic jolted me. If Dad got anywhere near the scene of magic and potential violence… "Dad, please. I'm okay. I'll explain later, I promise."

"You'd better." The line went dead.

I sank onto a crate, heart pounding. Abuela's pendant felt like a lead weight. This was exactly what Dad had warned me against—getting tangled in dangers I couldn't comprehend. But how could I walk away when we were, apparently, knee-deep in a secret war over Puerto Rico's very soul?

Elias cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I know this is a lot. But you both saw what happened. The Crimson Mantle won't stop until they've silenced anyone who knows too much—especially if they suspect you're aligned with me. You can't just go back to normal life now."

A chill danced up my spine. Soraya whispered, "They'll come after us, won't they?"

"Yes," Elias said bluntly. "Unless you learn how to protect yourselves. And unless the rest of us can push them back."

My fingers twitched against the coquí pendant. Part of me wanted to run to my dad, apologize, and pretend none of this happened. But the memory of that blazing red fire and the threat in the attacker's eyes rooted me to the spot. I needed answers—about the pendant, about Abuela's stories, about the power that Elias wielded.

Soraya, ever the fearless journalist, was the first to recover. "So… what do we do? Hide in this basement forever?"

Elias's lips pressed into a thin line. "There's someone—my mentor—who can help. She's… complicated, but she'll know how to keep you safe." He glanced at me meaningfully. "And how to train you, if that's what you want."

My Heart Leaped. I flashed back to images of the swirling staff movements from old movies, the idea of harnessing real magic, dancing in step with the island's pulse. But then dread clenched my gut: training meant stepping fully into this secret war, risking my father's fury, my life… everything.

Still, the alternative was waiting for the Mantle to ambush me in an alley or corner Soraya in the street. The thought sent a wave of protectiveness over me. My eyes flicked to her, and I saw a mirrored resolve there—she wasn't backing down, either.

"You mentioned… our island's power," I said, voice cracking. "Does this tie back to—like—colonial times? My abuela always hinted at Spanish soldiers trying to drain the land, but it sounded like a myth."

Elias hesitated, then nodded. "Not a myth. The Mantle's roots go back to the colonization of Puerto Rico. They believe in dominating magic, the same way conquistadors dominated the people centuries ago. They see it as their birthright to control every scrap of power."

A sick feeling twisted in my stomach. I recalled reading about forced labor, gold mining, entire tribes decimated under Spanish rule. Now, centuries later, a group was replaying the same violence, only on a mystical level. History repeating itself.

Soraya voiced the question on my mind: "And you—your group—believes in preserving it?"

Elias gave a half-smile, tired but sincere. "Yes. We draw on Afro-Caribbean traditions, Taíno lore, and the island's living soul. For us, magic is about harmony and responsibility." His gaze dropped, as if weighed down by regret. "I tried to walk away from it once, thinking I could just… be free. But it doesn't work like that. Not when the Mantle is growing bolder."

Soraya and I exchanged a look. This is huge. We were just two teenagers who'd stumbled onto a secret centuries in the making. The temptation to run home, bury our heads under our pillows, and forget it all was there—but so was the knowledge that we couldn't un-see the truth.

After a long silence, she spoke. "So… we meet your mentor? Learn more about what we're up against?"

Elias exhaled slowly, relief flickering across his face. "If you're sure."

I took a shaky breath, then nodded, the coquí pendant pulsing with warmth as if urging me forward. "We're in."

A ghost of a smile touched Elias's lips, but worry lingered in his eyes. "All right. We'll go soon, but… it may mean lying low for a bit. The Mantle doesn't forgive quickly, and you need time to learn basic defenses. I—" He paused, pressing a hand to a bruise on his ribs. "I need time to heal."

He said it so matter-of-factly, like we could just rearrange our lives around a covert training program. My heart fluttered with fear. But something else kindled in my chest too—an odd sense of belonging, of stepping onto a path I'd never known was mine to tread.

I tilted my head back, looking at the arching brick ceiling overhead. Half-hidden in the flickering lamplight, I could make out faint paintings of Taíno symbols, swirling spirals and stylized frogs. A fresh wave of awe rolled over me—centuries of history, of secret gatherings, right here beneath the modern city.

Soraya rose, crossing to one of the murals. "This is incredible," she murmured, carefully snapping a photo without flash. "I always knew there were catacombs and hidden tunnels under San Juan, but… I never dreamed they still held living secrets."

I joined her, my fingertips tracing a spiral motif. Warmth thrummed against my skin. The island's soul, I thought, remembering Elias's words. Could I really learn to tap into that?

Elias glanced at us, expression torn between urgency and gratitude. "We can't stay here long," he said. "Tomorrow night, meet me again. I'll take you to someone who can help."

"But… how do we explain this to our families?" I asked, voice low.

His eyes darkened. "I can't answer that. You'll have to decide if telling them is safer… or more dangerous." He winced. "I'm sorry."

Soraya cleared her throat. "We'll figure something out. But right now, I think we need to get Mateo home—his dad's going to lose his mind."

I swallowed the lump of anxiety growing in my throat. Dad would be furious. But at least if I showed up in one piece, I might be able to calm him. Maybe. I pressed a hand to my coquí pendant, praying silently that Abuela's spirit was watching over me.

Elias nodded. "Let's go. I'll walk you two out another way. Safer."

He grabbed a battered backpack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder with a wince. With Soraya and me trailing close, he guided us toward a second narrow corridor. The magic we'd witnessed upstairs still buzzed in my mind, electrifying and terrifying all at once.

I had no idea if I was stepping into my destiny or a living nightmare. But with every echoing footstep through the hidden passage, I knew I couldn't turn back. If the Crimson Mantle aimed to ravage Puerto Rico's spirit the way colonizers had brutalized its land centuries before, I had to do something—we had to do something.

The coquí pendant's gentle pulse felt like an unspoken promise. Though fear coiled in my belly, determination stirred, too. We were about to enter a world of secret magic, forbidden power, and a struggle that reached back through the island's haunted past.

And for better or worse, we weren't just spectators anymore.