I am SOOOOO excited to be on the tour for BALLAD & DAGGER, one of my most anticipated reads of 2022! Check out the excerpt below and enter to win a copy!
Daniel José Older is a New York Times best-selling author and story architect. He has published fourteen novels and numerous short stories and essays, and he is a regular comics writer for Star Wars: The High Republic Adventures and Marvel. He won the International Latino Book Award and has been a finalist for the Kirkus Prize, the Mythopoeic Award, the Locus Award, the Andre Norton Award, and the World Fantasy Award. You can find his thoughts on writing, read dispatches from his decade-long career as an NYC paramedic, and hear his music at http://danieljoseolder.net, as well as on YouTube, @djolder on Twitter, @danieljose1 on Instagram, and @danieljoseolder on TikTok. He and his family live in New Orleans.
Title: BALLAD & DAGGER (Outlaw Saints #1)
Author: Daniel José Older
Pub. Date: May 3, 2022
Publisher: Rick Riordan Presents
Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook
Pages: 384
Best-selling author Rick Riordan presents Daniel José Older's music-and-magic-filled YA urban
fantasy about two teens who discover each other and their powers during a political battle
within a unique diaspora community.
Almost sixteen years ago, Mateo Matisse's island homeland disappeared into the sea. Weary
and hopeless, the survivors of San Madrigal's sinking escaped to New York.
While the rest of his tight-knit Brooklyn diaspora community dreams of someday finding a way
back home, Mateo--now a high school junior and piano prodigy living with his two aunts (one
who's alive, the other not so much)--is focused on one thing: getting the attention of locally-
grown musical legend Gerval. Mateo finally gets his chance on the night of the Grand Fete, an
annual party celebrating the blended culture of pirates, Cuban Santeros, and Sephardic Jews
that created San Madrigal all those centuries ago.
But the evil that sank their island has finally caught up with them, and on the night of the
celebration, Mateo's life is forever changed when he witnesses a brutal murder by a person he
thought he knew.
Suddenly Mateo is thrust into an ancient battle that spans years and oceans. Deadly secrets are
unraveled and Mateo awakens a power within himself--a power that not only links him to the
killer but could also hold the key to unlocking the dark mystery behind his lost homeland.
From the author of the award-winning Shadowshaper Cypher series comes the first novel in
the Outlaw Saints duology--a brilliant story that will transport readers to a world where
magic, myth, and gods reign over the streets of Brooklyn.
CHAPTER ONE
“iPUNETA!” TIA LUCIA SNAPS AS I HEAD TO MY ROOM TO GET READY for tonight. At first, I think
it’s because I’m just in a towel and dripping all over her floor. But no, she’s reading her
shells—divination—and her swear means they said something she didn’t want to know.
Tía Lucia looks up and rolls her eyes. My heart sinks. She’s not coming with me tonight—it’s all
over her face. And here I am about to be dressed and ready. “You go ’head, Mateo,” she sighs.
“But, Tía . . .”
Tonight is the Grande Fete, the biggest night of the year for us Galeranos, and my aunt has
never missed an opportunity to carry on, gossip, and dance the night away. Plus, she’s one of
the three members of the Cabildo, our leadership council, and it’ll be a whole thing, her not
showing up.
But something in those cowrie shells told her she has more important matters to attend to.
She’s been divining for longer than I’ve been alive, and she doesn’t play around when it comes
to messages from the spirits. So she shrugs. “Así es.” That’s just what it is.
Thing is: this isn’t just a regular fete. Tonight, Councilwoman Anisette Bisconte will name her
successor on the Cabildo, and everyone knows it’ll be Tolo Baracasa. At just eighteen, he’d be
the youngest member of our leadership trinity, but he seems like he was born for it. Tolo comes
from a long line of pirates and inherited the nightclub we gather in, along with all the nefarious
dealings that go with it.
Yeah, yeah, politics, whatever. The real reason tonight matters—to me, anyway—is that
because it’s such an important fete, Maestro Grilo Juan Gerval is supposed to be there. It’s one
of those rare nights he’s not off performing at concert halls across the world alongside other
icons. And that means he’ll hear me play keys. He might even sing! Maybe he’ll realize I’m
destined to bring our music to the world along with him, and he’ll pull me out of high school
and away from the local festivities circuit to go hit the road, and I’ll just step on into the rest of
my music-filled life . . . right?
What’s wrong? Aunt Miriam asks Tía Lucia, shattering my fantasy in a voice that implies an
extinction-level event is at hand (she uses this tone at least forty-five times a day). Dead people
are a trip, man. Aunt Miriam has been a spirit almost as long as the sixteen years I’ve been
alive. She must’ve been a wisp of a woman in life— long and slender, with aggressive
cheekbones and a slight smile. Now you can just barely make out those sharp features on her
translucent shroud. The harsh glare of our overhead lamps flushes right through her, only
glinting slightly off the edges of her spectral form.
She and Tía Lucia and I all live in this tiny apartment off Fulton Street in Little Madrigal, a
hidden-away nook at the far end of Brooklyn. It’s just a couple hundred of us and a scattering of
Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, and Ecuadorians who mostly mind their own business and don’t
mess much with all the weird politics of the people from the lost island.
You’re not going, Lucia? You’re already all made up and pretty!
And it’s true: a colorful silky scarf conceals Tía Lucia’s short bleach-blond curls. Bright purple
lipstick shines from her mouth, and she’s done up her cheeks with rouge. That aquamarine
eyeliner is the finishing touch, and I know she spent at least an hour standing in front of her
vast makeup selection, going back and forth about what color to use. She’s a small, round
woman, my aunt, but when she’s armored up in all that regalia and paint, she seems to tower
over everyone around her.
“Nada.” Tía Lucia wraps up the shells and shoves a cigar in her mouth. “I’m still going, just a
little later.” She only lights that thing when she’s super–stressed out, almost never. Otherwise
she just chews on it till it’s mulch and replaces it every once in a while. Gross. She turns to me.
“You go ahead without me, Mateo.”
Suddenly, her eyes narrow, and I realize, a second too late, that I’m still just in a towel, dripping
all over her, which means an extinction-level event may now actually be at hand—“¿Y MI PISO,
COÑO?” Tía Lucia yelps and stands up, and I scatter into my bedroom and close the door before
any chancleta torpedoes can fly through it.
I’m pulling on my suit pants—I hate suit pants—and fussing with my phone to pull up my get-
ready music when I hear a muffied argument on the other side of the door. Aunt Miriam trying
to convince Tía Lucia to go, probably, but also . . . is one of them crying?
This is none of my business.
I hit Play and lean my phone against the mirror as the video of Gerval comes to life and his
voice rises over whatever’s happening in the living room.
It’s from a live show a few months ago. They’re covering an old Galerano bolero, some murder
song—all these old ditties are either about praising God, falling in love, or murdering someone
(sometimes all three at once)—and the band has fallen into a fierce vamp while Gerval stands
at the edge of the stage and just lets out a howl. He’s only a year or two older than me, but that
howl over those jangling chords sounds like an ancient battle cry, and the crowd devours it,
breathless, screaming.
On the small screen, Gerval flashes a wily grin.
And of course he’s grinning: Gerval went and broke the one rule of San Madrigal’s traditional
musicians, the kameros: he blew up. We’re supposed to be heard and not seen, you see. Sea
espíritu is what people say to kameros before we go onstage. Say-ah espee-ree-tu—be like a
spirit, basically, let the light pass through you. It’s from an old instruction manual by one of the
back-in-the-day masters, a great-great-great-grandpa of mine, in fact, Archibaldo Coraje
Medina. He supposedly lost his mind and started playing creepy, nonsensical music late at night
in the plaza, but before that, he was one of San Madrigal’s number one kama composers.
Walking around with a name like Archibaldo is probably stressful, though.
Anyway, what a legacy, right?
But I get it: our work isn’t about us, it’s about the music. And personally, I’m much happier
vanishing into the shadows. Besides my family and my best friend, Tams, I don’t really know
how to talk to people. Unseen works for me.
But Gerval threw together an album of redone Galerano hits in the little music studio on Fulton,
and one went viral and suddenly his face was everywhere we looked, grinning from our TV
screens and phones, there onstage with some famous pop star that everyone cared about
except us, touring the world.
And since he’s been gone, I’ve been the one playing most of the weddings, bar mitzvahs,
funerals, which is cool and all but . . . kind of a dead end, no pun intended.
Tonight, though . . . tonight is my chance to jump on board with Gerval and help bring our
music to a wider audience. I don’t want to be in the spotlight like him, just one of the guys in
the band, there in the shadows, doing what I love.
I pull on my dress shirt, and it sticks to my still-damp skin, but I barely notice because here
comes the part I love most: the howl swings up into a kind of siren-wail and the band jumps
keys and unleashes a frenzy of tight staccato hits as Gerval works his way back down the scale.
You can see him making eye contact with the drummer, bopping his head in time, and then the
camera follows his gaze to a bulky, tall figure at the far end of the stage: Trucks. That’s Gerval’s
right-hand man. He’s always wearing a helmet with a visor and all kinds of heavy military
gear—just walks around cosplaying a riot cop, basically—but I guess when you’re an icon like
Gerval, it makes sense to have someone like that constantly at your side.
Trucks and Gerval trade a nod, and then the band falls into a series of solos.
I finish buttoning my shirt, shaking my head at the way the whole moment comes together. I’m
probably responsible for a good half of the eleven million views this video has on YouTube, but
it still amazes me the way they move so smooth through all those changes without a word
being spoken. If I had to guess, they probably didn’t even rehearse that—they just know.
Goals, man. Goals.
Anyway, the thin line of my goatee has just today reached the thin line of my mustache, which
makes today basically my bar mitzvah, and it’s a fresh October night, the kind that’s perfect for
entire lives to change forever, so I slide one arm and then the next into my suit jacket, roll my
shoulders back to get the whole thing in order, and walk out into the living room.
And the most awkward silence I’ve ever known.
“What’s . . . uh . . . what’s up?” I ask into my two aunts’ inordinately blank stares.
You’re not going to tell him, Lucia? Aunt Miriam demands. “Tell me what?”
Tía Lucia waves off her deceased wife and me. “Nada. Go on. Don’t forget to salute the santos
on your way out.” She opens her big fleshy arms for a hug. There’s no getting information out
of her she doesn’t want to give. Whatever’s going on, she’ll tell me when she’s good and ready.
I cross the room and lean over. It’s like a cloud of Florida Water travels everywhere that woman
goes, I swear. The sharp, spicy scent sizzles my nostrils as she wraps around me and then holds
me at arm’s length and says, “Escucha.”
Of all the many words in all the different languages my aunt speaks, that’s gotta be her number
one favorite. Escucha. I could be, as I am now, staring directly at her, at full attention,
completely tuned in, all ears, and she will still command me to listen. “I’m listening, Tía.”
She squints at me, because we go through this constantly. Then she softens. I notice the
slightest tremble in her hands. Too much of that good strong Puerto Rican coffee, maybe. Or
maybe it’s whatever those shells told her that has her shook, literally. “Be careful tonight,
Mateo. A ver no te toquen at ti.”
Predictably cryptic. Make sure they don’t pick you, or touch you, or that it’s not your turn,
depending on who you ask and when. Typical tía-type messiness. She loves getting woo-woo
after reading her shells. Plus, since I supposedly almost died as a baby, both my tías and my
parents get a little extra precious with me sometimes. You can see it in their eyes, the sudden
memory of whatever strange illness I had. No matter how much I’ve worked out, or how much
taller I am than all of them (a lot), I just become this tiny, fragile thing again, their baby.
Still, this one sounded more ominous than usual. “What do you mean, Tía?”
She nods at the bookshelf, where various soup tureens and vases house her spirits. “Dobale,
m’ijo.” Doh-bah-ley—it means salute.
And yeah, the whole setup is beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
She has me wrap them in colorful, silky fabrics every year on the anniversary of her initiation as
a Santera (which is coming up, actually), and each is adorned with sacred implements, ceremonial blades, and tacky porcelain animals.
The three original spirits of San Madrigal—the ones that, according to myth, emerged from the
ether when our island rose from the sea—glare from paintings on the wall around the altar.
There’s the island’s namesake, Madrigal herself, majestic and radiant over the sea in her
shimmering, gold-lined magenta robes. Beside her is Okanla, the Destroyer, a badass warrior
woman, her face covered by chains dangling from her elaborate silver headgear, and each hand
holding a machete—one large, the other shorter. And then there’s Galanika, a stern and
ridiculously buff older guy with a scar running down one side of his face and a frown to match
it.
I’ll be honest: it’s been about a year since my parents and I agreed it was time for them to stop
taking me along to disaster areas all over the world—in part so I could finish high school in
Brooklyn—and I’ve been with my aunt here in Little Madrigal that whole time, but I’m still not
totally used to all this spirit stuff she’s got going on. Mom and Dad are doctors, science people.
They love data, facts, things that can be proven. We always dipped in and out of the
neighborhood throughout my childhood. Usually just long enough for me to take some music
lessons and, later, play some events. Then we’d be off again, to some new catastrophe. It
sounds exciting, but mostly it meant me studying music in a hotel room while they risked their
lives at some run-down clinic.
But Tía Lucia’s santos (or orishas, they’re also called)—I don’t really go in for all that stuff. And I
know what you’re thinking: Mateo, you literally live with a dead woman. But the dead are one
thing, and santos are a whole other. They’re like supercharged spirits, got all kinds of powers
and complicated backstories and intertwined connections and stuff. It’s beyond me.
I just play my music, drink lots of water, and mind my business.
I do go through the motions, though, mostly so I don’t get in trouble. But that’s all it is: going
through the motions.
My hand taps the wicker mat in front of the altar, and I kiss my fingers. It’s not a full salute, just
enough to appease my tía. I blow an air smooch to my dead aunt, nod once more at my living
one, and head for the door.
Sea espíritu, Aunt Miriam calls after me, and I know she’s winking because Galeranos can never
let something have just one meaning; every possible pun must be mined, and get it? She’s a
spirit. I just shake my head with a chuckle.
There’s a little wooden doohickey on the wall, and I tap that, too—yes, it’s called a mezuzah,
not a doohickey—and kiss my hand. Then I do a little two-step in front of the small stone head
with cowrie-shell eyes that’s glaring up at me from the floor—he’s Elegba, the santo who makes
mischief at the crossroads. And finally, that’s it! I’m done! I’m practically out . . .
. . . until I almost trip over a tiny, furry lump sleeping on the doormat. After running the
gauntlet of tías and spirits and sacred doohickies, there’s one final boss who must be defeated
in order to escape the Medina house. Fwezeeeeeeeeblorppp! comes the only warning I get, and
that would be Farts the Chihuahua. Well, his name is Dash, but no one calls him that. We call
him his favorite thing to do. “Later, Farts,” I say as I step over him, close the door, then pause in
the dim exterior hallway to catch my breath.
Through the thin door, I hear the flick flick and then fizz of Tía Lucia’s lighter.
That musty fall smell fills the crisp air—but it’s still just hoodie weather, not too cold—and
everybody’s out and about.
In these moments, sometimes I think I have taken sea espíritu a little too much to heart. This
place, it’s my home and not my home. I grew up coming and going, endlessly in and out, and
those hotel rooms in Karachi, Djibouti, Caracas—the stale air, the ugly carpet patterns and
mirror frames, the dullness and aggressively neutral decor—that was home, too. The man at
home in every house is never home, one of our old ballads says, and man, I swear it was written
about me. Always Home, Never Home: the Mateo Matisse Story.
Usually, learning all the intricacies of our songs, that was how I found home. Even if I wasn’t
here physically, I could play the melodies and chords on my little keyboard, and each memory,
fantasy, and idea would rise within me, a thread I could pull to find my way back.
And now I am back, and all I want to do is disappear. Because I know my culture, my music, my
history, my people . . . but do they know me? Hardly. To almost everyone besides Tams and my
tía, I’m just that weird music kid, the one who was gone a lot, the one who doesn’t talk. Stuck
somewhere in between, neither here nor there. A ghost.
The train rumbles overhead, and its clanks and growls and squeaks join the chatter of ladies
waiting to get their hair done outside the peluquería, which gives way to an old drunk guy
humming to himself as cars whoosh past, and a bodega owner yelling about how fresh his
mangos are.
It’s so alive, my little corner of Brooklyn, and while I wish Tía Lucia had come along tonight,
being alone for the walk gives me a moment to do my favorite thing: listen. This isn’t what my
aunt means when she says escucha. She’s talking about doing whatever she tells me, being
careful or whatever. This is a different kind of listening—listening to the world. It’s what every
kamero, every musician, really, has to learn. That’s what the old maestros teach.
Everyone’s getting ready; the whole neighborhood jitters and banters with the excitement of
the night ahead. You can hear it in the squeals of kids in the park running around the much-
graffitied statue of some colonizer, and you can smell it in the mix of freshly baked bread,
perfume, and coffee. A little farther down, Tortuga Mariscos, the best seafood spot this side of
Atlantic Ave., must be making a special enormous platter for tonight, because you can smell
that spicy goodness from blocks away.
Little Elegbas peer out from every storefront, and I know there’s a mezuzah fastened on the
inner slat of each doorframe.
Neighbors chatter and debate, pray and guffaw. I let their voices slide into the mash-up of
sound and add it to the growing tapestry of song inside me.
We’re a messy, upside-down people, the San Madrigaleros. We each hold a hundred
contradictions, but we wear them proudly. Our genesis sounds more like a bad joke than the
actual founding of a nation: One stormy night centuries ago, a pirate, a rabbi, and a Santero
escaped some battle together and watched in awe as the island of San Madrigal arose from the
Caribbean Sea. This ridiculous trinity settled on it, and soon more escapees and outlaws
showed up—they brought their hopes and fears, gods and demons. They made new ones. They
fell in love and fought wars, and managed to stay out of the vengeful, gluttonous glare of
empire for ages. Then, fifteen years ago, that island sunk beneath the waves during a hurricane,
and we migrated here, where we’ve been in a spiritual crisis and state of constant yearning
ever since.
No one really knew about San Madrigal when it existed. It was the stuff of legends, sailors’
delirium, and the dreams of pirates and revolutionaries—a hideaway. But not one that many
people found or even believed in. So when it was gone, there was no one to notice except the
people who lived there. My people.
But at least most of them have memories to cling to.
Me, I have nothing; don’t remember my birthplace. And because I was gone from Little
Madrigal for so much of my childhood, mine feels like a double diaspora, my own personal
haunting.
And now a whole new form of diaspora is opening up, as the first generation born here in the
States comes of age. They have real documents, unlike their parents, who had to rely on Si
Baracasa’s extensive false paperwork hookups. The kids born after the sinking of San Madrigal
have never even seen the island we all called home, and they never will, because it’s gone
forever.
Yet it’s all around us still.
San Madrigal sings and saunters and simmers through these Brooklyn streets. I can feel that
place rattling and clacking all around me as I cross Fulton and head toward Tolo’s club. A tinny
old-timey shanty streams out of Barbudo’s Barbershop, and the clack of the clave tack-tacks
along beneath it in a series of off-kilter exclamation points while the accordions wail out the
harmonies. A rumba sounds from a rooftop nearby, the breezy lows and highs of those congas,
voices blending with acoustic guitars and a hoarse wail over the muddled traffic.
I take it all in as I stroll, and a melody forms, just like it always does. Some kind of rising, falling
blend of these different worlds that smashed together so long ago, made us what we are, and
led us to this weird exile world a thousand miles away.
The melody is just getting going when I stop in my tracks and everything seems to snap into
silence around me.
Tolo’s club is just ahead, across the next street. It’s all decked out in Christmas lights and tacky
pirate-themed decorations, and the words SAN MADRIGAL GRANDE FETE TONIGHT!! proclaim
what’s happening across a bright marquee. Tonight’s a big deal for all of us, and for Tolo
Baracasa more than anyone. The guy’s been waiting his whole life to take over his rightful role
as pirate leader.
As lit up as the event hall is, though, it’s the figure standing in the alley behind it who stops me
cold. He’s tall and bulky, and the orange streetlights glint off the face shield of his helmet.
Trucks. Which means Gerval is somewhere nearby.
Look, I’m not good at the whole talking-to-people thing—just give me a keyboard, you know?
But I’m especially not good at talking to people I look up to. Usually, all the words I’ve planned
out and practiced mysteriously evaporate the second I open my mouth, so I just end up making
gurgley noises instead.
And then puking. Ha-ha, just kidding. Usually.
Point is, if I could get the awkward talking-to-Gerval part out of the way before the
performance, I’d actually enjoy the night instead of stressing out, and I’d play better, and then
I’d definitely get hired as his new pianist and tour the world!
So I take one step into the street and open my mouth to say hey (or, more realistically, just to
gurgle), when something moves through the shadows toward Trucks. It’s so fast, I just catch a
flicker against the darkness as the slight form launches into the air.
“Oh, ah, um . . .” I say, my eyes wide, and Trucks looks up at me, then spins suddenly, swings
one burly arm out, and smashes the figure hurtling at him.
Who appears to be a girl about my age.
I can’t make out her face as she grunts and lands in the shadows.
It all happens so fast, and Trucks’s bulky frame blocks my view.
I’m not sure whether to run toward them or away; none of this makes sense.
She’s already leaped back up to her feet as he swings again, this time with one of those
extendable batons that dudes like Trucks buy online to feel more like cops.
The girl slides nimbly out of the way and then—bap, bap!—I hear the sharp thunks of fists
finding their mark, and Trucks stumbles back a step, arms flailing.
It all seems to slow as a rare, trembly music opens up inside me.
Songs just come when they feel like it—there’s no logic to it. This music, the music of their fight,
is like nothing I’ve ever heard: shrill and melodic, with a splatter of snare hits beneath and a
thunderous bellow throughout.
She’s on him in seconds, climbing his body like a tree. Then Trucks lets out a guttural kind of
burp that’s cut off suddenly and becomes more of a whistle. He drops to his knees and keels
forward, cracking his face shield on the pavement.
He’s dead. He’s definitely dead.
She stands over him, panting, a blade in one hand. As she looks down at what she’s done, her
slim shoulders rise and fall. Her thick red hair is pulled back in two afropuffs, and her face is a
few shades darker than mine. Above her round glasses, her brow is creased with fury.
I know her.
That’s Chela Hidalgo.
I grew up with Chela. She’s Rabbi Hidalgo’s daughter, and Tolo Baracasa’s cousin. We don’t
know each other that well ’cause she’s super quiet and minds her business even more than I
do.
Well, I thought she did, anyway.
She just murdered a man. Right in front of my eyes.
And then, because I’m the biggest schmo in the universe and because, let’s be honest, I’m in
shock, I go, “Ahm . . . urg?”
I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. It’s just a useless sound I let escape from my
useless mouth, which is hanging open uselessly.
Now we’re staring at each other, ten feet apart with a dead body between us. She’s still out of
breath, but her expression is firm, not surprised. It says I will kill again if I have to. And mine
probably says about what I’m thinking: OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD WHAT DID I JUST SEE
WHAT THE OHMYGOD HELP.
She takes one step toward me, her eyes narrowing, and then a strange blue light erupts in the
air like a slo-mo lightning flash, and suddenly standing between us is a shimmering form in a
hooded robe looking like Death himself.
Both Chela and I take a step back, our mouths open, our faces lit with that blue glow. I can’t see
under the hood.
I’m not sure who to be more afraid of.
And I don’t have time to decide, because with a flash and fizzle, the figure vanishes. I wouldn’t
believe it really happened except Chela clearly saw it, too.
Very slowly, very deliberately, she looks at me. Then she turns and walks away, vanishing like a
phantom into the shadows of the alley.
As soon as she’s gone, I lean over and puke my guts out.
1 winner will receive a finished copy of BALLAD & DAGGER, US Only.
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