Chapter Seven: Scars and Shadows
1562 Words
The air inside Justin’s hideout was thick with incense and old magic. Not the kind Waiya taught in her classroom — this was older. Gritty. Practical. The kind that didn’t ask for forgiveness or give second chances.
She sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug, the cold concrete pressing against her spine as she rested against the wall. Her hoodie was singed at the sleeve, the scent of scorched thread still clinging to her skin. She didn’t flinch when Justin moved around her, but she tracked him with her eyes, sharp as ever.
He poured water into two chipped mugs, slid one toward her, and sat across from her without a word.
For a minute, they just sat. Breathing. Listening.
Outside, Detroit was silent again.
Too silent.
“You said it knew my name,” she said finally, voice low.
Justin nodded once. “That wasn’t no random spirit. That was summoned. Tracked. Sent.”
“By who?”
He didn’t answer right away.
She stared him down. “You know something.”
Justin set his mug down, rubbed his palms together like he was scrubbing energy off his skin. “You ever heard of the Black Root Circle?”
Her stomach clenched.
“Mmm,” she muttered. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”
The Black Root Circle was a secret — or at least it used to be. A dead cult, people said. Old conjurers who twisted nature magic into something darker. They fed spirits instead of guiding them. Worshipped chaos. Dabbled in resurrection.
Her fingers twitched toward her pendant.
Justin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Donquavious was tied to them.”
Waiya went still.
The name cut coming from someone else’s mouth.
Justin didn’t notice her flinch — or maybe he did and respected her enough not to point it out.
“He tried to raise something,” Justin continued. “Not just some demon. A lord. A thing that existed before language. Blood magic, death magic, root magic — all tied up in one.”
She stared at the floor.
“I know,” she whispered.
Justin looked up. “You know?”
She nodded, once, jaw clenched. Her throat burned before she spoke again.
“I almost died that night.”
Justin didn’t interrupt. He just waited.
“He marked me. Used a sigil I’d never seen before — burned it into my back while I slept. Said I was born with the right blood for a sacrifice. Said my spirit would open the gate.”
Justin’s face darkened. “That’s why it came for you. Not me.”
She exhaled, shaky. “I got out. But not whole.”
She reached behind her, lifted the edge of her shirt, just high enough for him to see the faded edges of a scar that pulsed faintly even now — unnatural, like it still breathed.
Justin didn’t reach for her. He didn’t gawk. Just looked, and then gave a single nod, like he understood in a way most people couldn’t.
“People who survive s**t like that,” he said, voice low, “we don’t come out clean. But we come out smart.”
Waiya’s laugh was sharp and hollow. “Smart don’t keep the nightmares out.”
“No,” Justin said. “But it teaches you how to fight with them at your side.”
Their eyes locked for a beat longer than either meant to.
And then her phone buzzed. A single text.
From an unknown number.
“Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”
Waiya didn’t even blink.
She tossed the phone on the table between them.
Justin looked at it. Then looked at her.
“You ready to burn all this down?”
She nodded. Once. Slow.
“I been ready.”
But the moment settled heavy between them. Like the air knew what they’d just said was a vow. And vows, in Detroit, had consequences.
The flame on the candle between them flickered sideways.
“Somebody just heard that,” she muttered.
Justin smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Let ’em.”
The silence returned, deeper now — thick with memory and the weight of old spirits listening.
Waiya got up slowly and started pacing the room. Her limbs felt too tight for her skin, her energy crackling beneath the surface. Every step she took was measured, purposeful, like a wolf circling its thoughts.
“I haven’t told anyone about what Donquavious did,” she said without turning around. “Not even my sister. Not even Nana.”
Justin raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because if I said it out loud, it’d be real.” She paused by the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to glance at the darkened street. “And because it wasn’t just him that night.”
Justin sat up straighter. “What you mean?”
“I mean… when he marked me, it wasn’t just him doing it. He was channeling something. Something older. When he said I was born with the right blood, it wasn’t just talk. Something… something from the other side looked through him and saw me. Claimed me. And ever since… I’ve felt it.”
Justin’s brow furrowed, face serious now. “Felt what, exactly?”
Waiya let the curtain fall. Turned to face him.
“Like I ain’t alone in my own skin anymore. Like something’s waiting inside me.”
The room went still.
Even the wind outside seemed to hush.
Justin didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and reached into a small black box beside the couch. Pulled out a stone — obsidian, sharp-edged, humming faintly.
“Let me see the scar again,” he said.
She hesitated, then nodded.
Turning around, she lifted the back of her shirt again. The sigil burned into her skin shimmered faintly in the low light, like it was still alive.
Justin held the stone near it — not touching, just hovering — and the obsidian immediately lit with a faint, reddish glow.
“Damn,” he muttered. “It’s feeding.”
“On what?”
“Your energy. Your pain. Maybe even your memories. That’s not just a mark. That’s a door.”
Waiya turned to face him, eyes hard. “And doors can be shut, right?”
He nodded. Slowly.
“Yeah. But not without a cost.”
“I’m tired of paying costs in silence,” she said. “If this thing’s gonna take something, it better be ready to fight for it.”
Justin watched her for a moment — the fire behind her eyes, the pain sitting under her voice. He’d met women like her before. Warriors who didn’t ask to be soldiers. Survivors who never got time to heal. But there was something different about Waiya. Her strength wasn’t just rooted in what she’d been through — it was ancestral. Elemental. Spiritual.
She wasn’t just a survivor.
She was a weapon still learning her purpose.
“I think we need to go see someone,” he said. “Someone who knows the old rites. Someone outside the city.”
Waiya narrowed her eyes. “You mean the Grove?”
Justin nodded once.
Her stomach dropped.
“The Grove don’t mess with city witches. They think we’re corrupted.”
“Maybe we are,” he said. “But they know more about the Black Root Circle than anyone still breathing.”
She hesitated. Then walked over and picked up her phone again. The text was still there on the screen.
“Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”
She stared at it. Then deleted it without another word.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s make the trip. But if the Grove don’t want to talk…”
“They will,” Justin said. “They owe me a favor.”
Waiya raised an eyebrow. “You and these mysterious favors…”
He smiled, just a little. “Let’s just say I’ve walked some shadow roads too.”
She nodded slowly. Then turned toward the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t go anywhere.”
Justin held up his hands. “I ain’t.”
She paused in the doorway. “And don’t peek.”
He gave her a dry look. “Ain’t nobody impressed by city water pressure, ma.”
She smirked. “You would be if you knew the ritual I put in my shampoo.”
And just like that, some of the tension eased.
But as she disappeared into the bathroom, Justin’s smile faded.
He turned back toward the table, eyes narrowing at the spot where the obsidian still sat glowing faintly beside her mug.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded square of black silk.
Inside it: a feather, a sliver of bone, and a match burned at both ends.
He didn’t say anything. Just added the glowing obsidian to the cloth and tied it shut.
Then he whispered under his breath:
“Let the road reveal what’s hidden in shadow.”
The cloth pulsed once. Then went still.
Behind the door, the water started running.
And somewhere across town, miles away, inside an abandoned church covered in runes and broken prayers, a shadow moved.
It had no name. No face. No patience.
But it knew her.
And it was getting closer.
- Writer
