Ride For Me, Die For Me.

Chapter 23: The Fire Beneath the Skin

Waiya’s P.O.V.

I woke to sunlight filtered through old lace curtains and the soft creak of floorboards outside the room. For a second, I forgot everything—the scar, the dreams, the glowing tattoos. I could’ve been sixteen again, waking up in Granny’s spare room after some dumb fight with Momma. But then my bones pulsed—low and steady like a drumbeat in my blood—and I knew nothing was the same.

The bed was still warm from my sleep, but Lily was already gone. I could tell by the neat fold in the blanket at the foot of the bed. She always left spaces tidy, like she never wanted folks to feel her absence. She’d gone to teach for me—to stand in front of my students, all wide eyes and raw energy, and try to explain protection spells, energy barriers, and the difference between a spiritual attack and a bad vibe. I hoped they listened. I hoped they felt her power.

Because mine was still shifting. Unsteady. Bright as lightning but not quite in my hands yet.

I pulled the quilt tighter around me, grounding myself. The air in the house smelled like blue corn and burnt cedar. Something was brewing—and I wasn’t just talking about the tea.

Nyla sat cross-legged in the corner, eyes closed, a small braid hanging over one shoulder and crystals lined up on the rug in front of her. She didn’t say a word, just tilted her head like she felt me watching.

“You’re awake,” she murmured. “And still glowing.”

I looked down. The glow was faint now, like embers under skin—but it was there. Always there. My tattoos pulsed slightly in the low light, like they were breathing with me.

“Don’t look at me like I’m a damn constellation,” I muttered, sitting up.

Nyla cracked one eye open. “Too late.”

She stood slowly and came to sit at the edge of the bed, brushing hair out of my face like we were kids again.

“You scared the sh*t outta us,” she said softly. “But now that you’re lit up like a Christmas tree, you don’t get to rest. Granny and Momma say it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

Her face turned serious. “To stop surviving. And start knowing.”

I didn’t have time to process that before the door creaked open and Granny stepped in, her moccasins soft against the floor. Behind her came Momma—long braids, long shadow, and that same unreadable expression she always wore around me. But this time, something in her eyes was different. Warmer maybe. Still guarded, but not cold.

Granny handed me a small clay bowl filled with thick, dark liquid. “Drink this,” she said, no room for argument in her voice.

I did. It was bitter and earthy, coating my tongue like soil. But as it slid down, I felt heat in my chest—then spreading through my limbs, slow and steady.

“What is it?” I asked, wiping my mouth.

“Ground root, ash from the fire that lit your scar, and the water that washed it,” Momma answered. “You gotta carry all three if you plan to master what’s coming.”

Granny nodded. “This ain’t just about power, child. You already got that. This is about alignment. Your soul, your spirit, your knowing. Right now they in three different rooms of the same house, and you standing outside knockin’ on the door.”

Nyla reached over and squeezed my hand. “Time to go inside, sis.”

I took a shaky breath. My body still ached, but the buzz of magic under my skin was sharper now—awake and waiting. Granny stepped aside, motioning toward the back room.

“We’ll start with the old ways. Not the sweet ones from stories. The hard ones. The ones that make your teeth ache from grit and your chest burn from truth.”

“I ain’t afraid,” I said, even though my throat tightened.

“You should be,” Granny replied. “Only the foolish walk into the spirit world without trembling. But you got us. You got your blood behind you.”

And just like that, they led me into the next room—the teaching room, the one Granny never let us in growing up.

The air was thick with smoke and memory. Animal skins lined the floor. Feathers, bones, bundles of herbs, and black stone bowls sat neatly around the edges. A bear claw hung from the ceiling, spinning gently, as if stirred by breath I couldn’t see.

Momma knelt in the center and began drawing a symbol in ash on the ground. My symbol. The one that had appeared in my dreams.

“You were marked before you were born,” she said quietly. “You think that scar was new? Nah, baby. That was just the surface finally breaking.”

I knelt beside her, hands trembling.

Granny lit a bundle of sage and waved it around my body in wide circles. “This is where you learn to command, not contain. To heal, not hide.”

The air thickened. My tattoos flared again—bright, steady, hot.

And in that moment, something clicked. Like a locked door creaking open deep inside me.

I saw shadows flicker on the edge of the room—old ones. Not threatening, but watchful.

Ancestors.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.

My chest rose and fell with a new rhythm. Not my heartbeat. Something older. Something that had been waiting.

“You ready to remember who you are?” Granny asked.

I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes and let it begin.

Justin’s P.O.V.

The hum of the highway was the only sound for miles. Asphalt stretched ahead like a ribbon unraveling toward something ancient—something buried deep in swampland and time. Monica drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her thigh, steady like always. Calm. Focused. Dangerous in the quiet way only women like her could be.

We’d barely crossed into Tennessee before the silence started feelin’ heavy. Like the air was listening.

“You been awfully quiet,” she finally said.

I kept my eyes on the trees lining the road, their silhouettes blurred by heat and motion. “Got a lot on my mind.”

She snorted lightly. “You always got a lot on your mind. That ain’t new.”

I didn’t respond.

Truth was… my chest felt hollow. Like I’d left something important behind in Detroit—someone important. Waiya. Her voice still echoed in my head. The way she laughed when she was tired. The way she fronted like she ain’t need nobody, even when her body was damn near giving out. And the way she looked at me… like maybe I was something worth holding onto, even if just for a moment.

Monica must’ve read my silence.

“She gonna be alright,” she said. “Girl’s got fire. Real kind.”

“She almost died,” I said quietly.

“And you almost lost your damn mind.”

She wasn’t wrong. I’d seen that scar eat at her—seen the way she winced when she thought I wasn’t lookin’. And I hated that she tried to protect me from the truth when all I wanted was to protect her from everything else.

“She stubborn,” I muttered.

“She you,” Monica shot back with a smirk. “Y’all the same kind of storm. Loud in your silence. Both of you think love is somethin’ earned through pain.”

I didn’t answer.

I knew what she meant, though. Waiya and me—we were survivors of different wars, but we carried the same wounds. Trauma had stitched its name into both our backs. And now we were both walking toward something bigger than either of us.

I leaned my head back against the seat and stared at the sky—thick with cloud and the promise of southern rain.

“How long since you been back?” I asked.

Monica adjusted the rearview mirror. “Too long. But the Grove’s still standing. The old man keeps it protected.”

“You think he’ll help?”

“He ain’t got a choice. Blood called. And you know how that works.”

Yeah. I knew.

That’s why we were going.

Not just for answers. Not just for healing. But for what came after. For whatever had been waiting in the dirt and bones of New Orleans to wake up again.

I reached into my duffel and pulled out one of the old books—worn leather, yellow pages, a binding that had seen more life than I had. I thumbed through the notes I’d added—protection sigils, warding chants, ancestor markers. Stuff I’d abandoned when I thought I could live a “normal” life.

Normal wasn’t made for people like me.

“You still remember how to open the path?” Monica asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. I remember everything.”

She gave a slight smile. “Good. ‘Cause the veil’s thin down there. Real thin. Spirits don’t just whisper in the Grove. They speak. And some of them ain’t friendly.”

“That’s why you comin’, ain’t it?” I said, glancing at her.

Monica just chuckled and pressed the gas a little harder. “I ain’t comin’ to babysit you. I’m comin’ to watch the storm break.”

The miles kept rollin’ under us, and with every one, I felt the weight in my chest grow heavier. Not fear. Not exactly. It was something else.

Responsibility.

The kind that came with bloodlines and scars. The kind that said if you don’t handle this, it’s all gonna fall apart.

I pulled out a worn photo from my wallet. My uncle. The one who raised me when my mom couldn’t. The one who taught me to read bones and feel energy shifts in a room before I stepped inside. He died before he could finish teaching me everything—but he left me enough. Enough to survive. Enough to walk this path now, even if my legs still felt shaky.

“Monica,” I said after a long silence. “What if I ain’t enough?”

She didn’t take her eyes off the road, but her voice was solid. “Then the ancestors wouldn’t have chosen you.”

That shut me up.

Because I knew better than to doubt a calling.

We hit the Mississippi border by nightfall. The air got thicker. The road got quieter. The shadows stretched longer against the trees. And something in my bones started to hum.

I reached for the obsidian charm in my jacket pocket, fingers brushing over its edge.

Waiya was probably learning everything she’d been kept from her whole life—grinding through pain, through sweat and spirit. And here I was… on a road to wake bones and call back pieces of myself I tried to bury.

But if I was gonna stand beside her when it all came down… I had to bring every piece of myself to the fire.

And I would.

Even if it meant walking through hell to get there.