Ride For Me, Die For Me.

Chapter 22: Crossroads and Quiet Things

Waiya’s P.O.V.

The room was quiet now. Granny’s spare bedroom smelled like cedar and old books, the kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and made you feel held—even if you were cracked open and still glowing.

Justin was gone. The ache of that goodbye hadn’t dulled yet. I could still feel the place in my palm where his fingers had lingered last.

Lily stood near the window, arms crossed, absorbing every word of Granny’s instructions. She was serious now—stepping into the role like she’d been waiting on it, like the weight of our bloodline finally made sense.

“She needs to learn more than how to throw up a ward,” Granny said. “This the part where she learns how to listen. How to hear before she moves. Spirit gone be loud around her now—she gotta learn how to separate her own thoughts from the ones floatin’ through the veil.”

“I got it,” Lily nodded. “I’ll handle the classes. I’ll shift the assignments, make sure they stay grounded. They’ll ask questions, but I’ll keep ’em focused.”

Nyla was curled up in a chair nearby, half-asleep but still offering sleepy commentary. “Tell her students she ascended or some sh*t. They’ll eat it up.”

Granny gave her a sharp look but said nothing.

I was propped up on pillows, sore but alert, soaking in the way my sisters moved through the space. They’d fought me growing up—called me the soft one, the quiet one, the oddball with candles and herbs in her backpack. But tonight? I could see the shift in their eyes.

Respect. Maybe even a little fear.

“You good?” Lily asked, glancing at me while tucking her long braids into a wrap.

I nodded. “I’m good. Just tired.”

“You rest,” Granny said firmly. “Tomorrow, we get started for real. These marks on you need tuning. That scar might be gone, but the thing that made it still out there.”

My stomach knotted. I hadn’t forgotten. I couldn’t.

Granny left first, then Lily after a few last notes jotted into a worn spiral. Nyla stayed curled in the corner until her breathing evened out.

But sleep didn’t come for me.

Something buzzed under my skin. A hum, a knowing. Like the night wasn’t done with me yet.

So I slid out of bed, careful not to wake anyone, and slipped into the night barefoot.

The porch was cool and silent, moonlight dripping over the wooden steps like spilled milk. I sat on the top one, arms around my knees, breathing in the humid quiet.

Then I heard her.

“You always ran out into the dark when you were scared,” my mother said, voice smooth but sharp as chipped obsidian.

I didn’t flinch. “And you always appeared in it like a ghost.”

She stepped out of the shadows like she’d always been there, eyes reflecting the same light now burning inside me. She looked tired. Beautiful still—but faded at the edges like an old photograph.

“You don’t look surprised to see me,” I said.

“I’m not. You’re glowing now. You think the blood don’t recognize its own light?”

We stared at each other, years of silence crammed between us like glass waiting to break.

“You weren’t there when I needed you,” I said, voice low.

She folded her arms. “I was protecting you. You think I didn’t want to raise you myself? But the moment I started feeding into what you are… they would’ve come for you sooner.”

My chest ached. “You left me to figure it out blind.”

“I left you with Granny. Ain’t no better hands for a child born with fire.”

Silence again.

I didn’t trust her. Not yet. But I didn’t hate her the way I used to either.

“I don’t need you now,” I whispered.

Her mouth twitched like it almost smiled. “That’s exactly when you do.”

And then she disappeared back into the shadows like she’d never been there.

But her scent—wild sage and smoke—lingered.

⸻

Justin’s P.O.V.

The door creaked as I stepped into the apartment. Same cracked tile by the entrance. Same dusty smell. Same photo of me and my uncle tucked into the corner of the mirror by the hallway.

It felt like walking back into an old version of myself. A skin I hadn’t worn in months.

Monica stood by the window, her arms folded, watching me with those eyes that always saw too much. She hadn’t said much on the drive, just played old music and let me be.

“You sure you ready for this?” she asked finally.

“No,” I admitted. “But it don’t matter. I gotta do it anyway.”

She nodded once. “It’s been waiting on you.”

I grabbed the small duffel from the closet—books, charms, notes scrawled by elders long gone. Things I’d kept locked away when I ran north, thinking distance could erase duty.

It couldn’t.

Monica leaned against the doorway. “She’s strong. That girl glows like the damn sun. You sure you ain’t scared she won’t need you after this?”

I paused, then turned to her.

“She don’t need me,” I said. “But I think she want me.”

She smirked. “That’s better.”

I zipped the bag shut. “We leave before dawn.”

She nodded. “Good. The old man’s been waiting. And you got bones to wake.”

I looked around the apartment one last time.

“I’m comin’ back different,” I said.

“Good,” Monica replied, voice softening. “Because this time… it’s gonna take all of you.”

And with that, we stepped back into the dark.

Heading south.

Toward roots, reckoning, and the beginning of the end.