Ride For Me, Die For Me.

Chapter 25: Crossroads and Currents

Justin’s Vision — POV

Everything went black when Papa Toussaint blew out the candles. But it wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Full of voices, wind, bones shifting under the earth. My breath caught in my throat. I was somewhere between time and blood—between everything I was and everything I ran from.

Then I saw them.

Three figures standing in a triangle of light.

One wore a hood of shadows. One was wrapped in serpents. And the last… the last had my father’s face.

But I knew that wasn’t him. Not really. Not completely.

“Child of dust and drum,” the hooded one spoke, voice like cracking branches, “what binds you here?”

I tried to speak, but my tongue felt like ash.

“You think protection is love?” asked the one with serpents. “You think shielding her will save her? That’s fear, boy. Not love.”

The not-my-father figure stepped forward. “You carry grief like a weapon. But you bleed from it, too.”

My knees hit the dirt in this dream-place. The air was thick with incense, blood, and old prayers.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “If I don’t fight for her—if I don’t stand in the way—what’s the point?”

All three figures spoke at once.

“You stand with her. Not before her.”

A sound split the air. A drumbeat, deep and ancient. My heartbeat synced to it. My spine straightened.

The vision shifted.

I saw Waiya in the distance, her back turned. Her braids whipping in some unseen storm. That living scar glowing like lava between her shoulder blades. And I—

I wasn’t beside her.

I was behind her. Afraid.

Ashamed.

Not of her power… but of mine.

“Why are you hiding?” asked the shadow-hooded spirit.

The answer tumbled out before I could stop it.

“Because if I step into mine… if I fully awaken… I don’t know who I’ll become.”

There it was.

The truth.

The part I never said out loud—not to Monica, not even to Waiya. I’d spent my life toeing the edge of spirit, dipping in just enough to survive but not enough to change.

Because change meant loss.

And loss… was all I’d ever known.

The one with serpents grinned. “Then let it kill the boy. Let it bury what’s soft. Let it burn what clings.”

“And what’s left?” I whispered.

The not-my-father figure stepped forward again, placing a hand on my chest.

“What’s left is the man who was meant to walk beside the fire, not fear it.”

I fell backward into darkness.

But this time, I didn’t fight it.

I let it take me.

Let it strip me bare.

Let it rebuild me.

When I opened my eyes again, the Crossroads weren’t empty.

There were spirits lining the trees. Some whispering. Some weeping. Some drumming.

And Papa Toussaint was standing in the center, arms folded.

“You ready now?”

I stood up slow. But solid.

“I am.”

“Good,” he said. “Because your next step ain’t protection. It’s partnership.”

I nodded once.

For the first time in my life, I understood the difference.

And I felt her—Waiya—on the other end of that thread that tethered us.

Strong.

Fighting.

Waiting.

Waiya’s P.O.V.

The medicine room held its breath.

I sat cross-legged on the old woven mat, the dirt floor cool beneath me, surrounded by bones, feathers, bundles of dried herbs, and jars filled with things I couldn’t even name yet. Smoke curled slow and deliberate from the cedar Granny had tossed on the coals, spiraling like spirit trails above my head. My palms rested open on my knees, tingling from the last round of energy work. Granny said I needed to sit with it before the next step, but sitting still felt like holding back a storm inside me.

The room wasn’t just sacred—it was alive.

I could feel it watching me. Listening. Testing.

Granny’s voice drifted from the far corner, where she was grinding something thick and red in her mortar bowl. “The medicine room don’t open itself for just anybody, child. It opens when it knows it’s time.”

“Time for what?” I asked, voice hoarse from chanting.

“To remember.”

I breathed out slow. My tattoos were glowing again—not flaring like before, but softly, steadily, like coals waiting to be stoked. My scar ached less now, but I still felt it. Not like a wound anymore. Like a doorway.

Nyla sat nearby, braiding tiny bones and beads into a cord she said I’d need for protection when the deeper visions came. Her presence grounded me. Her seer energy didn’t overwhelm; it wrapped me in clarity. She hadn’t spoken much since we started, just quiet hums and the occasional reminder to breathe with intention.

Then I felt him.

It came like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.

Deep. Familiar. Distant, but tethered to me like a thread pulled taut across miles. Justin.

I sat up straighter, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Nyla asked, tilting her head like she already knew.

“He’s in it,” I whispered. “His awakening… I can feel it.”

The medicine room pulsed. The smoke shifted direction, curling around me instead of rising. My breath caught as warmth spread through my chest—his warmth. Not physical, not even emotional. Spiritual.

He was somewhere sacred. Somewhere old. Whatever he was facing, he wasn’t alone. And somehow, neither was I.

Granny didn’t even look up. “That bond’s real now. No ceremony, no vow… just spirit knowin’ spirit. Let it hold you.”

I closed my eyes.

And in the space behind my eyelids, I saw him.

Not clearly—just glimpses. Firelight. A crossroads etched in ash. Figures older than language watching him with eyes full of knowing. He was walking through his own shadows, shedding pieces of himself like dead skin. And every time he released something, the energy came back to me—as strength. As clarity. As power.

I gasped and opened my eyes, heart pounding. “We’re connected. Not just like… emotionally. It’s something deeper.”

Granny nodded, finally setting the bowl down. “Twin spirits. Been that way before this lifetime. Maybe a few before it, too.”

I blinked. “You knew?”

“I ain’t say nothin’ ‘cause you had to walk your own path to feel it.”

Nyla smiled faintly, tying off the cord. “His light and yours ain’t meant to eclipse each other. They’re meant to rise together.”

That nearly undid me. I’d spent so long protecting myself from needing anyone, from relying on anyone. And yet here we were—him in some distant place, walking into his spirit work, and me here, sitting in the medicine room of every woman who’d ever fought to keep this power alive.

The ancestors stirred again.

I could feel their presence swell around me, like a circle closing in, not to trap—but to hold.

“Ready for the next part?” Granny asked.

My breath trembled, but I nodded. “Yeah. I want to meet them properly this time.”

“Then lay down,” she said, motioning to the woven mat already set with stones around it. “Close your eyes. Let the scar guide you. Let the bond guide you. And don’t fight what you see.”

As I laid back, Nyla placed the bone-and-bead cord gently across my chest, and Momma—silent all this time—stepped into view holding a bowl of moon water. She traced symbols on my forehead, heart, and palms.

No words were spoken. No chants.

Just silence.

And then the world tilted.

Heat bloomed from the scar and the tattoos at once, but instead of pain, it felt like something unlocking.

I fell—not in fear, but in surrender—into the spirit world again.

But this time, I wasn’t lost.

I was guided.

And I could feel him still.

Justin.

Wherever he was… whatever vision had taken hold of him…

I was right there beside him in spirit.

We were rising together.