Ride For Me, Die For Me.

Chapter 15: Beneath the Skin

The night pressed heavy against the windows, thick with silence. Outside, the wind carried no rhythm—just that eerie, weightless stillness before a storm. Inside Waiya’s room, the candlelight had burned low, casting flickers on the ceiling like distant lightning.

She should’ve been asleep.

Justin had drifted off again, this time beside her. Not on the couch. Not across the room. Right there. His arm loosely draped over her waist, breathing steady, body warm against her back.

And still, she couldn’t sleep.

The pendant around her neck pulsed faintly—too warm. Her scar flared to life beneath the skin, not in pain, but like it was calling something. Or being called.

Waiya sat up slowly, not wanting to wake Justin. But as soon as her feet touched the floor, the room shifted.

The air changed.

The shadows bent.

And the floor gave out.

Not physically—not really. But she felt herself being pulled—sucked down and through the wood beneath her like ink swirling into water. The pendant glowed bright red, then vanished with her.

Justin stirred in his sleep.

But Waiya was gone.

⸻

She landed in darkness. Soft moss beneath her hands. Her breathing ragged. The Grove.

But different.

It wasn’t the same haunting dreamscape from before. This time, the trees stood taller—older. The wind spoke in hums, and somewhere in the distance, something sang in a voice that wasn’t human.

Waiya rose slowly. Her scar burned against her ribs, and the pendant on her neck shimmered with a pulse like a heartbeat.

“Waiya.”

The voice didn’t echo. It just… existed, surrounding her like breath. She turned and saw her.

An old woman.

Draped in woven cloth and feathers, skin like river stone, eyes shining with moons. Her hair was long and gray, tied back with a piece of red clay string. Around her neck: the same pendant Waiya wore—only older, worn from time.

“I’ve been waitin’ a long time to meet the last wolf,” the woman said.

Waiya swallowed. “Who are you?”

“Your great-great-grandmother. But you can call me Ánáli. I was the one who bled to seal our bloodline. The first flame keeper. The first sacrifice.”

Waiya’s breath caught. “The Grove brought me here?”

“No,” Ánáli said, walking forward slowly. “Your scar brought you. That mark on your side? That’s not just a wound. It’s a doorway. An open tether to everything your blood has touched and everything that still hunts it.”

She reached out and pressed a thumb against Waiya’s pendant. “He’s getting closer. The one you dream of. Donquavious. He’s not working alone anymore. He’s summoned something that feeds on ancestral power, and your line has more of it than most.”

Waiya’s voice cracked. “How do I stop him?”

Ánáli studied her, then smiled softly—sadly. “You don’t stop power like that. You outlast it. And you remember who you are.”

She raised a hand, and from the soil rose an image: Waiya, Justin, her sisters… all standing around a circle of fire, bound in light. But the fire dimmed, flickered.

“He’s trying to break your tether. To make you doubt your gift. If you let him, you’ll lose more than yourself. You’ll lose the thread that holds your people together.”

Waiya took a shaky step forward. “Then show me what I need to do.”

Ánáli placed her hands on Waiya’s temples.

A vision surged through her body.

Flashes of her childhood—moments with her father, her grandmother’s stories, every ritual, every bruise, every prayer. Then flashes of battles yet to come. She saw herself standing on the roof of a crumbling building, fire raging behind her, Justin bloodied but breathing at her side. She saw Lily chanting in the rain. Nyla protecting children in the basement of an old church.

And she saw the creature Donquavious had bound—a monstrous, slithering thing of shadow and bone, screaming as it crawled toward her.

Then—

Silence.

And she was back.

Back in her room.

Back in her body.

Justin sat bolt upright beside her, sweat glistening on his skin, his hand already reaching for hers. “You disappeared,” he breathed. “You weren’t here—I felt you vanish.”

“I was in the Grove,” Waiya said, voice distant. “But it wasn’t just a dream this time. I met someone. An ancestor. Ánáli. She said the scar is a tether—and it’s waking things up.”

Justin stared at her. “What things?”

Waiya turned her head toward him, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“The things that remember my blood.”

Justin didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The room spoke for him.

The floorboards moaned low and deep, like a throat clearing itself of something ancient. The windows creaked, pressure shifting in the air. Waiya clutched her side suddenly—her scar seared hotter than ever, and when she pulled her fingers back, they came away slick with blood.

Not just a little.

It was bleeding, fresh and slow like something had just opened it from the inside.

Justin moved fast, yanking the blanket off the bed and pressing it against her ribs. “Waiya—what the hell—what is this?” His voice was shaking now, laced with something between fear and fury. “That ain’t normal. That ain’t just no scar.”

“No,” she gasped. “It’s… it’s calling something—or being called.”

The lights flickered overhead.

Then popped.

One by one, every bulb in the house burst with a sharp crack, plunging them into darkness.

Justin stood up instantly, chest heaving, scanning the room like his eyes could adjust faster than time allowed. “Something’s out there.”

Waiya didn’t need to ask. She felt it. Pressed up against the house, like wet breath fogging up cold glass. A presence—not fully formed, not human—but trying. Trying to slither through the cracks in the foundation. Through keyholes. Through whispers. Her pendant vibrated like it was screaming.

The house groaned louder now, beams and walls pulsing—not breaking—but shifting.

Responding.

Waiya looked up, wide-eyed, gripping Justin’s hand. “It’s not letting it in.”

Justin paused. “What?”

“The house,” she said. “It’s alive—more than I ever knew. My auntie… she used to say this place was built with more than just wood and stone. It was protected. Blessed. Kept.”

He stared at the walls, at the arching ceiling above them. “Ain’t just a house, huh?”

“No.” She stood now, blood still slipping down her hip, but steadier. Stronger. “It’s a keeper.”

The door to her room banged violently. Not like someone knocking. Like something trying to be born through it.

Justin stepped between Waiya and the door, shoulders squared, eyes glinting with something primal. “Let it try. I’m not letting anything touch you.”

The air grew thick, like breathing molasses. The banging grew faster—frantic.

Waiya’s scar sizzled suddenly, and with a gasp, she touched the wall.

The entire room hummed beneath her fingers.

A voice, ancient and hushed, whispered through the grain of the wood. Not in English. Not Navajo. But her blood understood it.

It said:

“Blood remembers. Fire protects.”

And just as the thing at the door screamed—a ragged, echoing cry that didn’t sound like it came from lungs—the house reared back.

The walls shimmered with sigils only visible for a second—flashes of old symbols, burning like brands in the air—then vanished.

BOOM.

The force at the door slammed once more—

—and was thrown back.

A gust of wind exploded inward, blowing through the house like something had been ejected.

Silence returned.

The lights flickered back on, faint and low.

Justin turned, eyes still on the doorway. “It’s gone.”

Waiya slumped slightly, pressing a palm to her ribs. The scar had stopped bleeding. But her hands were shaking. “Not for long.”

He helped her back to the bed, tucking her close. His arms wrapped tight around her, like he was holding together the last thread of peace they had.

“Whatever that was,” he said low, “it found us once. It’ll come back.”

Waiya didn’t argue. She just nodded into his chest. Her voice came small, but steady. “Then we’ll be ready.”