Chapter 20 Vin #2
I knelt beside her, my presence a silent vow. I didn't do hope—I did retribution, punishment, justice. But watching Mama Celeste, feeling the charge in the air, I could almost believe in something more. Almost.
The roar of engines was a muted dirge as we rolled back to the clubhouse, Raven's body wrapped in leather, cradled in my arms. The bikes hummed low, the pack subdued—their headlight beams cutting through the dusk like the path of our collective sorrow.
Nobody spoke; words were useless against the weight of what we'd lost.
We arrived under a sky smeared with twilight, the clubhouse looming like a silent judge.
Inside, the clubhouse reeked of stale beer and old blood—a fitting chapel for Mama Celeste's brand of salvation.
She had set up her space in the center, an altar of bone and shadow amidst the detritus of our sins.
Candles flickered, casting dancing specters upon the walls, a macabre prelude to the ritual ahead.
"Roundup," I called out. My brothers circled, leather creaking, chains jangling—an orchestra of the lost. Skepticism hung in the air, thick as smoke; these men had seen too much to believe in easy miracles. Yet, there was hope too, simmering beneath the surface, desperate and clawing.
"Y'all best prepare yourselves," Mama Celeste intoned, her amber eyes scanning the assembly. "What comes next ain't for the faint of heart."
"Whatever it takes," I muttered, and the rest echoed, a chorus of defiance in the face of the abyss. We were bikers, outlaws—men who'd spit in death's eye—but this? This was territory unmarked by tire treads or bloodstains.
"Remember, it's her will that'll carry her through," Mama Celeste added, her voice a lullaby laced with thorns. "If she's got something to fight for, she'll find her way back."
I nodded, thinking of all the things Raven had to fight for, of all the rides we hadn't taken, the sunsets we hadn't chased.
It wasn't her time yet. I wouldn't let it be.
In the dim light, with shadows clinging to us like the remnants of forgotten dreams, we waited for Mama Celeste to bridge worlds.
And I held onto Raven, the fiercest woman I'd ever known, willing her to feel the fight that was about to begin.
The clubhouse was still, the kind of quiet that eats at your insides and makes you feel like you're waiting for a storm.
Mama Celeste stood in the center, an island in a sea of leather and inked flesh.
She had set up her space with an air that said she'd done this a thousand times over, each object laid out with purpose.
Candles flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Herbs hung in the air, their scent sharp and earthy, setting my senses on edge.
"Circle 'round," she commanded, her voice slicing through the silence.
We formed a ring, our bodies tight with anticipation, watching as she traced symbols on the concrete floor with chalk, lines intersecting in ways that made my head ache if I stared too long.
It was like some ancient script, a language spoken before the wheel turned, before fire warmed cold hands.
She lit a brazier, the smoke curling upwards, twisting into shapes that seemed almost alive.
My heart hammered in my chest, each beat a drum calling us to witness the impossible.
I could feel it then, the ripple of belief spreading through the ranks, doubt eroding with every whispered incantation that slipped from Mama Celeste's lips.
"Esprits, écoutez ma voix," she chanted, her body swaying.
"Guide this lost soul back to the crossroads.
" The bikers around me, men who'd faced down guns and law alike without flinching, watched with eyes wide as innocence once lost. Even the hardest among us couldn't deny the power that hummed in the room, thick as the humidity before a hurricane hit.
She reached for Raven's still form, her fingers grazing her forehead, and murmured words too soft to catch.
The air crackled, static raising the hairs on my arms, a shiver running down my spine.
Raven's body jerked, just once, so slightly I thought I'd imagined it.
But no, there it was again, a twitch, a sign of life fighting against the darkness.
"Her spirit is strong," Mama Celeste declared, her gaze never leaving Raven. "She'll come back to us not as she was, but more. A walker between forms, a changer of skins."
My breath caught, the room spinning. Shapeshifting?
That was the stuff of legends, bedtime stories meant to scare kids straight.
But here, under the command of the priestess, anything seemed possible.
The guys exchanged looks, disbelief giving way to something wild, something hopeful.
If Raven–if any of us–could defy death, what else were we capable of?
"Shit," I muttered, the word a prayer, a curse. Our world had tilted, and there was no tilting it back. Raven would come back to us changed, and fuck if that didn't light a fire right in the pit of my soul.
"Believe," Mama Celeste whispered, and for the first time in a long time, I did. She nodded at me.
I hefted Raven's limp form in my arms, the weight of her body both a burden and a privilege.
The clubhouse was a silent tomb as I navigated the narrow hallway to my room, the door creaking open like it, too, felt the gravity of the moment.
As I laid her down on the rumbled sheets, I couldn't help but think how out of place she looked there—like a fallen angel amid the chaos of my existence.
The dim light from the bedside lamp cast shadows across her pale face, and for a moment, I allowed myself the luxury of imagining she was just sleeping, that any second now she'd stir and curse me for letting her catch a cold or something equally mundane. But reality was a bitch, and her chest remained still, too damn still. I pulled up a chair, the leather groaning under my weight. My gaze never left her face, tracing the lines and remembering every battle she’d fought beside me.
She'd always been tough as nails, with a fire in her eyes that could outshine the sun.
And now, Mama Celeste's words echoed in my head, promising a rebirth, a metamorphosis.
"Shapeshifting," I snorted under my breath, shaking my head. It sounded like some shit out of a comic book, but after everything I'd seen, I was starting to believe that maybe we lived in a world where the impossible didn't seem so far-fetched.
My fingers found hers, cold yet somehow still full of the fight she was known for.
I squeezed gently, a silent vow passing between us.
"You better come back to me, Raven. You hear me?
" My voice was nothing but a rough whisper, the kind of sound you make when you're not sure if you want to be heard or not.
Outside, the night pressed against the windows, the darkness trying to seep in, but I wasn't having any of that. Not tonight. Tonight was about holding onto that sliver of hope, that crazy chance that the woman I'd ride through hell for would wake up and call me an idiot for worrying.
"Live hard and die free," I muttered, the old biker mantra feeling different on my tongue this time. Because dying wasn't an option—not for Raven, not now. We had a new creed to live by, one that defied death itself and laughed in its face.
I leaned back in the chair, muscles aching from the day's violence and the tension of the ritual.
But I didn't close my eyes; I couldn't afford to miss a second.
So I sat there, my vigil a silent testimony to the love and determination that ran deeper than any cut or bruise.
And in the darkest hour of our lives, the promise of Raven's return became the beacon of hope that kept the shadows at bay.
"Come on, baby," I whispered into the stillness. "Show me those new tricks of yours."