Page 44 of Total Carnage
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 kidsstraight. 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."
Vin
Iwas sitting at Raven's bedside when the world outside the door seemed like nothing but a distant howl of wind. My eyes, shit, they were heavy—burning with the kind of fatigue that no amount of cheap whiskey or restless sleep could cure. But I didn't look away from her, not even for a second. Raven lay there still as death, pallid skin making her look like some ghost of the woman she used to be. And fuck, it tore through me like a barbed wire. A week had passed since I found her lying in her own blood. A week.
"Live hard and die free," that's what we always said. But watching her lying there, seeing her fight for every shallow breath, made me question if I was ready to let her do either. My chest was this tight knot, all wound up with concern, love, and anger that had no place to go. There was this war inside me, right? One side screaming to stay by her, the other barking orders about club shit that couldn't wait.
Finally, I stood up, joints cracking in protest. The clubhouse was quiet as a grave when I walked out of Raven's room, my boots echoing off the walls like some kind of damn judgment. The renovations were coming along, a testament to the Royal Bastards' ability to take a hit and swing back twice as hard. Plaster and sawdust, it smelled like change, like survival.
I strolled through the half-finished chaos, seeing the bones of what would be the new heart of our operations. Pride surged through me—a feral sort of satisfaction that we'd kept the wheels turning even while everything else went to hell. We were the sum of our scars, the club and me, and each new mark was a story of resilience.
"Built on blood and loyalty," I said to myself, running a hand over the new framework. Every nail, every board, it was a promise to the future, a big middle finger to anyone who thought they could tear us down, including Stansfield.
I pushed open the double doors, the hinges whispering secrets of a past long gone. The church meeting space spread out before me, its bones dressed in fresh wood and the sharp tang of paint hanging in the air like the ghost of progress. This was holy ground, not in the traditional sense, but for the Royal Bastards, it was sacred all the same. Every board laid down was a testament to our unity, every stroke of paint a line in the sand against those who'd see us broken.
"Damn," I murmured, my boots echoing against the new floor as I walked down the center aisle. The place still held that sanctified silence, the kind that made you want to confess your darkest sins or maybe just spill your guts about how screwed up life could be. But for us, for the club, it was more than that. It was where we'd come together, brothers in arms, standing shoulder to shoulder when the world outside wanted to chew us up and spit us out.
Leaving the echo of my steps behind, I drifted toward the bar area, the heart of many nights both wild and weary. It stood proud and fully stocked, a beacon of camaraderie amidst the chaos of our lives. My gaze swept over the bottles lined up like soldiers ready for battle, each one holding memories of revelry and whispered confessions shared over amber liquid and clinking glasses. A smirk tugged at my lips as fleeting thoughts danced through my mind—nights that bled into mornings, laughter ringing louder than the music, and the soft warmth of bodies pressed close in the dim light. There was a promise here, too, a silent oath that no matter how rough the ride got, we'd find our way back to this spot, to raise a glass to survival, to fallen comrades, to victories hard-won.
"Here's to the next chapter," I said to the empty room, a shot glass filled and lifted high. The spirit burned its way down, leaving a trail of fire that matched the one in my gut. As I set the glass down, my reflection stared back at me from the mirrored shelves—a man carved from life's brutal hands, yet unbroken. I knew then, as I looked at myself and this place we called ours, that we weren't just surviving. We were thriving, and nothing short of hellfire itself would change that.
I pushed off from the bar, the clink of glass fading behind me as I stepped into the pulse of the recreation area. The place was alive, humming with the sort of energy you could only find amongst family—the Royal Bastards kind. Pool balls cracked against each other like thunder in a clear sky, while laughter and banter wove through the air like smoke.
"Vin!" someone called out, but I just raised my hand without breaking stride. There'd be time for games and shit-talking later. Right now, I was here to soak it in—the refuge we'd carved out from the world's crap. Circling past a heated game of cards, I caught snippets of conversation—tales of rides and raids, lovelost and found. You couldn't bottle this kind of camaraderie, and why the hell would you want to? It was raw, unfiltered—like us.
A door at the far end caught my eye, freshly painted with a cartoonish mural that seemed almost too soft for the likes of us. Yet, as I stepped inside the childcare room, I couldn't help but feel the rightness of it. Tiny tables and chairs were scattered around, with bright toys and books lining the shelves. It was a pocket of innocence in a world often anything but, and damn if it didn't hit the spot. I ran a hand over a crib, the wood smooth beneath my calluses. We'd built this place for the next generation—our kids who'd one day understand what it meant to wear the patch. But until then, they'd have a safe haven to laugh and play, shielded from the storms their parents rode through daily.
"Good job, Vin," I muttered to myself, the pride swelling in my chest like a tide. We were more than our reputation; we were protectors, defenders of our own. And this room was a testament to that commitment, to the life we were fighting to provide. It was a promise etched in every toy, every book, every fucking crayon—that no matter how dark the roads we traveled, there'd always be light waiting at home for those who mattered most.
The worn leather of my cut creaked as I shifted, the clubhouse's stale air clinging to my skin like a second shadow. There was movement all around, the club thriving in its own chaotic symphony, but at that moment, it was just background noise. It was the calm before the storm, and I knew it. My phone buzzed against my thigh, an insistent vibration that spelled trouble or, at the very least, more shit to shovel.
