Page 43 of Total Carnage
“Vin,” Toolie said.
“No. Get the fuck back,” I said.
My hands hovered over her, afraid to touch, to confirm the cold truth that seemed to mock the heat of the battle raging just moments before. Raven, my tempest, my equal in every way that counted, reduced to this silent form. It was a blow that reached deep, tearing through the fabric of who I thought I was. The untouchable outlaw, the relentless avenger. For all my brute force, for all the violence I commanded, I was powerless to protect the one person who'd managed to carve a place in the fortress of my heart.
"Fuck... Raven." My voice was a ragged edge tearing through the eerie quiet. If she could hear me, if there were any justice in this godforsaken world, she'd open those fierce eyes and tell me to stop being such a melodramatic asshole. But the room remained silent, and the only thing looking back at me was a loss, staring me down with a challenge I had no idea how to meet.
Time stopped, or maybe it just got damn tired of moving. In the stillness of that room, with Raven lying there like she was carved out of midnight and ice, my world crumbled. I knelt beside her, my fingers brushing a lock of dark hair from her face—a gesture so tender it felt like betrayal, like admitting defeat.
"Should've been me," I cried to no one. My chest felt like it was caving in, each breath a battle. I stared at her, half-expecting her to sit up and laugh at how easily she'd played me. But she didn't move, and that stillness—it clawed at me, a physical thing.
"Vin." Moab's voice cut through the silence like the roar of our bikes on the open road. "Stansfield slipped the net."
I blinked, letting his words sink in. The silence shattered, replaced by a white-hot fury that seared through my veins. All the pain, the helplessness, funneled into a singular purpose: Stansfield would pay for this. No more games, no more fucking around.
"Then we hunt," I growled, rising to my feet. My heart was a grenade with the pin pulled, ready to explode. "We hunt, and we don't stop until he's as cold as she is."
"Damn straight," Moab said, his eyes reflecting the same fire burning within me.
I scooped Raven up, her body light in my arms, like she was made of shadows and mist instead of flesh and blood. My hands, rough from years of wrenching on bikes and throwing punches, cradled her with a tenderness that felt foreign yet right. I'd always thought of strength as something to wield, a force to lay down the law or to protect the club. But there, at that moment, strength was a silent prayer, a plea to hold together what was broken.
"Stay with me, Raven," I muttered, the words rasping against the lump in my throat. The chaos I'd embraced my whole life melted into stark clarity, every step purposeful as I carried her through the decimated corridors of Stansfield's fortress, now just another tomb.
The night air hit me like a slap, the stench of blood and gasoline a sharp contrast to the sterile tang of death inside. My boots crunched over debris, the sounds of sirens and distant shouting fading against the beat of my heart, thudding loudly in my ears. I wasn't supposed to feel shit like this—not the pain, not the hollow rip in my chest where fury used to be.
"Vin." Her voice sliced through the disarray, calm as the eye of a storm. Mama Celeste stood at the edge of the chaos, an anchor in a sea gone mad. Her amber eyes locked onto mine, seeingthrough the cracks in my armor. "Bring her to me," she said, her Creole accent thick, wrapping the words in layers of meaning.
"Can you fix this?" I demanded, the raw scrape of grief lacing my voice. This woman, shrouded in mystery and whispers of old magic, was my last shot.
"Cher, some things are beyond even my touch. But there is a path for her yet," she replied, her voice steady, a thread of steel woven through silk. "Set her down."
I laid Raven at Mama Celeste's feet, the concrete cold and unforgiving beneath her. The mystic knelt, her braids trailing in the dirt, bones, and beads clicking softly. She lifted a hand, hovering it above Raven's still form, fingers twitching in rhythm to some ancient cadence.
"Watch and learn, Vin Reed. The world's got more shadows than even you can chase," she murmured, her gaze never leaving Raven's pale face.
"Teach me, then," I spat back, the challenge in my voice a match for the defiance in her eyes. I'd walk through hellfire if it meant bringing Raven back, turning the tide on a fate that had no right to claim her.
"Patience," she answered simply, the corner of her mouth lifting in a cryptic smile. "Your road is long, biker. And this is but the first turn."
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 thatsaid 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.
