Chapter 9: Pact of Three
The alley was quiet again, the only sound the soft rustle of trash and the low moan of the wind. Peterson lay unconscious, the green glow of the medallion slowly fading beneath his shirt. Jean-Daniel stood over him, chest heaving, knees trembling.
The Galipots were still alive—but barely. Burned, broken, and terrified, they limped away into the dark, dragging their wounded bodies toward the edge of the nearby forest. None of them dared look back.
Jean-Daniel dropped to his knees beside Peterson. "Yo. Hey. Wake up, man." He gently shook him, but Peterson didn't respond.
"Damn it," Jean-Daniel muttered. He glanced around, then hoisted Peterson onto his back, gritting his teeth. "You better be light, bro."
It wasn't an easy walk.
He carried Peterson through the narrow backstreets, avoiding anyone who might ask questions. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His shoulder throbbed, his ribs ached, but something kept him going—maybe adrenaline, maybe friendship. Maybe fear.
By the time he reached Peterson's house, the sky was beginning to pale with the first hints of dawn. He climbed the fence, struggled to balance with Peterson over his shoulder, and finally reached the bedroom window.
It creaked open.
Jean-Daniel slipped inside, stumbling as he lowered Peterson onto the bed.
Across the room, Amanda and Miranda lay perfectly still in their shared bed, facing the wall.
But their eyes were wide open.
They watched silently as Jean-Daniel wiped sweat from his forehead, looked at Peterson for a long second, then climbed back out the window.
Once the window clicked shut, Amanda whispered, "Was that Jean-Daniel?"
Miranda nodded. "With Peterson on his back."
They didn't say another word.
---
The Next Morning
Peterson stirred. His body felt like lead. His muscles ached. His head was cloudy, like he'd been swimming through dreams too thick to escape.
He blinked at the ceiling.
Then sat up, slowly.
Pain flared along his side, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it should've been.
"What… happened?" he whispered.
Bits and pieces came back. The fight. The Galipots. Jean-Daniel yelling. The medallion's voice.
The pact.
He remembered agreeing to something—but then it all went blank.
He reached under his pillow. The medallion was there. Cold. Silent.
Just then, a sound at the window.
He turned in time to see Jean-Daniel trying to climb in, one leg stuck halfway through.
Behind him, Wilkens peeked in nervously.
"Yo," Peterson croaked.
Jean-Daniel slipped and fell in with a grunt. "You're alive!" he said, grinning. "And not glowing anymore."
Wilkens climbed in carefully, eyes wide. "You okay?"
Peterson nodded slowly. "I think. Everything hurts… but I'm okay. Kinda dizzy."
Jean-Daniel flopped into the chair beside the bed. "You blacked out. I had to carry you back here like a fireman. I deserve a medal."
"Wait," Peterson said, sitting up straighter. "How are you even moving? That thing had you against the wall."
Jean-Daniel lifted his shirt. "Not a scratch. It's like whatever power exploded out of you healed me too. Man, it was insane. You floated. Your skin turned dark like coal, your hair went snow white, and there were these glowing symbols all over you. Veves or something."
Wilkens blinked. "Wait… what?"
Jean-Daniel looked over at him. "Right. You missed the whole horror show."
Wilkens sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with his hands. "So… what exactly happened?"
Jean-Daniel rubbed his face. "We got attacked by Galipots. Real ones. Like, walking-on-two-legs, growling-nightmare-level real. Peterson got slashed up bad. And then the medallion—" he pointed, "—it went full voodoo explosion. Levitating, glowing symbols, green fire, the works. Peterson turned into some kind of goddamn spirit warrior."
Wilkens turned pale. "And you're sure it wasn't just a fever dream?"
Peterson shook his head. "I remember the voice. It said if I let it possess me one day a week, it'd give me power."
"You agreed to that?" Wilkens said, alarmed. "You let something possess you?!"
"I didn't really have a choice," Peterson said. "Jean-Daniel was about to get killed. I just… said yes."
Wilkens stood and started pacing. "This is bad. This is really bad. Spirits don't make casual deals, man. They always want something big."
Jean-Daniel nodded. "Yeah, but it saved us. We'd be dead if he hadn't said yes."
Peterson looked down at the medallion. "We need to find out more. About the spirit. The loa. The pact."
Jean-Daniel crossed his arms. "We go back to the old lady?"
Wilkens shook his head. "She already said too much. If this thing really is one of the exiled loa, the Zobop… it's not just local legend. It's something older. Darker. We need books. Records. Temple scrolls. Maybe even someone in Port-au-Prince."
Peterson met both their eyes. "Then we figure it out. Together. I'm not doing this alone."
Jean-Daniel nodded. "You saved my life. I'm in."
Wilkens hesitated. Then nodded too. "Fine. I'm in. But if you start speaking in tongues or floating around the room, I'm running."
Jean-Daniel laughed. "You'd leave me behind?"
"Absolutely."
Peterson smiled faintly. But the seriousness returned just as quickly.
"Let's make a promise," he said. "From now on, whatever happens—whatever we find—we stick together. No secrets. No lies."
Jean-Daniel held out his fist. "Deal."
Wilkens did the same. "Deal."
Peterson bumped his knuckles against theirs. "Deal."
And in that quiet room, the three boys—bound by fear, fate, and friendship—sealed a pact of their own.
Whatever was coming next… they would face it together.
End of Chapter 9