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Chapter 9 - Pact in the Shadows

Chapter 8: Pact in the Shadows

The flickering candlelight inside the old woman's home in Cité Vincent cast jagged shadows on the mud walls. The air was thick with incense smoke, and every inch of the room seemed to hum with spiritual weight. Peterson sat stiffly on a straw mat, the medallion clenched in his hand. The whispers from it hadn't stopped since they'd arrived.

Jean-Daniel sat beside him, glancing around uneasily. The old woman shuffled over, a large scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders, her eyes milky but intense with knowledge. She poured steaming herbal tea into handmade clay cups and sat across from them.

"You came just in time," she said, her voice raspy but steady. "That object you carry is no ordinary trinket. It's the mark of the Zobop."

Jean-Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Zobop? You mean the ghost stories?"

"No stories," she snapped. "History. Painful, buried history."

She gestured to a tattered book on her shelf, pulling it down with trembling hands. She opened it to a page filled with veve symbols and faded ink drawings of figures cloaked in smoke.

"The Zobop were once men and women who wanted more. More than life could offer. They turned to spirits outside the traditional lwa, spirits exiled for their chaos and defiance. These beings offered the Zobop great power—but demanded blood, obedience, and access to the world of the living."

She pointed to the medallion. "That… is their key. A gate. With it, the boundary between our world and the spiritual realm blurs. The whispers you hear? They're not dreams. They're summons."

Peterson leaned forward, his grip tightening. "Why me?"

"You were chosen," she said simply. "Sometimes by fate. Sometimes by curse. But once it begins, there is no going back."

Jean-Daniel leaned back. "So what happens if he just throws it away?"

"Then it returns," she said. "To him. In dreams. In objects. In people. The spirit it belongs to has tasted his essence. It won't release him so easily."

She handed Peterson a small pouch filled with ash, bone fragments, and a red-threaded charm. "You must keep this on you at all times. It won't stop the whispers—but it will keep the lesser shadows at bay."

"And the stronger ones?" Peterson asked.

She didn't answer.

As they got up to leave, she placed a hand on Peterson's arm. "Be careful tonight. The gate is opening wider. The Galipot are drawn to its scent. They will hunt what they believe is unguarded power."

Jean-Daniel scoffed. "Galipot? You mean those werewolf things?"

"Not werewolves," she corrected. "Men who gave themselves to cursed spirits. They can only transform at night, and they hunger for soulbound blood."

Peterson nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in.

The Walk Home

The boys stepped out into the night, the city dim and quiet. Streetlights flickered as if warning them to stay put. Every sound in the distance felt amplified—dogs barking, the screech of tires, the rattle of wind through tin roofs.

"Man, that was heavy," Jean-Daniel said. "Why do these spirit types always have the most dramatic way of explaining stuff?"

"She wasn't joking," Peterson replied. "You felt it in there."

They passed the closed gate of a mechanic shop, stepping onto a narrower alley as a shortcut.

That's when they heard it.

A low growl. Rumbling. Wet.

Something scraped against the walls.

Jean-Daniel froze. "Please tell me that was a dog."

Peterson slowly turned. "Dogs don't stand upright."

Out from behind a trash pile stepped a creature—its legs canine, but its torso disturbingly human. Muscles pulsed under coarse black fur. Its face was elongated with sharp, dripping teeth and red glowing eyes. It walked on two legs like a man.

Another shadow detached from the wall. A second Galipot. Then a third, hunched and twitching.

"Run?" Jean-Daniel whispered.

"Too late," Peterson muttered.

The first Galipot lunged.

Peterson yanked Jean-Daniel aside just in time. The beast crashed into metal bins. The other two circled fast. The boys grabbed anything they could—wood, bottles, rocks.

They swung wildly.

Jean-Daniel cracked one across the jaw with a plank, but it didn't even flinch.

Peterson jabbed at another's chest with a rebar, but the creature caught it, snarled, and backhanded him into a wall.

His vision spun. Blood trickled from his nose. His ribs screamed.

Jean-Daniel tried to pull him up, but one Galipot tackled him to the ground.

Another slashed at Peterson's side, tearing through his shirt and skin. He fell hard, gasping.

The medallion pulsed in his pocket.

Then, the voice came.

"Call my name and I shall lend you my strength. Accept to make a pact with me by letting me possess your body for a day every week."

The words boomed through his skull, louder than ever.

Peterson looked over. Jean-Daniel was on the ground, a claw raised over his chest. The creature was ready to kill him.

"I…" Peterson coughed. "I accept the contract…"

The medallion exploded in green light.

Wind howled. The alley flickered like lightning cracked through it.

Peterson's body lifted off the ground, levitating.

His skin darkened—deep black, like coal under pressure.

His hair turned bone white.

Ancient veve patterns glowed across his chest, back, arms, and face like holy runes.

His eyes flared with brilliant green fire.

The Galipot hissed and backed away.

Peterson hovered, then landed gently. His wounds healed instantly, glowing briefly before sealing shut.

He took one step forward—and the ground cracked beneath him.

The Galipot attacked.

He met them mid-air.

With a roar, Peterson's fist collided with the first creature's jaw, sending it hurtling through a wall.

The second slashed at him—he caught the claw mid-swing and crushed its wrist. Then with a spinning kick, he launched it skyward into a streetlight.

Jean-Daniel lay stunned, watching as his best friend—no, something more than his friend—fought with divine precision.

The last Galipot lunged, fangs bared.

Peterson raised a glowing hand.

A green blast erupted from his palm, engulfing the monster. It wailed as its form collapsed into ash and smoke.

Breathing heavily, Peterson turned to Jean-Daniel.

But then his eyes rolled back. The glow faded.

And he collapsed.

End of Chapter 8

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