Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1112269.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Aiden/Lydia_Martin, Danny/Ethan, Allison_Argent/Isaac_Lahey
  Character:
      Lydia_Martin, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Isaac_Lahey, Aiden_(Teen
      Wolf), Ethan_(Teen_Wolf), Sheriff_Stilinski, Chris_Argent, Danny
      Mahealani, Agent_McCall, Melissa_McCall, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Hurt/Comfort, Action/Adventure, Magic, Celtic_Mythology_&_Folklore
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-31 Chapters: 2/? Words: 5944
****** Morrigan Ascendant ******
by paleogymnast
Summary
     Banshee. Bean sí. Woman of the sidhe. The wailing woman. For
     thousands of years Banshees have been the harbingers of death, the
     messengers from the Otherworld. They can see the future. Peer beyond
     the veil. And sometimes… a Banshee becomes something more.
     As Scott adjusts to his role as Alpha and the pack settles into the
     new status quo, Lydia begins a journey of discovery to explore her
     heritage. Her goal: to truly understand and master her abilities as a
     Banshee. But soon a shocking discovery leaves Lydia’s future in
     doubt. Soon the pack is rocked by two dueling enemies—one, an ancient
     power drawn back into the modern world through the newly powered
     Nemeton; the other, an FBI agent who is so much more than she
     seems—and it looks like both have their sights set on Lydia. Will
     Lydia and the pack find a path through the maze of her present to
     discover a future? Or will an ancient threat bring Beacon Hills–and
     the world—to its knees?
Notes
     This story was written for the 2013 Teen Wolf BigBang on Livejournal
     and thanks to the intervention of real life, almost didn't come
     together. I would like to thank the mods at Teen_Wolf-BB,
     chosenfire28 and veritas_st for running this wonderful challenge.
     I would also like to thank my beta, Carlos, for working through all
     my last-minute additions and rewrites. I have messed with this story
     since it left my beta's hands and all remaining errors are my own. As
     much as this story is supposed to be "final," I am still tinkering
     with it.
     Most of all, I would like to thank my wonderful artist dhfreak for
     the lovely and beautiful art. You should absolutely go check out the
     art master post on tumblr, here.
***** Prologue *****
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For almost one thousand years, she watched and waited as the world moved on
around her. Night gave way to day. Dawn gave way to dusk. And the world spun on
and on and on, just beyond her grasp, on the other side of the veil. Wars came
and went, empires rose and fell. In their suffering, humans cried out—echoes of
their pain and suffering crossed the void and rippled through the Otherworld,
but they did not turn to her. No the humans had abandoned the old ones in favor
of new gods and monsters. Shiny in their righteousness and invincible in their
science. And though they pleaded for help and strength in battle, and fought
for their lands and their freedom, their right to self-determination—the very
sovereignty she was sworn to protect, they did not think of her. Her name and
her true purpose were all but forgotten lost to the ages.
Her people left their emerald island, crossing Mannanan’s aquamarine realm
under the cerulean sky, and spread, traveling the world, settling down, and
starting new traditions. Farms gave way to cities. Sailing ships to airplanes.
Clan rivalries and pillaging invaders to alliances of nations and armies of
ideological conquest that spanned the entire world. She looked on as
skyscrapers stretched towards the stars and atomic bombs sent their mushroom
clouds towards the heavens. But still no one asked. No one remembered. No one
reached out.
Out of the pain and suffering a few turned back to the old ways, reimagined,
and not quite the same. They knew her name, spoke of her, but did not call out
to her, did not understand who she was. No one asked her to save their armies.
To fight at their side…
To cry for their dead…
To protect their land…
To give them strength. And so she remained on the other side with no one to
hear her battle cry, unable to exert her will.
Sometimes cracks appeared in the veil, and through them she could glimpse the
world, unfiltered. At times the cracks widened and conduits appeared, tethers
to the mortal realm, and on the other end were her daughters reborn.
They wailed for the dead, heard the whispers of the spirits, and honored their
passing. They could touch the Otherworld. Feel its power.
And sometimes… every once in a while, they would hear her voice. Heed her will.
Honor her memory.
They invited her in, but when she tried to move through them, the all too often
crumbled and died. Or lost themselves in the void.
And she despaired. Each daughter lost another tragedy. Over the years she
resigned herself to her fate. Forever would she be an observer. Unable to turn
away, yet unable to shape the world that had once welcomed her.
Until one day, when she appeared. A bright light of life, more than a spark of
potential, and wisdom and insight beyond her years. Lydia. She was joy and
grace and brilliance shining like a beacon. So young, and already touching the
lives of those around her.
The ancient one watched as Lydia learned and grew, through laughter and love
and pain and sorrow. She cried out in sympathy for Lydia’s pain when the Dark
One sunk his teeth into her flesh, waking the legacy within. But her sorrow was
short lived, because now Lydia was awakening. Another daughter. A Banshee. She
watched as Lydia cried for the dead. As she touched the spirits and listened to
their calls.
Her anger rose, boiling to a fury when the Dark One used Lydia to resurrect
himself, only to lose herself in rapturous joy as she watched Lydia save the
lost wolf, showing him his true nature, returning to him his identity.
As Lydia’s power grew and grew, so did her awareness of it. And the ancient one
began to think this is the one! ‘Lo though I have languished long, at last a
door shall be opened, and I shall return! But still she dared not make a move.
The memory of every daughter before her who had withered under the strain.
Another light—another life—snuffed out. Another soul lost wandering the
wilderness. What if Lydia was not strong enough? What if she was not ready?
Certainly she would allow the ancient one access to the world, let her cast the
die of fate one more time, but at what cost?
So she waited. Watching, hoping. And every day, the veil grew a little thinner,
and then a little more, until she could reach out and almost touch the mortal
realm, feel its air upon her skin and taste the sea spray upon her tongue.
In the dark of night they came. Wolves gone from the world almost as long as
her. With their sleek black coats and unnatural, glowing, green eyes, they
latched on to the Nemeton’s power renewed and burst forth, tearing through the
Veil. Spilling from the Otherworld and into the Mortal realm. The power of
three. Twelve paws with razor-sharp claws, three sets of snapping jaws, three
whipping tails, and three keen intellects. She saw them and knew their plans.
Their terrible purpose. Their resolve as steadfast and unyielding as her own.
She watched as they hunted and killed, tearing human and animal flesh alike,
every lost life a sacrifice to their seat of power, increasing their strength,
furthering their plan. The crunch of bone called out to her, a siren song
across the void, the iron tang of hot blood flooded her palate, and she
rejoiced in the battle… even as realization set in.
They would kill.
They would destroy.
They would raise an army of Old Ones long lost to the mortal world, and they
would lay it to waste.
They would challenge and conquer and cast out all who opposed them. Any who
stood in their way. Any who could be a threat.
She heard their chorus: We have waited long enough! While gone were we weaker
wolves walked the world, fighting wars with the humans. Destroying balance. The
Druids have betrayed our trust! It is time to cleanse this place. Restore
order. Bring back the old ways! The time has come for our kind to return! And
she could see the destruction their path would bring.
She watched as the Dark Huntress approached…
Before her ancient eyes, they turned as one and set their sights on the most
promising of her daughters… Lydia.
The time had come for her to make her move. Sooner rather than later, she would
return. She had no choice. And at last… the world would remember her name.
                                      ~~~
***** Chapter 1 (Lydia) *****
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Chapter 1 (Lydia)
The scream rang out like a shot in the night, only more ragged, more desperate.
The man’s voice broke off suddenly in an anguished gasp punctuated by a
terrifying growl that seemed to shake the ground.
The girl stumbled and fell, twigs and brush tearing at her hands, snagging her
track pants, scraping up her legs as she started to slide down the incline
behind her. She didn’t stop, just grabbed onto a branch, and pulled, regaining
her feet and stumbling on, even as the branch snapped and sliced into her palm.
In the distance, but not that far, she could hear crunching—she knew what it
was, but dare not think—followed by a resounding howl that seemed to echo all
throughout the forest, bouncing off the trees, reflecting in the sky, until it
was picked up by others. Two morevoicesjoined it, their howls raised in
harmony. A diminished minor chord of imminent evil and eerie unrest.
One note grew closer, and she could hear twigs snap behind her.
She couldn’t stop. She had to keep going. Had to keep running. Up the hill. Up.
It didn’t matter how steep it was. If she could get up the hill maybe she could
get away. Because she had too.
Far in the distance someone else screamed. More than one someone. It sounded
like little kids. She thought she heard a woman saying “no, no, not my baby!”
but the voice was distorted by distance and it was gone before she was really
surewhatshe’d heard.
Somewhere else, closer, but in the other direction, echoed one muffled cry
followed by the other, each stopped with the sound of a falling body followed
by the unmistakably pleased growl of a wolf. The sound made the hairs on the
back of her neck stand up and her heart thump impossibly faster against her
chest.
She slipped again, trying to scramble over some rocks, and fell, skidding down
into a shallow ravine earning more bruises and scratches as she fell. God why
did she ever come out here? Running in the Preserve at night. It was stupid,
and technically closed after sundown, but the animal attacks were over. There
hadn’t been any more mysterious deaths or bodies in months. There were still
Sheriff’s deputies and FBI agents poking around the school questioning people,
but the newspaper headlines said either the cops had apprehended the person
behind it or the serial killer had moved on. It was fine. It was safe. She was
going out and living her life. She’d had a phone. She’d hadfriendswith her.
But… but…
Another wolf howled.
She scrambled to her feet and started climbing up the far side of the ravine,
bloody hands and feet skidding in the dirt, as pine needles and pebbles stuck
to her, gouging into her wounds.
Someone else screamed. Farther away than before. Impossibly far and almost all
the way back to town. It was faint, but she could hear it and she just
shuddered with ever-rising fear.
She’d hadfriends, but now Sally and Ted were dead. Mauled!Tackled and dragged
to the ground. Throats ripped out. Bellies torn…
She gagged and spat at the thought. Bile coming and getting caught, stringy and
acidic on her lips. She’d already lost what little she’d had left in her
stomach twenty minutes ago, when she’d seen Sally’s intestines, loops and
whirls of glistening viscera dangling bloody from the lips of an impossible
large, black wolf. She’d tried to call for help. Dialed 911, but they were too
far out. There was still no signal despite all the debate about putting in a
new cell tower to make the Preserve safer for joggers. It didn’t matter. She’d
lost her phone anyway the first time she’d fallen.
She pushed it from her mind. Just keep climbing.
Hair stuck to her back, damp with sweat and the light misting rain that had
started up about five minutes before. It was cold, but still warm for February.
It had seemed like such a nice night for a run…
She reached the top of the embankment, grabbing onto a root with both bloody,
shaking hands to pull herself up. She stopped, panting, and listened. There was
no sound, just perfect, absolute silence. Not a rustling leaf, not a bird
(although in winter there weren’t many around). No screams. No howls. Not even
the rain made any noise as it landed, just this side of freezing, on the trees
above. If she hadn’t seen… hadn’t smelled…
A twig snapped and she whirled around, losing her balance and twisting her left
ankle, hard. She went down in a heap of surprised limbs, and as she fell, she
saw them. Two, enormous,glowingeyes, green like emeralds against the night sky.
“No!” she whispered, crab-walking backwards.Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.She was
going to die. No. She was not going to die. Not here. She’d run away before.
Ankle be damned! She could do this. She pulled herself to her feet and set off,
not taking her eyes off the wolf until she was already moving.
Only she’d misjudged where she was. Rather than running towards the end of the
Preserve that had a soft slope that eased its way back towards the road into
town, she’d come out somewhere in the middle—not quite to the sheer cliff where
the Beacon river carved its way into a gorge that separated much of the
preserve from the town proper, but in between, where the hill was too steep to
comfortably walk down, and the only thing keeping the entire hillside from
giving way to erosion and sliding into the valley below were the trees, spindly
and rough, whose roots clung to the soil, holding it in place. The last step
had taken her to the edge without knowing it. It was too late to stop, her bad
left leg already coming down, over the edge, her injured ankle crumpling as her
foot connected with the ground. She put her hands out to brace her fall,
flailing out with her right leg, hoping to catch something. A root. A branch.
Hell a fucking pricker-bush for all she cared. Just catch something.Anything!
But it was too late. She was already falling ass over teakettle down the other
side.
She felt her arm snap. Blinding pain followed by nausea and shock as she saw
the white of bone glistening through the mist. Her right leg was next. It hit
one of the bigger tree trunks as she rolled and bounced her away, cracking in
the process. She tried to roll tighter into a ball, to protect herself, but
then there was dirt in her eyes and thorns tearing at her face, and she felt
something stab and tear and she couldn’t really see… but maybe it was just the
blood. Falling seemed to go on forever. It wasn’t possible, in the tiny
conscious part of her mind that wasn’t already consumed in fear and agony, she
knew that. But it felt like she fell longer than she had run. At last she was
rolling slower and slower and slower until she came to a stop with a crunch as
she slammed into a boulder at the bottom of the slope, ribs breaking as she
collided.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see properly. And she didn’t even want to
try to move. She couldn’t call for help. When she died. There would be no
scream. The wind had been knocked out of her long before, and even when she
managed a stuttering gasp, it was only to feel something tear in her chest. She
was choking. Choking. Suffocating.
Grrrrrrr!
The growl came from over her shoulder, she snapped her head back, blinking as
best she could no matter how impossible and inadvisable it was.
A dark grey wolf, green eyes glowing, stood only feet away.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!
The sound to her right snapped her head around, forcing a strangled moan past
her lips as the movement smacked her head into the bolder. On top of the rock
stood another wolf. Teeth bared. Blood dripping from its jaws, as it scented
the air leaning ever closer to her battered body. Tongue flicking against its
fangs less than a foot from her face.
Two of them! She could never. But she couldn’t die. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.
Snufft!
Her head turned back towards the hillside much more slowly. That subtle snort
infinitely more terrifying than the pain or the two wolves already inches from
her. She blinked again, slowly, her eyelids not really working as blood and
dirt ground against her already scratched corneas making her vision painful and
blurry.
She didn’t need perfect vision to make out the sight that greeted her.
Pitch black. Darker than a starless sky on the new moon, crouched on all fours,
jaws open, emerald eyes growing brighter than a traffic light, massive paws wet
with mud and blood, claws flexed, stood the third wolf. The one she’d been
running from when she’d fallen. It washereunhurt. Completely unfazed by the
slope. If she’d known it wasn’t impossible, she would have sworn it was
grinning at her. Laughing at her for falling for its trap. Pleased for being
such a pleasurable hunt. An enjoyable kill.
And that’s what she was. Akill. Though her heart still beat and her brain was
still conscious, she was undoubtedly dead. She knew it. It just hadn’t quite
caught up with her yet. Because there was no way out of this one. No huntsman
to slay the wolf. No one to hear her cries. No bigger monster to jump out of
the woods and distract these monstrous beasts from devouring her. And even if
they did… even if there was some white knight to come and save her… she was
dead anyway. There was no way her injuries were survivable. Not this far out.
Still she managed to whisper, “No!” bubbles of blood forming on her lips as the
third wolfleapt. Its claws tearing into her belly—burning agony until suddenly
there was no more pain. No more feeling. The wolf was standing on her howling,
triumphantly. But she could no longer hear.
Its teeth bared again. Its emerald eyes met hers. It seemed surprised to find
life there, recognition in her mangled face instead of glassy, unseeing
nothingness. It smiled again and then struck. Teeth tearing into her throat.
Ripping. Taking the last of her air away chomping in its jaws. Devouring her.
Dying. Dying. She was dead. She didn’t want to go. Yet she wanted to be so far
from here as fast as possible. She didn’t care what happened to her as long as
she could just go.
Her second to last thought was actually a vision. As her sight greyed out
around the edges, feathered and blackening like a photo vignette, she could
have sworn she saw a woman—tall and beautiful, red-headed, pale-skinned, and
naked—rather than a wolf, standing over her body, the crescent moon peeking
between the clouds, just visible over her shoulder.
Her last thought came after the light had left her. She was drifting. Going.
Spreading out. Out. Out… faraway. No longer living, but not quite fully
detached from her already-cooling corpse. No one will find me. How will anyone
find me? Please, someone, find my body!she wished desperately, crying out
through the ether.
As she drifted away, she thought she felt something—a flare of brilliant
light—recognize her, hear her call. Reassuring. She would be found. She knew
it. And she could let go.
Five miles away, on the other side of Beacon Hills, Lydia Martin screamed.
                                      ~~~
The first thought Lydia had as she came back to awareness was ow! Fuck her
throat hurt. Everything was hazy, the room seemed to throb around her in time
with the pounding of her heart. She couldn’t really remember what had happened
except she must have been screaming. Not normal person screaming, but wailing.
The cry of a banshee. Living up to her supernatural identity in all its
gruesome glory.
Next Lydia realized she was sitting bolt upright in bed. She’d been sleeping.
She was pretty sure of that. Her room was dark, only one of her bedside lamps
on. She was even wearing pajamas. The books she’d been studying earlier in the
evening were neatly stacked on the floor next to her bed.
She was shaking. Trembling head to toe and soaked in sweat. Her head was
pounding. Lydia brought her right hand to her temple, trying to massage some of
the pain away, but the tremor in her fingers was so strong couldn’t hold her
hand steady. She just wound up poking herself in the eye, so she dropped her
hands to her lap, wringing them as she tried to shake out the tension.
It wasn’t working.
“Ow,” she whispered aloud this time, or tried to, because her voice broke, and
she started hacking. She brought one hand up to cover her mouth and it came
away wet. The light was still dim, but she could tell the dark, glistening
fluid on her hand was blood.
She had screamed her throat bloody.
It all came back in a rush. The terror. Running. Wolves. Friends dying.
Howling. Fear. Desperation. Pain. So much pain. Hope and loss and surprise.
Falling… falling… falling… and finally, the certainty of death.
“Oh, god,” Lydia sobbed, drawing her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms
around herself, and rocking. “Oh god. No,” she cried. Everything the girl had
lived through—her loss and panic and agony was playing out behind Lydia’s eyes
like a silent film clip looping on repeat again and again and again. The second
it finished it started up again at the beginning. Everything she had lived
through, Lydia could feel it as if the emotions were her own.
Lydia brought shaking hands up to her face, and pawed at the tears that were
streaming freely now, she sniffled, sure snot was dripping down her
face—lovely—but she couldn’t really care, because, oh god it was too much—
And before she knew what she was doing, she had more or less fallen out of bed,
stumbled across her room and into the bathroom, and found herself on her knees,
clutching the toilet as she vomited. The entire contents of her stomach
depositing itself depositing itself in the toilet in one go.
It wasn’t just one body waiting to be found. Not just one person dead, but a
dozen, at least, she realized as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand
and white knuckled her way off her knees, pulling herself up to standing.
Come on, Lydia, she prodded herself. Flush the toilet. Get your toothbrush.
Toothpaste. This is easy. Except it wasn’t. Her hands jittered and juked around
so she missed the toothbrush, squeezing toothpaste into the sink twice, before
she finally just smeared it on her finger, stuck her finger in her mouth and
then introduced the brush. Still, she kept sobbing and had to stop brushing her
teeth a half dozen or so times to avoid choking, wipe the tears away from her
nose so she didn’t feel like she was drowning, or just steady herself on the
counter.
She didn’t dare look in the mirror. She didn’t care if her eyes were puffy and
swollen or her face was streaked with tears. She didn’t care if she looked like
crap, death warmed over, sweat-drenched and exhausted. No, she was terrified
she’d see the dead girl’s lifeless eyes staring back at her.
Find me. Please.
The request snapped Lydia out of her head. She set down the toothbrush, pressed
her hands down on the counter and looked up. For a split second, the girl was
staring back at her, begging. It was just like Peter in the window. Only the
girl’s eyes were warm and brown and distinctly human, and she wasn’t asking
Lydia to resurrect her, only to find her body. Lay her to rest. Make sure
everyone knew what happened to her so she wouldn’t be alone anymore.
Lydia spat. Blinked. And for a moment the girl was replaced by a black wolf
with glowing green eyes. Blink. A pale woman with red hair, brighter and darker
than Lydia’s, and the same glowing green eyes was staring back at her.
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked, so loud and sudden, Lydia jumped and
dropped her tooth brush in the sink. “Holy sh—shit,” she stammered when she’d
righted herself, her voice still not cooperating. Lightning flashed again
followed by the sudden rush of a down poor. The window thumped open prompting
Lydia to turn and look. There, crystal clear through a break in the clouds was
the distinct shape of the crescent moon. “What—the hell?” Lydia asked aloud.
Werewolves didn’t have green eyes. And very few of them could actually shift
into full wolf form. And since when did werewolves go on a rampage when the
moon was almost as far from full as it could get?
She turned back to the mirror and saw the girl staring back at her. This time
her face was torn and bloody, her eyes empty, fixed and glassy in death. “Find
me, please,” the girl in the mirror repeated to Lydia.
“I’m coming. Promise,” she said aloud.
Her affirmation seemed to do the trick. The dead girl seemed to nod, as
impossible as that was with her mangled neck, and faded from view.
“Fuck!” Lydia spat as she finished brushing her teeth, rinsed out her mouth,
and splashed water on her face trying to soothe some of the haunted look from
her eyes and bring color back into her cheeks. It was pretty pointless though.
No matter how hot the water was, it could only do so much to help with salt-
irritated skin, dilated capillaries, and inflamed conjunctiva.
Knowing the biology of it didn’t help her feel any better.
I need a shower, she thought. Hell no, who was she kidding. She needed a hot
bath, a valium, a glass of red wine, and a silent dark room in which to sleep
off the raging migraine that was currently rampaging through her skull and
threatening to ruin the valiant effort she’d made at getting her mouth to not
smell and taste like death.
That wasn’t going to happen though.
Lydia was still learning how to be a banshee, still trying to understand what
that meant, what she could do, but ever since Jennifer—the Darach—had so kindly
given a name to what Lydia was— Before she tried to strangle me and slit my
throat!
Lydia found her hand drifting to trace over the long-faded and healed bruises
from the garrote.
—Well ever since she’d had a name for what she was, Lydia had been researching
and training. Mostly working with Stiles and Deaton and starting to figure out
how the whole Banshee gig worked. It was better. At she wasn’t being driven
like a puppet on autopilot every time someone died in a particularly gruesome
and/or supernatural way. Now, at least, she had enough control to pull herself
together, before that part happened. And she’d learned how to be more conscious
of her mind’s openness to the recently, soon-to-be, and violently departed.
Like tonight, she was able to remember what she’d seen—even if right now a part
of her wished she could forget every single moment of it, it was helpful for
the pack. For law enforcement. For giving the dead closure.
Shaking herself, Lydia went back to cleaning herself up. Reached out and
flipped the door of the vanity open and pulled out the Maxalt and the Advil as
she reached out to fill a cup with tap water. She gulped down the Advil with a
water chaser before dropping the Maxalt on her tongue to dissolve.
She still hadn’t shaken the headaches, and it wasn’t clear from their research
yet if those would eventually go away, or not. As it turned out banshees were
rare and even Deaton’s considerable resources, Danny’s hacking, and Stiles’s
Google-fu only helped so much. But at least now she had something to actually
address the pain rather than just popping ibuprofen like candy and still
suffering.
All in all it was getting better. This time she hadn’t even clawed her palms
open. She hadn’t punched any mirrors recently either—although that probably had
more to do with having moved her mirrors to less accessible places after
Peter—she shuddered at the thought—had led her to tear the hell out of her
knuckles last year.
But there were some things she couldn’t stop. Like automatic writing—drawing
the Nemeton over and over and over again, for example—if a spirit needed her to
find its body, then she was going to get there and it was going to lead her.
Putting it off, just made it more traumatic in the long run.
Steeling herself, she flicked off the light, and staggered back to her bed.
Phone. She had to find her phone.
Times like this, she hated being alone, she thought wistfully, as she fumbled
through her bedside tables looking for her phone. She’d give almost anything to
have some comfort. Another living soul to talk to. Hold her hand. But as luck
would have it. Her mom was on a business trip and Aiden hadn’t spent the night.
Their physics midterms were tomorrow and she’d wanted to study and oh hell that
was going to suck big hairy balls.
She found her phone. Promptly dropped it—her hands weren’t exactly steady—and
managed to get it settled on the bed.
2:00 a.m.
Oh yeah. She should be getting this wrapped up right about the time she was
supposed to be in home room.
Fuck!
Once again, she wished Aiden was here.
Then again, if she’d screamed as long and as loud as she was pretty sure she
had, she probably would have blown his eardrums out. They would have healed,
but still… Banshee wails were particularly hard on sensitive werewolf ears. As
it was, she’d be very, very lucky if every werewolf in Beacon County hadn’t
heard her. On most days, having the burned out husk of the Hale house as her
closest neighbor wasn’t exactly a comfort, but it did have its advantages.
At least it was less likely someone would call the cops.
Right. Cops. Dead body. Lots of dead bodies and some kind of wolves killing
them and one of the dead needed her.
She tried again, got the phone in her hands, queued up the requisite speed
dial, and held the phone to her ear.
“Lydia?” came Stiles’s voice through the receiver. She didn’t want to think
about how he sounded more relieved than groggy or surprised to see her calling
so late. Early. Late.
“Stiles?” she was saying. And damn it! she was crying again.
“Lydia, what happened? I—I know something’s wrong. Scott and Allison and I, we
all felt it. Something… something bad happened with the Nemeton, but that was a
while ago. And my dad just got called in by dispatch, and I what I heard—and
I’m. Just. Lydia? Are you there?”
“Stiles,” she said again, but this time it was a sob. And then the words
started flowing, and she couldn’t make them stop. She was still present, kind
of like the time Stiles had tried automatic writing to help them find Dr.
Deaton and she’d started drawing the Nemeton and she’d known she was drawing a
tree, she just didn’t know why or that it was important . She knew what she was
saying. She knew why she was saying it. But it was kind of on autopilot. She
kept on crying—nothing was going to stop them until they were done—and she kept
on talking, even though her throat was raw and sore and she could barely form
words. She knew Stiles could hear her.
When she came back to herself, fully present, fully in control, Stiles was
asking her a question—“I mean we can check with Derek or Deaton, but are you
sure it was green eyes? Are you sure it was wolves, ‘cause this kind of
violence it’s kind of odd since it’s nowhere near the full moon?”
“She saw wolves. Big. Scary. Full-on wolves with tails and jaws and fur. They
had green eyes that glowed. And from what I saw the wolves turned into women.
Or at least one did. I—I don’t know if they’re werewolves. But they appeared to
be some sort of lupine therianthropes and—can we do 20 questions later
because—” She didn’t have to finish.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Lydia. Sorry we can talk in the morning. I’ll get the phone
tree going. Call Allison. Send her to sit with you. Just get some rest.”
“I—I can’t. I have to go out there,” she insisted.
“No, no Lydia. You are not going out into the woods in the dark of night with
some psycho not werewolves out there hunting down and murdering people. Someone
heard screams. Called the cops. Police scanner said two bodies right about the
time my dad left. Just—just let the police find the bodies for once,” Stiles
pleaded.
“Stiles, I—I can’t. She needs me. I promised. The—where she fell. They’ll never
find her. Or it will be weeks—it’s—it’s raining so hard the scent is going to
be gone. The dogs won’t smell her, and rain’s gonna wash away the tracks. She
was so far—so far from the others. She almost got out…” Lydia realized, almost
dropping the phone in her shock.
“Shit,” she heard Stiles whisper. It was muffled, like he was holding his hand
over the phone and trying not to be heard. She could see him in her mind’s eye,
he was pacing, obviously. And he’d probably just run his hand through his hair
so it was ruffled and sticking up in odd angles. He would be wiping his hand
down his face, holding his jaw and working it back and forth while he tried to
think of a way out.
“She needs me,” Lydia repeated instead.
“Can’t you wait until it’s light out at least? Go after school? Or call in sick
if you have to. But go when it’s daylight? Get some sleep first?”
Lydia sniffed, phone rattling against her cheek as her hands started shaking
again. “I’m not going to be able to sleep anytime soon. And if I did, the
Banshee would just take over, and I’d come to in the middle of the Preserve
standing over a mangled torn up body all alone. So no. This can’t wait.”
“Well at least wait for Allison.” His voice echoed like he’d put her on speaker
phone. “I just texted her. She got it. She was up anyway. I’m letting Scott
know what’s going on. Just—just sit tight until Allison gets there, okay. Don’t
go out on your own.” Stiles sounded genuinely scared.
Lydia wondered idly if it was her description or whatever he’d felt earlier
that had him so on edge.
“Lydia? Did you hear me? Please don’t go out on your own, okay. Are you—are you
going to lose control before Allison gets there because if you are, I’m not
letting you get off the phone. I’ll have my dad send a squad car, or—”
“I’ll be okay,” Lydia stammered in a tone that said just how okay she was not,
“I—I can hang on a little longer, but—tell Allison to hurry because this one’s
insistent.”
“She’s already on her way. Going out the door. She just texted me,” Stiles
answered. “Just sit tight and call me if you start to slip. Okay? Call me.
Don’t fall without someone there to catch you,” he added.
That was what they’d started calling it—if Lydia went too long without
acknowledging her Banshee impulses she would fall into a fugue state just like
she had for the first time after Peter attacked her. Even now she could feel
the spirit’s insistence, the dead woman desperate for her attention, her echo
hanging on so hard, pulling on Lydia, it was growing harder and harder to hang
on. But.
But, I can do it.
“Tell her to drive safe. I’ll keep ‘til she gets here,” Lydia answered.
Stiles gave a little “hmm” over the line that didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“I promise.”
“Okay, just call me if—”
“I will,” Lydia affirmed, as she curled herself into a ball to wait for
Allison. “Just take care of everybody, okay.”
“I will,” Stiles answered. “Gotta go now. Allison will be there in 10.”
And the connection clicked and once again, Lydia Martin, Banshee, was alone
with the dead.
                                      ~~~
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