Archive of Our Own

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    Lydia sits on the edge of her bed with Malia and Kira fanned out on either side of her.  The girls have been furiously packing Lydia’s wardrobe since two in the afternoon, and by five, they succumb to the exhaustion of the task.

    “I didn’t know it was possible to own that many dresses,” Kira says with unhidden wonder.

    “I used to have a shopping problem,” Lydia says.

    “You do realize that was just the closet, right?”  Malia says with both her eyes closed.  “We haven’t even gotten to the dressers yet.”

    “An extreme shopping problem,”  Lydia elaborates with a shrug.

    “Well,” Kira says with a deep stretch, “let’s get back to it then.  The party’s at eight and we still need to get ready.”

    The three girls divide the task into it’s efficient separate parts;  Malia assembles the boxes, Kira stacks the clothing, and Lydia fills and labels each packed box.  The kitsune pulls out a turquoise sweater with a black heart design and holds it up for Lydia to see.

    “This one’s so cute, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it,” Kira says with a smile.  “It goes great with your outfit now.”

    Lydia stares at the garment with her mouth slightly slack before she clears her throat and looks back down at the half-full box in front of her.

    “It’s Allison’s,” she says in a muted tone.  “She gave it to me, but I never wore it.  After everything that happened, I couldn’t really bring myself to put it on.”

    “Oh, oh god,”  Kira half says, half mumbles,  “Lydia, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to. . .”  She holds out the sweater for Lydia to pack.

    “No, don’t be sorry,” the banshee answers as she takes the offered clothing gently in her hands.  “I should’ve worn it though.  She said it’d make my hair pop.”  She keeps an unfocused gaze on the limp fabric clutched tightly in her grip.

    “Why don’t you wear it tonight?” Malia interjects.  “Instead of complaining about what she left behind, just enjoy it like she’d want you too.”

    Lydia whips her head to face the were-coyote.  She can feel sharp words building on her tongue, but when she opens her mouth to retort, all potential venom falls flat against her teeth.  Malia’s logic baffles the banshee to the point where she can’t refute it.  She clicks her tongue instead and pulls the sweater over her head.  Then she stands to regard the change in the mirror while smoothing her hands over the soft woven fibers.  Just as Kira said, the sweater looks perfect with Lydia’s black fitted jeans and pink heels.  The banshee pulls her hair out from the under the top and lets the strawberry blond strands curl down her shoulders.  Lydia smiles despite the salty, pinching sensation building in her chest.  Allison was right.  The turquoise does make her hair pop.


    Lydia adjusts the hem of her sweater for the fifth time as Kira, Malia, and she walk towards the booming entrance of Jungle.  They’re running almost thirty minutes late which means the boys should have already secured a table.  The club overwhelms Lydia as she steps inside the flashing lights and shaking walls.  She searches the booths lining the walls for Scott and Stiles but can’t find them.  

    Lydia turns with a sigh to the two were-creatures next her and says, “Go find the boys while I grab a drink.  Text me when you find them.”

    The banshee walks to the bar without waiting for a response and pushes her way up to the bartender to order a vodka tonic.  A cold tingle ripples up her spine as she waits for her drink.  She’s being studied.  Lydia turns with a violent flare to check the surrounding area behind her.  No one seems to be paying the banshee any mind.  Maybe she’s overreacting.  The bartender walks over with her drink, and she holds out seven dollars only to have the guy shake his head.

    “Someone already paid for your drink,” he says with smile while setting the glass in front of her.

    “Excuse me,” she says in a high pitched voice as the bartender starts to walk away.  She waits for him to turn back around before she continues,  “Who paid for it?”  The bartender points to a black haired boy sitting at the opposite end of the bar.  He seems absorbed in something on his phone, his face tightening at the edges as he clicks away at the buttons.  The boy looks up as Lydia inspects him, and the cold tingle from before returns with a vengeance at the eye contact.  The banshee quickly turns back to the bartender and holds out her money again.

    “Sorry,” she says, “But I’m not comfortable with strangers buying my drinks.”

    “It’s already been paid for though,” the bartender says, “I can’t really accept more money for it.”

    Lydia scoffs with a indigent shake of her head before putting her palms on the bar and leaning towards the bartender.  “Then make me another drink,” she says slowly through pursed, slightly parted, lips.

    She checks her phone while waiting for her second drink. There’s a text from Kira that reads “top floor booth on the right :) ”.  She feels eyes on her once more and looks up from her phone to meet the stare of the black haired boy.  He smiles at Lydia and stands as if to approach her when the server arrives with her drink.  Lydia snatches the second vodka tonic from the tabletop and speed walks away from the bar towards the stairs without looking back.  She sees Stiles and Scott sitting across from Malia and Kira at a booth as she rounds the top of the steps.
    
    “That took a minute,”  Kira says as she slides over to make room for Lydia.

    “Sorry,” the banshee sighs, “Some creep tried to buy me a drink.”

    “Creep?”  says Stiles,  “Where?”  He leans over the railing with his words and twists his neck to look at the bar underneath them.  “Like human creep or supernatural creep?”

    “Human creep,” Lydia says after taking a sip of her drink.

    “The guy in the blue shirt?”  Stiles continues.  

    Lydia nods as she frowns slightly and says,  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

     “Because he’s watching us,” says Stiles as he waves a splayed and hostile hand at the boy down-below at the bar.  “Hi, yes, we see you.  Quit looking, fucking creep,”  he sneers before leaning back from the railing and taking a seat.   “I think I’ve seen that loser before.”

    “Probably in school,”  Lydia says,  “Half the Jungle’s cliental are underage.”

    “Speaking of,” Scott cuts in, “How did you even get that alcohol?”

    “Oh sweetie,”  she replies with a tilt of her head, “I’ve had a fake since I was sixteen.  Not that I even need it here.  Honestly, this place is a law suit waiting to happen.”

    “Well, then we should dance before they close it down,”  Malia says with a grin.

    “You go ahead,”  Lydia says, “I’ll be there when I finish my drink.”  She stands so the other two girls can slide out of the booth.  Malia reaches over the table and grabs Stiles by the hand to tug him out of his seat.

    “Come on,” the were-coyote says, “I wanna dance.”

    “I’m not big on dancing,” he says as he pulls back against her grip, “Not a huge dancer at all.  In fact, I’m a tiny dancer.  A tiny, tiny dancer,” he says while freeing his hand and holding out his thumb and index finger to create an inch sized gap.  Malia drops her shoulders and fixes Stiles with a blank look.  “Really?  No Elton John?” he continues as he lowers his still gesturing hand,  “You were human for nine years before you coyoted-out and you don’t know Elton John?”  

    “Stiles,” the were-coyote bites out.

    “Alright, I’ll dance,” Stiles says as he stands up from the table.  “But you gotta hold me closer.”

    Lydia snorts into her drink at the Stiles’s terrible use of song lyrics.  What a dork.  She realizes she’s still standing and quickly takes a seat but leaves her stare on the interlocked hands of Stiles and Malia.  Not that she cares, but aren’t they supposed to be broken up?  And speaking of broken up couples, Lydia can’t help but notice the way Kira’s eyes stay on Scott before the kitsune follows Malia and Stiles to the dance floor.  She probably still likes the True Alpha, and the banshee can’t really blame her for it.  It’s not like Kira and Scott aren’t compatible.  Their relationship fell apart due to bad luck and bad timing. Honestly, they never had a chance if Lydia thinks logically about it.

    “Aren’t you gonna dance with her?”  she says loudly over the piercing dub-step of the club.

    “What?” Scott says as he turns back around from watching Kira dance.

     “She probably still likes you.  Don’t ask me why,”  Lydia says while moving the straw of her drink in slow circles.  

    “You think so?”  the Alpha says in a wistful sounding tone.

    “Who knows,”  Lydia shrugs,  “You weren’t really yourself when you two broke up.  Maybe she’ll rethink it.  You’ll have to be honest with her though.”

    “Yeah, of course,”  he says as he looks back to the kitsune on the dance floor.  

    “About everything,” she continues, “Especially Allison.”

    Scott faces Lydia with a slight frown on his features but otherwise makes no effort to protest her words.  “That’s her sweater, isn’t it?” he says with a nod at Lydia.

    The banshee puts her drink down and smooths out the bunches from the precious article of clothing.  “She gave it to me,”  she says softly.

    “You don’t still. . .” he says, “I mean, have you heard her lately?”

    Lydia looks up sharply from her sweater and says, “Stiles didn’t tell you?”

    “Tell me what?”  the werewolf asks in an slightly escalating tone.

    She grinds her teeth against the words she knows she has to speak.  “She’s gone, Scott,  for good,” she says without making eye contact,  “She left after I died.”

    Scott’s hand that had been resting on the tabletop suddenly tenses and curls into a fist as his other hand grips the edge of the table with such strength that Lydia hears the wood groan.  

    “Scott?” she says in a measured voice.

    “I’m okay,” he says in a hoarse sounding breath as he squeezes his eyes shut.

    “Are you really?  Because you don’t look okay. At all.”

    “I don’t know,” he says while moving both hands to his ears.  “Suddenly the music,” he stops to let out pained groan that carries a slight growling edge.

    Lydia stands up quickly.  “Okay, we need to go outside,” she says. “Now, Scott.  Come on.”

    The Alpha is practically panting when Lydia gets him down the stairs.  He can’t remove his hands from his ears which is a serious problem considering that his claws have come out.

    “God dammit, Scott,” she hisses as she puts her hands over his.

    “I’m sorry,” he says in a haggard tone as he watches her from behind remorseful looking red eyes.

    “Red eyes?  Are you serious?” she says in high-pitched and stressed tone as she forces his head down with her hands.  “Jesus, just act drunk, okay?”  

    It’s an awkward, stumbling trek to the exit, but no one pays them any mind.  They just look like another pair of wasted teenagers.  The moment they reach the outside alley, Lydia leans Scott against the wall and backs away quickly.  Her body starts to tremble and she feels lightheaded.  She’s not about to faint, but forcing her legs to keep standing probably isn’t a good idea.  Lydia steps back until she’s resting against the brick wall behind her and slowly drops her body into a crouched position.  She’d acted on instinct back there- all she could think of was getting the unstable werewolf out of a club filled with people.  Now that she’s made it outside though, a cold terror worms up her spine.  What if Scott loses control again?  Lydia watches him with wary eyes as her limbs collect energy incase she has to run - or worse - fight.  The Alpha’s eyes are still closed and his breathing sounds heavy, but at least he’s lowered his hands from his ears.  However, she can’t tell if his claws are out since his hands are balled into fists at his sides.  The banshee holds her breath as Scott shifts on his feet and then drops to sit on the ground against the wall.  He leans his head back with a sigh and unfurls his fists to revel blunt human nails.  Lydia lets go of the breath she was holding and drops her head to her knees.

    “Oh god,” she says before lifting her head back up and running her hands through her hair.  She stays like that - vacant eyed, hands wound in her hair, and lips parted with shock and surprise - until Scott calls out to her.

    “Are you okay?” he says.  

    She looks at him with wide eyes and shakes her head slowly.  “No, I’m not okay,” she says in a high pitched tone,  “what happened back there?”

    “I have no idea,” the werewolf confesses,  “I didn’t feel out of control. . . I felt sick.”

    “So you just happened to feel sick after I mentioned Allison?”
    
    “Lydia, I know what you’re thinking,” he says while steadying his breath,  “And you have more than every right to think it, but I swear that’s not what happened.”

    Lydia opens her mouth to pick apart Scott’s words, but the sound of Stiles’s calling out her name distracts her.  

    “Lydia!”  The deep bellow sounds again, this time with a clear edge of hysteria lacing his voice. “LYDIA!”

    She turns to face the the direction of the panicked shouts right as Stiles rounds the corner to the alley.  He’s racing towards them at top speed but slows and stops when he sees Scott and Lydia sitting calmly on the ground.  The human drops his hands to his knees to catch his breath as he watches them through squinted eyes.  

    “Dude, are you okay?”  Scott asks as he stands up and walks over Stiles.  

    The human boy waves a hand and shakes his head while his face shows a pained grimace.  His expression changes into one of pure agony with every inhale.  “Ran so fast,” he says with a shallow breath, “Might puke.”  He moves one hand from his knee and holds it against his side as he leans back against the wall with help from Scott.  “What uh, what are you guys doing out here?”  Stiles says in between heaving gasps.

    Lydia and Scott answer at the same time.

    “Scott lost control.”

    “I felt sick.”

    They turn to look at one another and Lydia shrugs at the werewolf before facing Stiles again.  He’s no longer hunched over, but he still looks extremely winded.

    “So what are you doing out here?” she says.

    “Looking for you,” Stiles says, “I thought that was pretty clear from the whole yelling your name part.”

    “Obviously,” she says as she rolls her eyes,  “I meant why were you looking for me?”

    “Right, you remember that creepy dude in the blue shirt?”  he says.  She nods as she crosses her arms over her chest.  “Yeah well,” Stiles continues, “I saw him walking up the stairs and when I got back to our table, you were gone.”  He stretches his mouth down with a hand and tugs on his bottom lip before he lets his hand fall back to his side.

    “You thought I got kidnapped?”  she says.

    Stiles looks up at her with an almost irritated expression.  “What?” he snaps as he flings an arm out,  “Like that’s so unbelievable?  A pretty girl going missing at a club?”  

    Lydia bites the inside of her cheek to stop a smile from curling her lips.  

    “I’m not going missing at my own farewell party,” she says with a flip of her hair,  “That’s too cliche.”

    “Yeah, well, last time I checked, this town didn’t really care about cliches,”  Stiles says as he allows his body to sink to the ground.  “In fact, I’m pretty sure it thrives on them.”  He rapidly taps a hand on his knee.  “Anyway,” he continues as he looks over his shoulder at Scott,  “what do you mean you were sick?”

    “I don’t know,” Scott says as he walks closer to Stiles,  “Just that the music got too loud and I couldn’t block it out.  I started to panic and then I started to shift.”  He pauses to face Lydia and continues, “But I wasn’t losing control.  Mentally, I was all still there.”

    “Oh good,” she interjects, “So you just lost physical control.  I’m sure that won’t cause problems or anything.”

    Scott gives Lydia a blank look that seems to say he’s unimpressed with her sarcasm.

    “No. . . no, she’s right, dude,”  Stiles says with a sigh,  “It’s still a problem.”  He rubs a hand across his frowning lips.  “God, does this town ever chill out?”

    “It’s Beacon Hills, Stiles,”  Lydia says as she sits next to him,  “I’m pretty sure the answer is no.”

    “Maybe we should all move to Glendale with you tomorrow,” he says.  

    “Glendale’s still a part of Beacon County, isn’t it?”  Scott asks as he sits on the other side of Stiles.

    “Can you not?”  Lydia says quickly as she leans forward to glare at the Alpha.  “You’re gonna jinx it.”

    “Speaking of jinxes,” Stiles says as his hand tapping goes into overdrive against his knee,  “I’m guessing you didn’t follow up with Deaton about that pattern you drew.”

    “No, you said he didn’t know anything,” she says.

    “Well, that was Monday,”  he says while he fishing his phone from his pocket.  “And about twenty minutes ago, he sent me this.”  He clicks away at the screen before holding the phone out to Lydia.  She stares at the message before speaking.

    “Defixione?” she says.

    “I’m assuming you already know what that means,” says Stiles.

    “Yeah, it’s latin for curse tablet,” she says as she hands Stiles back his phone.

    “Why do I not like the sound of that?” Scott says slowly with a groan as he leans his head and closes his eyes.

    “Probably because it has the word ‘curse’ in the name,”  Stiles says with a shake of his head.  “Never really means great things.  And wait for it, cause it gets even better.  You see, Deaton doesn’t actually know what it’s cursing.”
 
    “Well,” Lydia says as she stands up and claps her hands together,  “What are we waiting for?  Someone go get Malia and Kira.”

    “Wait, what, uh - where are we going?”  Stiles asks as he blinks up at her rapid movement.

    “To Deaton’s, obviously,” she says in exasperation with a tilt of her head.  Scott and Stiles exchange multiple looks in another example of their obnoxious, non-verbal communication skills.  Lydia clicks her tongue loudly and puts her hands on her hips.  Her action seems to spur the boys to a conclusion.

    “Are you sure you want to spend your last night in town like that?”  Scott says.

    “Do I really have a choice?”  she says.

    “Uh, yeah, you do?”  Stiles says with a bewildered look.

    “Let me rephrase that,” says Lydia as she holds up a hand and paces, “I’m moving to a new town, by myself, tomorrow.  That means no supernatural bodyguards, for lack of a better description.  If I’m drawing something that translates into curse tablet,” she stops in her pacing to face both the boys and holds out her arms,  “I can’t afford to not know everything I can about it.  We have to talk to Deaton.  Tonight.”

    Scott looks at Lydia and nods.  “I’ll go get Kira and Malia.  We’ll meet you guys there,”  he says.


    Lydia shifts in the passenger seat of Stiles’s jeep.  The ride feels a little bumpier than she remembers.

    “Stiles, when was the last time you had your jeep serviced?” she asks.

    “Uh. . . not that long ago?”

    “I mean professionally,” she says,  “Not whatever that thing is you do with duct tape.”

    “Then long ago?  It’s still driving, isn’t it?” he says.  She narrows her eyes at him.  “I don’t know, Lydia,” he continues,  “Can we just focus on one problem at a time? Please?”  She rolls her eyes and turns to look out the window, but she can feel Stiles watching her from the corners of his eyes.

    “What?” she says as she looks over at him.

    “Did Scott really lose control again?”

    “Sure looked that way,” she says as she turns back to the window.

    “Do you think it has to with the defixione or berserkers?”

    “I don’t know,” she sighs while leaning her forehead against the glass.  “We were talking about Allison, and then. . .”  Lydia trails off as her eyes widen, and she pulls back from the window.

    “And then?”  Stiles says.

    “What if that’s it?” she says as she whips to face the boy next to her.

    “What if what’s it?”

    “That’s the metaphor,” she says excitedly, “That’s the connection.”

    “Lydia, what are you talking about?”

    “The berserker was so familiar, and every time I saw it, Allison was there.”

    “What?”  he says as he slams on the breaks.

    “Jesus Christ, Stiles!” she shrieks while bracing herself with her hands against the dash.

    “You saw Allison?” He turns to face her with the question.  “But you said she left.”

    “She did,”  Lydia answers as she moves the hair shaken loose from the quick stop out of her face.  “What I’ve been seeing isn’t the real Allison, idiot.”
    

    Stiles pinches his eyes in irritation, and says,  “Then you should have started off with that.”
    
    “What? That you’re an idiot?” she says.

    Stiles points a shaking finger at her as he narrows his eyes and bites his bottom lip before he takes his foot off the break pedal.  He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and lowers the other to tap against his knee.  “So what’s this metaphor?” he says as he eyes dart between Lydia and the road.

    “Before I say anything else, I need you to swear something,” she says.  Lydia waits until Stiles makes eye contact to continue speaking, “Until I figure out exactly what’s getting set up, you can’t mention anything about Allison to Scott.”

    “Oh god,” he says,  “Again?”

    “Yes, Stiles, again,” she says fiercely,  “And may I remind you that last time I asked you to keep a secret from him and you didn’t, I nearly died.”

    “Yeah, but he’s better now. . . right?”

    “Stiles! Just swear it!”

    “Okay!” he says loudly,  “I swear I won’t tell Scott anything about Allison.  Especially whatever terrible, horrible shit you’re about to tell me now.”

    “Thank you,” she says tersely.  “Now as I was saying, I only saw the berserker when I was having visions of Allison, and I couldn’t exactly place it, but I know I recognize the eyes behind the bone.  They were so familiar, Stiles.  So familiar.  What if it’s Scott?  What if he can’t maintain control when it comes to Allison?”  

    Lydia feels the words slam into her chest despite being the speaker - as if her own statement shocked her.  She looks to Stiles with unblinking, wild eyes under a taut brow.  She stares at him and through him, feeling the distance reflected in her own eyes, far removed from the physical world before her.  

    “But I don’t even know what kind of warning that is, or if it’s related to the curse tablet. I have absolutely no idea what it really means,”  she continues softly before she crushes her lips between her teeth and slumps back in her seat.  “I just have a ominous feeling.”

    “Ominous as in death, we-are-all-going-to-die ominous?”

    “No, and that’s what bothers me,” she says,  “It’s too ambiguous.  I can’t pinpoint what feels wrong.  Things just feel out of balance.  Like something’s tipped the scales.”   

    “And something tells me that something isn’t in our favor, is it?”  Stiles says.

    “At least we’re used to having all the odds stacked against us,”  she says quietly.

    “Hey,”  he says,  “look at me.”  Stiles waits for Lydia to look up from her lap.  “It’s gonna be okay, alright?  We’re not gonna be caught off guard by this one.  Whatever’s causing it, we’re going to solve it.  And we’re gonna beat it.”       
    

    The pack crowds around one of the metal examination tables at Deaton’s as the Druid spreads an array of books out across the table’s surface.  He flips through each one quickly and leaves certain ones open to display the various symbols inscribed inside.  

    “I’m afraid what I know isn’t much,”  Deaton says he picks up Lydia’s scribbled pattern off the stack of books before him.  “Some of the symbols I recognize as letters from old gaelic inscriptions, but the majority of these symbols are beyond my comprehension.”

    “Yeah, but what about the curse thing?” Stiles asks.  “I mean how can you be sure this is a defixione if you can’t read it?”

    “The circular structure of the writing is extremely common in any celtic language defixione.  Gaelic, even ancient gaelic, would be the same,”  Deaton says,  “That, and this word here.”  He points to a segment of pattern from Lydia’s scribbles.  “It’s the gaelic word for retribution.”

    “So it’s written in gaelic then?” says Scott.  “Couldn’t you translate it?”

    “Unfortunately, no,” says Deaton.  “You see, its one of those rare words that managed not to change form as it traveled from group to group.  This language is similar to gaelic, perhaps even used the gaelic alphabet as a building block, but it’s an entirely different celtic language.”

    “Like how English, Dutch and German all evolved from the proto-germanic language branch?”  Lydia asks as she picks up the paper with her design.

    “Exactly,” answers the Druid.

    “What does ‘proto’ mean?” asks Malia.

    “It’s a greek word for first or before, depending on how it’s used,”  Lydia says.  “Think of it as a starting point.”

    Stiles reaches past Deaton to point at a book across the table.

    “This looks familiar kinda,”  he says while tapping a finger against the inked design.

    “You’re right, it does,”  Deaton muses,  “May I see the pattern again, Lydia?”

    The banshee nods and delicately places the sheet of paper next to the book.

    “There, that one,” says Stiles as he points to a scribble in the Lydia’s pattern resembling a crow’s foot.  “Isn’t it the same?”

    “Not the same, but a variation,”  says the Druid.  He points at the symbol in the book.  “See how this middle line continues down past the point here?” he says,  “Now look at the one Lydia wrote.  The line stops at the junction here instead.”

    “So what does that mean?” asks Kira.

    “It means we’re definitely looking at a language that has ties with the ancient celtics,”  Deaton says.  “I might be able to find out which one it is, but because there are so many different branches of celtic languages, it’ll take awhile.”

    “What if this language is a kind of proto-language?”  Lydia says.  “What if later forms of celtic languages, including gaelic, used this alphabet as a building block instead of vice-versa?”
    
    “It would have to be very, very old if that were the case. . .”  the Druid’s voice drifts as if he’d had an an epiphany while speaking.  “Although, what we know about defixiones are from what we’ve dug up,” he continues,  “They haven’t been a common practice among the Celtics for a long time.  In fact, most defixiones date back to around the fifth century B.C.E.”

    “Then we could narrow down the possible languages to those spoken before and during the fifth century, right?”  says Malia.

    “I think it’s a safe bet,” nods Deaton.

    “Anything else we should know about defixiones?”  Stiles asks.  “Possible causes?  Possible cures?  Possible deaths?”

    “Any information I can provide will be limited until this is translated,” sighs the Druid,  “But in general, there are certain patterns that defixiones adhere to.  Defixiones are mostly conditional magic - they rely on rules, and only once the rules are broken will the curse go into effect.  They’re an ancient magic that borrows the power of the gods to enact retribution.”

    “G-gods? Did you just says gods?” stutters Stiles.  “You’ve got be fucking kidding me.”

    “What do we do?” asks Scott.  “I mean, until it’s translated, what should we do?”

    “If was you,” says the Druid, “I’d try not to break any rules.”
    

    Lydia gets up early the following morning since her father’s coming over at ten to help her move.  She brings mostly clothes because she’s been warned that the apartment her father rents is small, and the room she’ll be occupying is even smaller.  She stacks all the boxes in the downstairs hallway by the time he arrives, and by eleven, Lydia and her father have every box loaded into his truck.  It’s about an thirty minute drive to Glendale from Beacon Hills, but it passes quickly enough.  The apartment is small but sweet.  The building was built in 1964 and still possesses a faint residue of sixties charm in the form of a black and white tiled kitchen and a circular chandler for the living room.  Personally, Lydia isn’t a huge fan of vintage, but this one does it well.  However, she’s not prepared for the size of her room.  Small seems quite the understatement.  Closest feels more appropriate.

    “I know it’s not what you’re used too,” her father says as he walks in with the last of Lydia’s boxes.  “But remember it’s not forever.  We just want you to get a breather from Beacon Hills.”

    “Well, we’re lucky I’m not claustrophobic,” she sighs while scooting and stacking the boxes in the corner.  

    That night her father makes them steak for dinner to celebrate Lydia’s move.  He talks fast and tells her all about the area - the shops, the cafes, the school.  She listens to his slightly rushed and overly energetic speech as she cuts her steak.  Lydia can tell from his behavior how much he missed her.  Her father is usually a quiet man.  He rarely speaks without purpose so tonight’s conversation feels all the more special.  She won’t admit it to her mother, but Lydia’s missed him terribly.  She likes to think she didn’t chose sides during the divorce, but sometimes, decisions are made for you.  If her father had stayed in Beacon Hills, she would have made sure to see him every week.  After dinner, she calls Jordan and keeps him on the phone until she falls asleep.  

    She wakes with a thirst deep in her bones - an aching, gnawing sensation that intensifies around her skull and hands. The cold air carries the hum of insects and as Lydia’s vision adjust to the dark, she realizes an open sky has replaced the beige ceiling of her small bedroom.  Her first instinct is panic but the surge of movement the emotion pulls from her body sends a shock wave of pain that travels up her spine to reverberant in her head.  This isn’t good.  She feels dizzy and sick to her stomach.  Lydia crawls towards the nearest tree and props her back against it with a defeated whine.  She shouldn’t be having black outs anymore.  This really isn’t good.  She uses the tree to stand but drops back to the ground at the pain in her feet. Where did she walk to this time?  Thunder booms all around her followed by a flash of lightening.  The bright burst of light illuminates the area, but all she sees in the brief light are trees.  Where the hell is she?  There aren’t woods like this in Glendale as far as she knows.  A rock digs into her lower hip and Lydia throws the useless stone in frustration only to have the pressure at her hip stay.  She pats her back pocket in confusion and realizes that what she thought was a rock is actually her phone.  Lydia scrambles to turn the phone on and stares blankly at the screen while waiting for the technology to come to life.  Lighting jumps across the sky once more, but this time, Lydia sees something in the corner of her eye that causes her to slowly let the phone drop to her lap.  The nemeton.

    She needs call someone.  Now is definitely the time to call someone.  This is big.  This means something.  
    
    The small screen lights up, and Lydia dials the first number she thinks of.

    “Hello?”  Stiles answers on the eighth ring in a muffled voice heavy with sleep.

    “Stiles, it’s Lydia,” she whispers while casting her eyes in every possible direction.  You never know what might be hanging around the nemeton after dark.  She listens to the sounds of Stiles shuffling in bed before she continues,  “I need you to pick me up.”

    “What?” he says in a strained voice containing more confusion than sleep.  “Where are you?”

    “The nemeton,” she says.  The other line is silent a moment.  “Stiles?”

    “Yeah, I’m here,” he says in a slightly more alert sounding tone,  “Did you say the nemeton?”

    “Yes, and please hurry.  It’s really fucking creepy out here.”

    “Why are you at the nemeton?”  he says.
    
    “I don’t know, Stiles!” Lydia says in tense whisper, “It wasn’t really by choice.”

    “You’re sleep walking again?”

    “Oh my god, are you going to come get me, or should I hang up and call a cab?”  she snaps.  

    “Jesus christ, yeah, I’m out the door now,” he responds in a equally irritated tone.  “Just stay where you are, okay?  Don’t move.”

    “Yeah, don’t wor-”  she stops in the middle of her sentence at the sound of branches cracking in the distance.

    “Lydia?” he says.  “Lydia, what’s happening?”

    “Shhhhhh,” she whispers into the phone as she presses her back harder against the tree.

    “Are you okay?” Stiles demands,  “Lydia, what happening?”

    “Shhhhh!” she repeats in a hoarse whisper,  “There’s something out here.  Be quiet or I’ll hang up.”

    “Something?” he asks in panicked tone,  “What kind of someth-”

    Lydia hangs up before Stiles can finish and quickly switches her phone to silent.  She counts to three in her head and takes a deep breath before she leans over to look around the tree.  She can’t see anything save for more trees.  Maybe she’s overreacting.  The sound of branches snapping closer to her causes the banshee to whip her head back from view.  Nope.  There’s definitely something out here with her.  Stiles keeps calling her, but Lydia turns the phone over with shaking hands to hide it’s light from whatever is currently stalking the forest.  A familiar sounding rattling breath winds through the trees, and the banshee covers her mouth to silence her own heavy breathing.  Berserker.  Lydia closes her eyes and listens to the forest around her.  The crashing footfalls draw closer but stop almost twenty feet away.  She’s out of options.  Even if her feet weren’t scratched to hell and back, she doubts she’d be able to outrun a Berserker in the dark.  There’s always the off chance that it’s another one of her hallucinations, but Lydia’s not willing to bet her life on it.  She opens her eyes and slowly moves her hands from her mouth and presses them hard against her chest over her heart.  She’s not sure whether she’s trying to slow her heart-rate or convince herself it’s still beating, but she knows she needs to focus on something that isn’t her possibly imminent death.  Thunder cracks above her and Lydia bites her lip hard enough to break the skin to keep from making a noise at the overwhelming sound.  She keeps her hands pressed against her heart as she listens to the creature cross the clearing behind her and walk towards the nemeton.  It sniffs and snuffles around the tree stump before it continues into the woods and away from Lydia.  She doesn’t move until the footsteps disappear completely into the distance.  Lydia turns her phone over with shaking hands.  Twenty five missed calls from Stiles.  He calls again and she answers.

    “I’m okay,” she whispers into the phone as she stares at the nemeton.  Part of her is worried about the Berserker coming back; the other part is curious about it’s interest in the stump.    

    “You!” Stiles says,  “I-I. ..  I could kill you, do you know that?  I could literally kill you for what you just did.”  She can hear the tremors in his voice.

    “I told you to be quiet,” she says,  “You’re the one who didn’t listen.”  She scoots slowly across the forest floor as she talks, trying to get closer to the nemeton.

    “So?” he says,  “What kind of monsters was it this time?  Chupacabra?”

    “Really, Stiles?”

    “Look, you just put me through an extremely traumatic experience,” he says,  “And you know I cope with a being a powerless and puny human though humor, so honestly, this is your fault.  And if you think I’ll ease up cause I care about you, then you’re dreaming.  The sarcasm only gets worse from here on out.  Now, where the hell are you?”

    “I told you,” she says with a sigh,  “The nemeton.”

    “Yeah, no, I got that,” he says.  She can practically hear him rolling his eyes through the phone.  “I mean where exactly near the nemeton are you?”

    “I’m not near it,” she says, “I’m sitting on it.  You can’t miss me.”

    The other line is quiet and for a moment, Lydia fears the call was dropped.

    “Stiles?” she says softly.

    “Yeah, I’m here,” he says after long pause, “But. . . I’m standing on the nemeton, and you’re not here, Lydia.”

    “What?” she says.  “Stiles, that’s not funny. . .”  She twists to look behind her, and the banshee’s breath seizes in her throat at what she sees.  She’s not in the forest anymore.  “Stiles,” she says in a trembling voice,  “I don’t know what’s happening.”  Her breathing starts to race and soon she’s hyperventilating.

    “Lydia, listen to me,” Stiles says,  “It’s gonna be okay.  What do you see?  Are there any landmarks?”

    “No,” she says, “I mean yes, there are, but I know where I am.”

    “Where?” he says, “Where are you?”

    “I’m at her grave,” she says in a cracked tone.  “I’m at Allison grave.”  Lydia stares at the tombstone in front of her as she slowly pushes away from it with quivering arms and legs.  The air gets stuck in her lungs.

    “Okay, okay,” he says, “I’m on the way.  Lydia, breathe, okay?  You need to breathe.”

    “I can’t,” she chokes out, “I can’t.”  She keeps scooting away from the grave as she speaks.

    “Lydia, breathe,” he says in a forceful tone, “Focus on my voice and try take a deep breath.”

    “I can’t,” she says, “I’m scared.”  Her left hand slips as if the ground gave way beneath her and Lydia tumbles backwards with it.  She hits her head hard.

    Lydia sees blackness when she opens her eyes.  Did she lose consciousness?  She hears Stiles’s muffled voice yelling her name and digs her phone out from under her back.  

    “I think I fell,” she says. She tries to sit up, but her head bangs into something.  She raises her hands up until she touches a flat, smooth surface above her.  She pushes against it with all her strength, but it doesn’t even budge.

    “Where are you?” Stiles says in frantic voice, “Where’d you fall?  Are you okay?”

    “I don’t know,” Lydia says as she fights against the hysteria working it’s way through her brain.  “I can’t get up.”

    “You can’t move?”

    “Something’s blocking me,” she says, “Something heavy.”

    “Okay, what do you see?”

    “I can’t see anything,” she says in near tears, “It’s too dark.”

    “Okay, alright,” he says.  She can hear the wheels in his head turning.  “Okay, um, your phone.  Your phone should have a flashlight app.”

    Lydia pulls the phone from her ear and searches for the flashlight application.  She can barely get her fingers to stop trembling long enough to open it.  She winces at the burst of bright that shoots from the phone and waits for her eyes to adjust to the light.  The first thing she sees is a wood ceiling about six inches above her head.  She looks to either side only to see the same wood walls.  

    “Did you do it?”  Stiles asks.  “Can you see anything?”

    “Yes,” she says softly.

    “Do you know where are you?”

    “Yes,” she says again.

    “Lydia, it’s okay,” he says.  “It’s okay.  Just tell me where are you.”

    “Oh god,” she says,  “No, Stiles, this is bad.  This is really bad.”  She can’t control the hitch of emotion that shakes through her words.

    “Just tell me where you are,” he repeats.

    “A coffin.”  The words escape her like a whine.  “I’m in a coffin. . .  and I think it’s already been put in the ground.”

    Stiles is silent.

    “Are you there?” she asks without hiding her desperation.

    He clears his throat before answering, “Of course I’m still here.”  His voice is thick and choppy sounding.  “I need,” he stops to take a wet sounding and shaking breath, “I need to call Scott.  We, uh, we need his sense of smell.”  He sniffs loudly and Lydia knows he’s crying.

    “Okay,” she says.  “That’s a good idea.  Call him.”

    “I’ll call you right back, okay?”

    “Okay,” she says.

    “I swear, Lydia, I’ll call you right back,” he says, “Right back.”

    “Okay,” she says. She waits for the dial-tone, but the sound eludes her.  “Stiles?” she says.

    “Yeah?”

    “Call him,” she says.

    “I will,” he says.  

    “You have to hang up to do that,” she says softly.

    “I will,” he says in quietly devastated sounding voice.  

    “I’ll be okay,” Lydia says in a convincing tone despite how little faith she has in the words. “Stiles, I’ll be okay, so hang up and call Scott.”

    The wait for Stiles to call back is the worst part.  She needs to steady her breath and stop hyperventilating if she wants her air to last as long as possible.  Lydia keeps track of how many minutes pass.  It takes five and half hours to die when your buried alive if you keep normal breathing patterns, give or take a few minutes, depending on the size of the person and the coffin.  Lydia’s been buried for seven minutes.  She’s has about 443 minutes left to be saved.  That translates into 19,380 seconds.  She’s in the middle of the math for figuring out nano-seconds when her phone rings.

    “Stiles?”

    “Yeah,” he says, “I’m at the graveyard with Scott right now.  He says he can smell you.”

    “Okay,” she says as she tries to control her breathing, “That’s good right?”

    “It could be,” he continues, and she can hear the stress in his voice.  “But Malia and Liam went out to the nemeton and they said they could smell you there too.”

    “Okay. . .” Lydia says slowly.  “So what the hell does that mean?”  The air can’t be getting thinner yet, but she finds it hard to breath anyway.  Probably panic.

    “And there’s one more thing,” he says,  “There aren’t any fresh graves here.  None.  Scott said he’d be able to tell if the dirt was disturbed.  So unless someone got you in the ground without moving any dirt, I don’t think you’re here.”

    “You don’t believe me?” she asks in stunted horror.

    “No, I believe you,” he says,  “You were definitely here and at the nemeton.”

    “So?” she says.

    “Do you remember when I went missing before I was possessed?”  he asks quickly.  His nervous habit of smacking his hands together can be heard through the phone.  “I, uh, I thought I was in the Eichen House basement, remember?  I was convinced I was trapped down there.  I was even on my phone.  I called Scott.”  

    “I remember,” she says in between gasps,  “We found you at Malia’s cave.  You were sleepwalking, caught in a dream.”

    “Right,” he says, “So what if you’re still asleep?  What if you slept-walked to the nemeton, to the graveyard, and now you’ve fallen somewhere you think is a grave?”

    Lydia is quiet as she turns the possibility over in her mind.  It makes sense, but the realization that she could be asleep offers little comfort; they still had to find Stiles to wake him up.

    “Lydia?” he says.

    “Yeah,” she says with a huff, “So you want me to just relax with my fingers crossed that I’m not asleep in an actual coffin somewhere and wait for you guys to find me before the five hour time limit is up?”  

    “No,” he huffs back, “I want you to wake up.”
    
    Lydia’s starting to feel slightly light-headed.  She really needs to get control of her breathing.  She can’t keep talking and gasping like this.  She’s filling the small space with carbon dioxide and shorting her timeframe for survival.  This needs to happen fast.  She’s going to pass out soon.

    “Okay,” she says, “How do I wake up if I’m not even sure I’m dreaming?”

    “Um, in dreams your mind tells your body what it thinks you’re interacting with,” Stiles says in a muffled voice.  He probably has a hand over his mouth.  “So we need to override that,” he continues, “We need get your body to interacting with where ever you really are.”

    “Okay,” she says as she fights the urge to cry.

    “So close your eyes,” he says, “Don’t think about where you are.”  He stops to clear his throat and swallow loudly.  Honestly, he sounds more upset than her.  “Try to focus on your body.  Your hands, your feet.  Then arms and legs,” Stiles continues,  “Just keep focusing on different parts of your body until you reach your head.  Concentrate on how they feel, but keep your eyes closed.”

    Lydia squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath.  She lets her body go still and focus on her hands.  At first, she can’t tell a difference but then her hands grow cold.  When her fingers start to go numb to she turns her attention to her feet.  The same process happens - cold and then numb.  She can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing so she continues without thinking about it.  When she gets her to her right arm, she notices a tickling sensation on her inner elbow.  It almost feels like a bug crawling on her.  Lydia clenches her jaw against the feeling and pushes forward to concentrate on her left arm.  By the time she gets to her torso, she can feel small sharp fragments of something digging into her back.

    “I think it’s working,” she says.

    “Don’t stop,” Stiles says, “Keep going until you can describe it.”

    Her previously numb hands now feel more buzzed than numb, and her back is damp from whatever surface she’s lying on.  Suddenly, Lydia feels a drop of water on her face, and the shock cause her to clench her hands.  And when she does, her nails scrape against dirt instead of wood.

    “I think I felt water,” she says, “I can grab dirt too.”

    “Good, that’s. . . that’s so good,” Stiles says,  “What else?  What about your feet?”

    “They hurt,” she answers, “But I think. . . I feel bark?  Something rough, I don’t know.”

    “Okay, okay,” he says sounding short of breath, “Where’d you feel the water?”

    “My face.”

    “Alright,” he says, “Focus on that.”

    Lydia bites her lip as she tries to move all the energy in her body up to her face.  She imagines a white light traveling up her form and settling over her head.  She feels flush for a moment and then a cold breeze drifts over her followed by more drops of water.  The drops increase in frequency until she realizes that she’s soaked.  

    “Now what?” she says.

    “Can you feel something?”

    “Yes,” she says,  “What do I do now?”

    “Hold on to the feeling of whatever’s happening,” he says, “and then open your eyes.”

    “Okay,” she says with unsteady tremble, “I’m gonna do it.  I’m opening my eyes.”

    Lydia cracks one eye and then the other.  At first, all she sees is darkness and panic that she’s still in a grave overwhelms her.  But then she feels a raindrop, and then another, and another.  She tilts her head up and can just make out a dark sky peaking at her from an opening above her head.  Rain pours in and pools around her on the muddy floor.  Lydia smiles as a flash of lightening illuminates the small caved in cellar.  She hasn’t actually been here before, but she’s drawn many, many pictures of it.

    “Do you see anything?”

    “Yeah,” she laughs, “I’m not buried, but I am definitely underground.  I fell into the root cellar.”    

    “At the nemeton?  You’re actually at the nemeton?”

    “I told you I was sitting right on it,” she says.


    Lydia busies herself by untangling her feet from the roots of the nemeton.  She hisses in pain as she pulls her right foot free and examines her ankle with the light from her phone.  The swollen skin is tender and warm to the touch.  She can tell the ankle isn’t sprained (thank god), but she definitely needs to ice it.  The high of not being buried alive starts to wear off and Lydia begins to feel uneasy about the events of her night walk.  Why would she go to Allison’s grave and the nemeton?  The sound of metal clinking together draws her attention and Lydia nearly screams as a chain ladder drops down beside her.

    “Jesus Christ, Stiles!” she yells.  “A little warning would be nice!”

    Someone starts to descend the shaking metal steps and says,  “It’s not Stiles, it’s Malia.”  

    “And me!”  another voice calls out and Liam pokes his head over to look down the hole at the banshee.  “We had to get a ladder,” he says with a shy smile.  

    The werecoyote turns around and faces Lydia when she reaches the bottom.  “Stiles said you fell.  Can you stand?” she continues.

    Lydia uses the towering roots beside to her stand but winces at the pressure on her ankle.  “Yeah, but I don’t think I can climb,” she says.  Malia crouches so Lydia can get on her back and then piggybacks the banshee up the ladder.

    “Where’s Stiles?”  Lydia asks once they’ve cleared the sinkhole.  “And Scott,” she quickly adds.

    Malia seems to sigh before she answers,  “On the way to pick us up.”  Liam helps Lydia slide off the werecoyote’s back and then he walks back to the sinkhole to fold up the ladder.

    “Sorry you had to come all the way out here,” Lydia says softly.

    “It’s fine,”  Malia says in a tired sounding tone.  She looks everywhere but at the banshee while biting the corner of her lip as if struggling with an internal debate.  “Do you like him?”  Malia blurts out.

    “What?”  Lydia says,  “No! Of course not!  I mean, how could I?”

    “But you know who I’m talking about,” Malia sighs, “I don’t even have to say his name and you know.”

    “I. . .” Lydia starts then stops.  She’s not sure what to say.

    “I know he used to like you,” the werecoyote continues, “And I know we’re not technically dating at the moment, but still. . . I don’t want to lose what I have with him.  He’s special to me.  He was the first person to accept me.  He accepted me before I accepted me.”

    Lydia stares down at her hands while Malia talks.  Her story sounds frighteningly similar to the banshee’s own history with Stiles.  Malia’s pain and fear.  Lydia’s intelligence and frustration.  That boy sees things no one else wants to notice.  

    “You’ll never lose that connection to him,”  Lydia says,  “Stiles isn’t the type of person to forget others like that.”


    Malia gives a hollow sounding snort and shakes her head.  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” the werecoyote says as Liam walks up and drops the ladder to the ground with a loud clank.  He seems to know better than to join the conversation, and the three wait in awkward, almost oppressing, silence by the side of the road until the jeep’s headlights slide into view.