Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. I only partially own Joanne since she was inspired by a name on The Deadpool, but any other OCs you happen to come across are 100% mine.
Rise
If you love me, don't let go
If you love me, don't let go
Hold, hold on, hold onto me
'Cause I'm a little unsteady
A little unsteady
"Unsteady" (Erich Lee Gravity Remix) – X Ambassadors
Chapter 1
"All your homework done?"
The sixteen year old hummed distractedly as she poured herself a cup of hot coffee in her travel mug. Joanne and her grandmother maneuvered around each other in the kitchen like an old practiced dance. It was the same routine every morning. While her Grams finished frying the scrambled eggs and bacon, Joanne set out the plates, cutlery, and fixed their drinks; Grams always drank herbal tea and Joanne would start with juice before switching to coffee to take to class. In-between waffles and whatever food Grams made, there would be light conversation about upcoming events in their lives. Joanne's grandmother would tease her about how she should stop drinking coffee and switch to tea like her. As if that would ever happen. Today was like any other day, except they were both running a little behind schedule.
"Chemistry, Calculus, and Econ are completely finished," Joanne answered, smacking the lid down on her travel mug and grabbing her grandmothers. "I have half my Latin and French done, and the outline for my English paper is done, too."
The older woman stopped making the impromptu breakfast wrap to ask, "And why isn't that paper started, young lady?" There it was, the infamous tone. Joanne glanced at her and saw she even had her hand poised on her hip, brow raised. Grams might have been an older lady, but she could still be an imposing figure – especially with that hot spatula in her hand.
"Because it isn't due for another month, Professor Warren," she teased with an easy grin. Cynthia Warren was a professor of the occult – a private joke that never failed to make both women laugh – at the local university. "Plenty of time." Grams hummed and turned back to the frying.
"And the topic of this paper?" Snapping the lid on her Grams' travel mug, Joanne came to stand beside her.
"The Salem Witch Trials," she answered with a grin. Cynthia instantly grinned and chuckled under her breath. "Exploring religious fanaticism with a focus on trust in religious canon versus evidence and common sense, creating a psychological profile to showcase how fear led to the mass hysteria with a note on ergot poisoning and its effects. Then I'll close with modern day "witch hunts", citing multiple cases with weak or fabricated evidence and even false witnesses that led to the imprisonment and, in some cases, the death of innocent people," Joanne spouted off with brilliant ease. Cynthia turned off the burner and wrapped the breakfast burrito in foil, trading it for her tea. "Satisfied, Professor?"
"Cheeky," she commented with an affectionate smile. "I look forward to reading it."
"You know," Joanne drawled, "you proof reading my papers really is an unfair advantage."
"I just want the best for my baby girl, like any other proud parent," Cynthia retorted, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Joanne grinned and rolled her eyes.
She'd never known her father. He took off when she was a baby, according to Grams. Her mother had been locked up in Eichen House for the last ten years; paranoid schizophrenia. The responsibility of raising her fell to her only other living relative: her grandmother. Grams had always put Joanne first and did what was best for her. Hence her enrollment at Devenford Prep. Given the zoning districts, she should have gone to public school but, after she was delivered into her grandmother's care, Grams changed all that. She had pull with the Headmaster and had donated money to fund a new addition to the library and a few new computers. After that, Joanne's induction to Devenford had been smooth sailing – with the grand exception of her peers.
"Since most of my work is done or on track to be done way before it's due, does that mean I can go to Junior Prom?" she questioned coyly. Cynthia let out a quiet sigh as the pair headed out the front door.
"You know my rules, Joanne." The teen bit back a sigh.
"Yeah, I know." Friends were great, as long as they were human. Dating was fine, as long as they were human. The problem was that, one, she didn't have any friends – acquaintances and teammates, sure, but not friends – and, two, no one wanted to date her. "I don't have a date. Don't worry. Nobody's interested anyway," Joanne assured her with a frown.
Cynthia gave her a look as they walked to their cars. "I'm sure that's not true."
"Except that it is," the teen countered, irritated. Grams have her a look that clearly demanded an explanation. "Grams, please, don't make this into a thing. The dance is months away and I just wanna go and have some fun. Be normal for a change." Cynthia cocked a brow and gave her granddaughter her patented "Look", clearly unappeased by the answer she'd been given. Joanne, frustrated, finally snapped and told her exactly what she wanted to hear. "Nobody wants to be friends with the orphan freak that transferred from the public school, let alone date her, okay? Satisfied?" she sniped smartly.
"Kill that attitude, young lady. Right now," Cynthia chastised, pointing a stern finger at the moody teen. "Now you listen to me. Someday," her Grams said, gently taking Joanne's face in both her hands with a smile, "someone is going to see just how special you are."
"You mean what a freak I am," she retorted with a roll of her eyes, tugging out of Grams' grip.
"Hey! We are not freaks," Cynthia snapped. How many times was she going to have to tell this girl that? "We're witches. We're servants of nature," she reminded the teen. "We maintain the balance. We're powerful and we are strong. Don't you ever forget it, you hear me?" Joanne nodded, looking properly scolded. Cynthia looked her granddaughter up and down before making a decision. "Finish your Latin and French first, get a rough draft of that paper to me by this weekend, and I will consider letting you go to Junior Prom."
"Seriously?!" Joanne exclaimed excitedly. Cynthia nodded, laughing as her granddaughter let out a little shriek and hugged her, bouncing up and down.
"Yes, "seriously"," she laughed. "But, since the dance is months away, you have one job to earn that ticket: stay on top of your work and keep that GPA high."
"It will! I will, I will, I promise! You're the best, Grams! The absolute best!"
"This I know, but feel free to keep reminding me," she replied with false modesty and a shrug. Joanne laughed again as her Grams shuffled her off to her car. "Now, off to school with you! I'll see you tonight." Joanne waved goodbye as Cynthia called out, "I love you, baby girl!"
"Love you more!"
Everyday was the same: she had a wonderful morning with Grams, but then it was seven hours of monotony at school. It wasn't that Joanne didn't like school – she loved school! One didn't get a perfect GPA by not liking school – but it was downright torturous when you had no friends. Which Joanne didn't. Some had tried when she'd first arrived, but rumors quickly spread about what she was. Not the witch thing, no, but a public school orphan. Apparently, transferring to the fancy private school from public made you a social leper, even when you were still in grade school. Rumors of her mother's insanity didn't help matters either, if Joanne was totally honest. It didn't matter that she'd been the smartest person in her grade since day one. It didn't matter that she was very likely the smartest person in the school. It didn't matter that she'd worked her way to be captain of the JV volleyball team as a sophomore, a title that followed when she moved up to varsity. It didn't matter that her team had been ranked number one at nationals since she took over three years ago, thank you very much. It didn't matter that the staff loved her because that just made things worse. It certainly didn't matter that she had worked four times as hard as anyone else the school to be considered as half as good. Her peers just thought they were better than her, in every way. Kids were mean and they only got worse the older they got if you were an outsider.
Joanne pulled into the parking lot at Beacon Hills High just behind the bus from her own school. Today was a scrimmage against the public school, and members of other athletics teams had been encouraged to go along as well. While the game was just a scrimmage, the school Headmaster and lacrosse coach had both said that the other teams should go as a sign of solidarity. Out of uniform – probably so they didn't look like they were showing off – but they still had to go. According to the Headmaster, it was their "duty" to be supportive of their peers. Walking towards the entrance, she directed her team towards the field to get decent seats. As the other girls ran ahead, Joanne stayed back and watched as Brett Talbot had a confrontation with – surprise, surprise – Liam Dunbar. She'd heard rumors that he'd transferred to the public school after he'd been kicked out of Devenford. The freshman had to be dragged away by two other boys, one she recognized as Stiles Stilinski. He certainly looked better than when she'd last seen him at Eichen, still pale as a corpse though.
"Classy as ever, Talbot," Joanne noted sarcastically, walking passed him.
"Tagging along again, McLaughlin?" he sniped, jogging to catch up with her. Joanne glanced at him and wasn't at all surprised to see him smirking.
"I'm obligated to be here and you know it."
"Please," he scoffed. "As if you don't enjoy being here. I mean, it is where you really belong." Gritting her teeth and clenching her fists, Joanne resisted the urge to hex the cocky lacrosse player.
"Bite me," she huffed, glaring at him.
Smirking, he retorted, "You aren't my type."
"Thank God for that," she snarked, walking away from him.
The sun had set quickly and the scrimmage had been going okay. Beacon Hills had scored first and their coach benched the girl that had scored. That was a strategy that didn't make any sense to Joanne whatsoever, but the game went on and, after Brett, Liam and another player had all collided, things came to a grinding halt. The vibrating in her coat pocket had been a welcome distraction from the monotony and horrendous chore of small talk. She absolutely hated mindless small talk. Pulling out her cellphone, she saw she had two texts from Grams. Unlocking it, she gasped as she clicked on the picture to enlarge it. She had to be sure that what she was seeing was real, that her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. But they weren't. It was real. It was Grams, but she looked terrified and there was a knife at her throat. Someone was in her house and holding her Grams hostage. She swiped the picture away and read the message immediately underneath it.
Come home. Come alone. No police.
"What…?"
Locking her phone, she sat frozen on the bleachers. Brett had been injured in the collision so the game was on hold while injuries were checked and line-ups redone accordingly. It was a mild intermission and people were on their feet, milling about and gossiping, but all she heard was white noise. The lights on the field started flickering. Joanne closed her eyes, clenching her fists. Deep breath, one, deep breath, two, she told herself, just stay calm and count to ten. The moment she hit the golden number, Joanne opened her eyes and relaxed; she was calm, focused, and the lights were no longer flickering. Rising to her feet as her peers were distracted talking to each other, she ducked away from the crowd and darted to her car. She had to get home. Grams needed her. The moment she got in front of her house, Joanne bolted from her car. She didn't even bother to turn it off or shut the door; just slammed it into park and leapt out. Running towards her house, she quickly noted that her front door was cracked. Leaping up the stairs, she skipped the last two steps and lunged for the door. It all happened in mere moments, but the first thing Joanne saw was her Grams tied to a chair in the middle of their living room. She shouted for her to run and, a moment later, someone lunged at her with a knife.
Joanne raised a hand and shouted, "Motus!" Her attacker was immediately telekinetically pushed back. The person, a woman, flew back into the kitchen and slammed into the backdoor. She waited a moment with her hand in the air, poised and ready for her to attack again if she got up. But she didn't move. Good. "Are you okay?" she asked, rushing over in a panic. Reaching into her boot, she pulled out her athame and started to cut at the rope.
"I'm fine. It's a sanguinum knot." The teen froze and looked over at the attacker on the floor, stunned. She dropped the dagger on the floor; it was useless at this point. Muttering an unlinking spell, she quickly freed her grandmother and hugged her tight.
"She knows. How does she know?" she muttered, afraid and confused.
"We'll worry about that later. Let's get clear and call the police first." Cynthia was already headed for the front door, tightly holding her granddaughter's hand and pulling her towards freedom.
"The police?!" she exclaimed incredulously. Shaking her head, she planted her feet in the floor and pulled Grams to a stop. "She used a sanguinum knot! She knows we're witches! We can't just let her—!"
"We don't kill people, Joey," Cynthia scolded. The older woman froze as her gaze switched from Joanne to the kitchen. Joanne whipped around and gasped. Their attacker was gone. "Where is she?" Holding out her hand low to the ground, the discarded athame flew into her palm with a firm motus. "Get out of here, Joey. That's an order."
The teen stubbornly shook her head. "Not a chance."
"Joey, please," her Grams pleaded.
"I'm not leaving you!"
"Joey—!" Whatever she'd been about to say was forgotten as the attacker lunged at them with another knife in hand. A knife aimed at her granddaughter's back. "No!" Grams pulled her close and pushed her behind her, sent her stumbling into the couch. "Osox!" Joanne heard the distinctive sound of a bone breaking and a scream of pain. When she had finally gained her bearings, she saw the woman's one leg was broken and Grams had stabbed her low on her stomach. She smiled for a fraction of a second, thinking it was all over.
She'd been so wrong.
There wasn't any time. She'd frozen and it just happened so fast. That's what she'd tell the cops later: that it all just happened so fast and she hadn't known what to do. The woman had screamed in pain and backed off, the athame ripping itself from her body, and she swung her own knife wildly. The blade sliced across Grams' throat. Joanne stared in shock, feeling as though someone had just ripped her heart out. Her eyes welled and overflowed with tears as her grandmother collapsed to the floor. The woman cursing snapped her out of her daze and Joanne glared at her.
"Motus!" she shouted, waving her hand. The force behind her telekinesis had been much harder the second time around and the woman flew straight through the window in the dining room. Joanne stood there, waiting in anticipation, but nothing happened. Quickly striding to the window, she saw that the woman was gone. She certainly moved fast for a woman with a broken leg, but she was gone and that was all that mattered. With the threat gone, Joanne rushed back to her grandmother. She was gasping for breath, a horrible gargling sound as blood poured out of her mouth. "I can heal you! I can heal you! I can do this!" Keeping her hand pressed firmly against the wound, she started muttering the only spell she could think of. She could feel her magic flowing through her. She could feel something happening, the beginnings of the healing spell trying to work but it wasn't enough. Healing spells worked at different levels of speed and effectiveness, Grams had always said, but it seemed she hadn't started the spell soon enough. The wound was too deep, she'd lost too much blood, but there had to be something else. Some other spell! There just had to be! Ceasing her useless chanting, she tearfully questioned, "Its not working. Grams, what do I do? I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?!"
Cynthia let out a choking cough and pressed the bloody athame into Joanne's hands. Once Joanne had a hold of it, Cynthia ran a hand through the girl's hair and took in every inch of her face, committing her to what little memory she had left. She felt cold and lethargic. She was dying; she knew, even Joanne knew it but neither dared to utter the words. So Joanne cried and begged for an answer she couldn't give, and Cynthia used what little strength she had left to run her fingers through her baby's hair. All Cynthia wanted, in her last moments, was to gaze upon her granddaughter. She wanted her beautiful brown eyes to be the last thing she saw when she finally faded.
"Grams?" Cynthia's eyes had rolled back and her lids closed. "Grams, please, don't do this to me! Please, Grams!" Joanne pressed her hand harder into the wound, the blood gushing between her fingers. "Grams?!" she cried again, shaking her body to try and wake her up. But it was useless. She knew it was useless, but she didn't stop. "GRAMS!" Joanne hugged her Grams' dead body tight against her chest, her body shaking with tears. A gut-wrenching shriek escaped her, shaking the very foundation of the house.
The news the following morning told of the reputable occult professor's grizzly murder and of a startling 5.1 earthquake that rocked the surrounding area with over ten million dollars worth of damages.
