For some reason I always get surprised when people actually review my fics. So, thank you! And I hope you all enjoy the next part.
Warnings: character death, blood, general creepiness. Also if you come across some things that aren't canon then just assume that for the sake of this story they are.
And on we go to the chapter...
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Resurrection is difficult, the page tells him, but not impossible.
It will take immense willpower, incredible amounts of magic, and intense concentration.
If he does one thing wrong, he could die.
But if he doesn't do anything, he's as good as dead anyway.
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The prospect of the ritual gives Stiles a renewed sense of purpose, a reason to wake up in the morning, and a glint in his eye that borders on unstable.
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Since the supernatural is responsible for this, he reasons, it's the only thing that can fix it.
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Feigning a breakdown, Stiles ingratiates himself with the pack through the virtue of (feigned) vulnerability. Scott welcomes him back and Stiles cries into his shoulder and for a moment everything feels almost okay.
It doesn't take long for it to fall apart again, but this time Stiles can brace himself for the fall.
.
With bruised knees and scraped hands Stiles struggles to his feet. The battle rages on around him and there, in the middle of the chaos, he sees her.
Eyes bright, hair fluttering around her shoulders, wearing the same clothes she died in.
Lydia.
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She calls his name, a sound he feels rather than hears, and Stiles stumbles toward her. Then someone else is calling his name, barely audible above the yelps the snarls, and something heavy slams into him.
And he's gone.
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"You could have died," Scott snaps later that day. "What the hell were you thinking, sprinting into the middle of the fight like that?"
The rest of the pack watches nervously, still reeling from the sight of Stiles being knocked to the ground by the enemy alpha.
"I saw her," Stiles mumbles into the silence, "I saw Lydia."
No one challenges him, but the sympathy in their eyes is even worse.
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Over the next week, Stiles gathers the ingredients for his ritual. A lot of it is symbolic and open to interpretation. But the book (or rather, the page of it he has) stresses one thing: power. Without enough power the ritual won't work. And there's one kind of magic that always raises that kind of power.
Blood magic.
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Deaton, as the resident druid, is the first person Stiles consults. After listening patiently to Stiles' jumbled explanation he politely asks if he's lost his mind.
"Probably," Stiles says absently, "but that's not the point."
A long silence, and then, "What you're suggesting is extraordinarily dangerous -"
"I didn't ask if it was dangerous." Stiles grits his teeth, glances at Lydia out of the corner of his eye. "I asked if it was possible."
"In theory, yes," Deaton starts, "but -"
"Thanks, Doc," Stiles interrupts, and is gone without another word.
Lydia walks home with him, smiling all the way.
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Given how often the pack dives into danger, it's surprisingly difficult to get their blood.
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Stiles knows he's going crazy, but Lydia tells him it's okay, and even as a ghost she's the smartest person he's ever met.
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He gets Kira's blood first, from a nosebleed of all things. He catches her as she staggers back during lacrosse practice, their teammate shouting his apologies and Coach muttering profanities. Using a tiny, spelled vial he got from an occult store a few towns over, Stiles collects a drop of Kira's blood, comforting her all the while.
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To Stiles' surprise, Parrish shows up two days later, having returned from his stint at a station in the next town. When Stiles visits his dad at the station he sees Parrish interviewing a guy with an eyebrow piercing and a scowl to rival Derek's, and a few minutes later the newly-reinstated Deputy is clutching his arm while the Sheriff prises a knife out of Scowly's hands. Stiles seizes his opportunity and helps Parrish over to the first aid kit, and by the time the Sheriff comes back Stiles is in possession of a tiny vial of phoenix blood.
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Druid blood would be ideal, but Deaton is on his guard. So Stiles does the next best thing and acts on a hunch. Another lacrosse practice, another accident, and Stiles gets a drop of Danny's blood. Druid or not, blood is blood.
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The full moon provides an opportunity for Stiles to get close to Malia. Although most of the time she's in control of her powers, on full moons she still doesn't like to be alone. Stiles volunteers to keep her company, and it doesn't take much to provoke her into a change. In her frenzied state she scratches herself, and Stiles ends up with the blood of a werecoyote.
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Kitsune, phoenix, druid, werecoyote.
Human.
Five vials, and five days until Halloween.
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On October 29th, the pack takes on the rogue alpha again. Stiles rushes into danger, heedless, thoughtless, seeking only the blissful chaos and the heat of battle. Scott has to drag him out of harm's way several times, dodging werewolf claws and fangs and almost certain death.
At the end of the fight, Scott takes Stiles aside and very calmly warns him, "If you don't stop being so reckless, I'm going to kill you myself."
"Maybe you should," Stiles spits back, and he stalks away without waiting for a response.
As he makes his way across the bloodstained battlefield, Lydia walks beside him like a guardian angel.
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Two days later, by unanimous vote, Stiles is officially banned from future pack missions.
Stiles skipped the meeting during which they decided this, so Scott comes over later to fill him in.
"What happened to you?" Scott asks, voice pained and eyebrows furrowed. "I know you're still dealing with… with everything… but I thought it was getting better. I thought you were okay."
Stiles' gaze slides past Scott, landing on Lydia. She hasn't left his side since the last battle, and she looks as beautiful, as ethereal as ever. And the strange thing is, she looks alive.
"Stiles?" Scott asks, leaning forward and gazing earnestly at his friend. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." Stiles watches as Lydia inclines her head, silently gesturing to the baseball bat Stiles keeps by his bed.
"You're not." Scott clears his throat, waiting – hoping – for a response. "Is there – is there anything I can do?"
"Yeah." Stiles has just enough time to register the surprised flicker of hope in Scott's eyes before the swish and thud of the bat. "You can stay out of my way."
Scott topples to the ground, out cold, and Stiles steps over his body on the way out the door.
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It's Halloween. The only time Stiles could walk into a cemetery carrying vials of blood and accompanied by a ghost without feeling completely insane.
Lydia watches silently as Stiles sets up for the ritual, unpacking his duffel bag and laying out the tools and ingredients he'll need.
The grave marks the center of the ritual space. Around it, forming a rough square, Stiles places four items: a bowl of salt, a bowl of water, a stick of incense, and a burning candle.
Then he sits cross-legged in front of Lydia's headstone, a small pewter bowl resting in the dirt before him.
In the distance he can hear kids trick-or-treating, parents shepherding, dogs barking. But it all feels a world away.
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Magic starts to shimmer around him as Stiles tips each vial of blood into the bowl, naming each as he goes.
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"Phoenix," he says, "for fire."
Drip.
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"Coyote, for earth."
Drip.
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"Druid, for water."
Drip.
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"Kitsune, for air."
Drip.
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"Human, for spirit."
Splash.
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Magic whips around him like a wolf howl, and he closes his eyes and focuses, reciting the spell in Latin, reading from the page clutched firmly in his hands, feeling like –
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He's not alone.
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As the spell gathers energy, Stiles becomes aware of someone approaching from behind. Someone calls his name, the voice as familiar as his own, but he doesn't turn. Scott can wait.
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Be the spark, Stiles thinks to himself, and the candle starts to flicker, until suddenly it rises up, shooting a jet of flame high above it. Be the spark.
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"Stiles! Stop -"
The flame burns bright, hot, enchanting and primal and –
"Stop!"
The blood in the bowl bubbles up. The flames rise higher. The scent of the incense curls around him.
Stiles' mouth tastes like salt.
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Be the spark, he tells himself, be the spark, and suddenly his whole world is up in flames.
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The air splits in front of him, shimmering like a portal, like a veil, like a doorway, and Stiles rises to his feet and walks forward.
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He steps through.
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But he's not alone.
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Beside him, Scott breathes out slowly. "What the hell was that?" He blinks, looking around him in surprise. "Where are we?"
Stiles doesn't answer. His eyes are searching the gloom, still adjusting to the post-portal darkness. He can't see Lydia; he can't hear his heartbeat. He can't feel anything.
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"Stiles," Scott snaps, his voice sharp with fear, "what happened?"
Turning to his friend, Stiles lifts his shoulder up in half a shrug.
.
"What happened," he says quietly, "is that we just died."
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X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X
So, I have a new one-shot I'm going to publish soon. It's set in a foreign location and from the POV of a character I don't normally work with, so if you're excited about that then let me know and I'll try to have it up soon. (Mysterious enough for y'all?)
Anyway. One more chapter of 'spirit' left, and as always reviews motivate me to update more quickly. So show me you're enjoying the story, and I hope to see you all soon!
