"Isaac!" Scott called, rushing through the sea of students swarming the halls to get home, with Stiles . "Hey!"

"We need to talk about Lydia," Stiles said when the two boys reached him. "Scott says that he's only seen Deaton once and he hasn't got any answers."

Lydia was a few feet away, talking to Lena. The two had become friends recently, much to Isaac's content. She would fit in.

"What do you mean," Isaac said, turning his back on the girls. "She's a banshee, that's all there is to it."

"Yeah, but see, here's the problem with that," Stiles said, his speech growing increasingly fast as he went on, "We don't know what in God's name that means! Banshee is not a damn answer, is it!"

"Banshee?"

The boys whirled around to see Lena standing there.

"Sorry, I don't mean to pry, but if there's like a project you're doing I could help. I happen to know a thing or two about Celtic folklore, particularly banshees. I'd really be happy to help."

"Uhhh...confrence, real quick, these two, okay." Stiles said, dragging the other two out of earshot of the girl.

"Isaac-"

"No."

"But-"

"No."

"Celtic fo-"

"No."

"Folklore-"

"No!"

"Dammit, I thought you said she was normal!"

"She is!"

"Then how-"

"I don't know!"

"I think we should tell her." Scott said, jumping in for the first time.

"Yes, maybe she really could help." Stiles said quickly.

"I said no."

"Maybe we could save lives, Isaac."

"It's dangerous."

"She's in danger just living here." Scott said, trying to be gentle in persuading his friend.

"Look what happened to... to my...dad."

And that was it. Stiles had convinced him. They went back to Lena, and Isaac took ahold of her arm. "We need to talk."

"Okay," Lena said slowly, sitting on the edge of Scott's bed. "So, werewolves, kanima, druids, darach, banshee."

"Yeah." Isaac kneeled in front of her and took her hands in his. "I swear to you, it's all true."

"Oh I believe you. Don't worry about it."

"And..." he swallowed.

"And?" She smiled. He exhaled. They were okay.

Stiles stepped in. "So I know this is like, a big shock and everything, but we need to know what you know and how you know it." She nodded.

"Okay. I'm a second generation Irish immigrant, on my dad's side. My family, the McGuires, or in Gaelic, Mag-Uidhirs, have been around for thousands of years. Our clan was one of the great clans of Ulster. And I'm a direct descendent from the line of chieftans, who were either druids or descended from them. And I mean real druids. Like, robes and ceremonies where they ate bone marrow. Old school, weird-ass, druid druids. Anyway, then there was England and Catholicism, and that's a whole nother thing. But I know about the Old Ways because my granda taught me all about them. I'm his only grandkid. Bit of a dissapointment there wasn't a boy, its the first time. It's all passed down through the line. So, what do you want to know."

"Banshees. Go." Stiles said.

"Banshees. They're really old spirits, they generally belong to really old Celtic families, and they appear to the family before the death of a loved one. They weep and wail, it's actually keening, for the loved one. They're also typically old hags- sorry- and sometimes they're seen washing bloody clothes by hand."

"But, it's Lydia. How does that work?"

"Well, I guess she has some blood in her. Old Irish blood. Everything is about blood, you see. Her family banshee is probably manifesting itself in her. Still... Or! Maybe...yes...well...has she ever almost died? Was she ever really hurt?"

"Peter bit her, but she didn't turn, and she didn't die. That's probably the closest I can think-" Stiles said.

"There! I've heard stories... Hold on." She jumped up, and quickly ran out of the house and to Stiles' Jeep. She threw open the door and grabbed her bag, then ran back to the others and began rooting around in the fairly large bag.

"What? What are you looking for?" Scott asked.

"My granda died two weeks ago," she said quickly as if that answered everything.

"Lena, I'm sorry, why didn't you say anything?" Isaac said.

"Because I'm fine. He was 104. But the other day, they sent me... this." She pulled out what appeared to be an ancient book. Scott said so. "That's because it is. I mean, this thing even has the original Cuchulain stories in it." The boys looked at her blankly. "They're like really old fairy tales. Sort of. Anyway. This is where the Mag-Uidhir clan came from and went to. It's been passed down to each generation, and now I guess I'm the last of the bloodline. But, I think I remember Granda telling me about this old story...here." She stopped rifling through the aged pages. "Thousands of years ago, they found a boy in the woods with a bad animal bite. They thought he would die, I mean, scratches killed people, remember, but he didn't. For a while. Then, the night before a battle he screamed all night. It was awful. And the next morning, 67 men died. It wasn't even his family, or his clan even. It must be community."

"So Lydia..."

"I'm willing to bet that bite was a werewolf. I think that her banshee must have basically sacrificed itself for her, so it saved her from dying or becoming a werewolf. So now, she has a bit of its ability to sense immenent death, but because its no longer truly bound to the family, its anyone in the community. Its fascinating really, the whole thing."

"Can I see that?" Stiles asked. She handed him the book, making sure he was careful with the old leather cover. "What is this, Pig Latin?"

"It's Old Gaelic."

"Oh, of course it is. And you can read it."

"Well, yeah. Granda taught me. He had to."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the last of the bloodline, weren't you listening?"

"Okay, okay. So druids and darachs?"

"That's a bit more gray than black and white."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning there's a lot to sift through, and that's not even a specific question."

"Okay." Stiles paced up and down the floor."We should call Lydia. She should hear this. He dialed and started talking. Isaac went to sit next to Lena.

"Are you really okay?"

"With what, I'm fine."

"Well, you just found out Scott and I are werewolves. Scott's mom didn't even talk to him for a week. And your grandpa..."

"Well you're still you, you haven't changed or anything. And I saw the banshee, our banshee, that is, the night he died, so really, I'm just fine. That's enough closure for me."

"Okay. Well... uh..."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm great. Fantastic, actually. Damn, Lena, you're amazing."

"You too, Lahey. You're a freaking man-wolf hybrid!"

"I promise, you're not going to get hurt."

"Don't worry about me, sugar, those puppy eyes will do me in before any druid."

"Puppy eyes? Really?"

"Oh my God, I didn't mean like dogs I just-" They laughed. Very, very hard.

Lydia came.

It was 5:00. Lena was supposed to be at ballet. She hadn't even gone home. She didn't even care. She stayed for dinner at the McCall house, where all three boys were now living. She met Melissa McCall, who was perhaps the kindest woman she had ever met. She treated all of the teenagers like her own children, nevermind that only one of them actually was. This must be what mothers are like.

Mrs. McCall insisted Lena eat everything on her plate. She did. Ten minutes later, she asked for the bathroom. Upon arriving there, she shut the door, and proceeded to hunch over the toilet and vomit. She hated it. She hated herself. While she purged, she cried quietly, imagining a life with Mrs. McCall as her mother. A mother who didn't make a ten year old throw up her every meal, who locked her in her room for days with no food, and taking the lightbulb out of the lights so that she was in total darkness except for the tiny penlight she didn't know the child had, who had stretched her child for hours everyday since she turned three, sitting on her feet, forcing her turnout, arching her back and pulling her hamstrings every single day, no matter how much her own child cried. Because her daughter was going to be perfect. A prima ballerina. Sylvie Guillem reincarnated. There was a knock on the door.

Isaac had excused himself and gone to check on her. They hadn't been able to talk alone all day.

"Just a minute!" She stood up quickly, wiped her cheeks and began brushing her teeth with a little plastic toothbrush while she flushed the toilet.

"Lena? Are you okay?" He had heard her from outside the door.

"Fine!" She called, tossing the toothbrush in the trash and chewing mints before she put in a piece of gum, washing her hands.

"Are you sure?"

She opened the door to face him. "Yeah," she said, sniffling just a little. "Why? I'm totally fine."

"No, you're not. Come on." He led her up the stairs and then sat down at the top. "Tell me exactly what you were doing in there."

"I had to go to the bathroom, Lahey, come on."

"No, you didn't. Please. Don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Throw up everything you eat. Don't try to deny it. I could hear you. And I have before."

"Look, I can't not do it. Okay? I have to."

"No, you do-"

"I do! I do, okay?"

"It's dangerous. So dangerous."

"I've been managing fine for almost 7 years."

"You were ten? Oh God. Did she make you?"

"Who?"

"Your mom. I've heard you talk about her."

"No."

"Lena."

"Yes."

"Talk to me. You're sick, okay, but I'm going to help you get better, I swear to God."

"I'm not sick."

"Please, talk to me. Tell me about her."

"She's just doing what's best for me. For my ballet."

"For you or your ballet?"

She was quiet for a minute before whispering, "My ballet." And she told him everything about her mother. The purging, the dieting and the solitary confinement. He moved closer to her and hugged her, wrapping her in close to him, so that her head was over his heart, and his chin rested on top of her head.

"I'm going to take care of you."

"I'm ok-ay." She said, her voice cracking on the last syllable, as she began to cry, again quietly. She had learned to be an expert at crying quietly. Her mother viewed crying as weakness. And weakness was an imperfection most great. She held onto his left arm with both of her hands.

"Now, I want you to answer me honestly, does she still punish you?" Isaac asked when she had calmed down. She nodded against him. "Okay. Then you're not going back. You're not staying with her anymore."

"Isaac, I have to."

"No, you don't. Not anymore. Please."

"I can't."

"You can. You actually aren't getting a choice. Let me go make a call, okay?" He went downstairs, his blood boilling. He knew the Mrs. McGuire type all to well. She had a lot in common with his dad. He pulled Scott aside and told him of the situation, then he pulled out his phone and dialed. "Hey, Derek? I need a really big favor."

So that was longer, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Let me know your thoughts? Thanks so much! 3