"Hi, my name is Stiles," the pale boy said, apprehension apparent in his voice. "I think, I mean, you might be-"
"I know who you are," a voice on the other end of the telephone said, warm and assuring. "You're my sister's son. Stiles. I can still remember that nickname. Which would make me your Aunt Ellen."
Stiles pulled a chair from the kitchen table, suddenly realizing how tense he'd been. His face felt hot as his blush died away. Though it was difficult to tell over the phone, the voice seemed to belong to someone a bit older than his mom would have been, displaying both strength and gentleness. "I don't mean to bother you, but I was just wondering if you could answer a few questions for me," Stiles said, suddenly realizing that this might be something of an imposition. He made a concerted effort to hide his usual erratic nature, wanting to make a good impression on the first person he'd met on his mom's side of the family.
"Of course," his Aunt Ellen replied, her warm and inviting tone now taking a careful edge. "You wanted to know about our family... history?"
Stiles was fairly certain that the sudden care she took to not reveal too much was due to fear that he still didn't know about his witch genetics. He put her mind at ease. "Yes, I wanted to know more about power that runs in our family," Stiles replied.
He could almost hear her breathe a sigh of relief. "Oh wonderful, you already know. I told your mother that she shouldn't spellbind you. I told her to send you to us so we could teach you to harness your power. But she couldn't leave your father alone, and he couldn't leave Beacon Hills," she rambled, happy to finally be able to tell him this. A touch of grief in her voice hinted at the fact that she'd wanted to do more for him.
"It's okay," Stiles replied, staying strong as he fought off the strong emotions pushing against the backs of his eyes. "I understand. But I'd, uh, really like to know about the family. I've had a tough time getting a hold of anybody."
The line was silent for a moment, and as the seconds passed, Stiles found himself fearing that he'd said something wrong. He could almost feel his hold on the only tenuous connection he had to his mom's family slipping. "Yes," she said finally, a hard edge to her voice. "Yes, I suppose they would be scarce at the moment."
Stiles redirected his questioning at this strange bit of cryptic information. "Why is that? Where are they all going?" Stiles asked. "Are they running to or from something?"
Another long silence pervaded, and Stiles wondered if it would perhaps be a better idea to just talk about easier topics. He was worried about scaring her away. His aunt breathed a deep sigh into the phone. "I suppose they're doing both," she responded. "You see, something big has happened in our world. That is, for witches. The archmage just died, which only happens about every century or so. Many witches' lives have been thrown into chaos."
"Archmage? Why is that a big deal?" Stiles asked, confused as if he were hearing the middle of a story.
"Your mother really didn't teach you anything before she died?" Ellen asked, seeming surprised and a bit irritated. Once again, she breathed a deep sigh. "Witches have something of a hierarchy. The archmage is at the top. He essentially protects all of the witches in the world. He controls a series of witches beneath him who mete out justice and protection where needed. He's incredibly powerful, and therefore feared by hunters and most other supernatural creatures. However, he almost never exerts his considerable power, since he knows that it will cause resentment from other creatures. At least, the last one did. As a result, nobody bothered the witches much, and our numbers grew."
"So what does this have to do with our family?" Stiles asked, the phrase 'our family' feeling a bit strange in his mouth while talking to a complete stranger.
"It doesn't just involve our family, it involves every witch across the globe!" his Aunt Ellen said with an exuberance that hinted at the release of long repressed tension. She took a moment, and her cool tone afterward suggested that she'd been composing herself. "You see, now that the archmage is gone, a new one is going to have to take his place. Until someone proves their powers and is appointed by the Council of Grand Witches, there is no guaranteed protection for witches."
Stiles suddenly felt leery, as if he were no longer safe. Until a short while ago, he didn't even know that he was a witch, much less that being one made him a target. "So... hunters might go after witches?" Stiles asked, incredulous. "I know a few hunters. They don't seem like the type to go and plant a knife in someone's back without a good cause." Regardless of their code of ethics, Stiles couldn't help thinking of recent activities involving Gerard, nor could he suppress images of Kate gleefully burning a family of werewolves to death.
"There are some hunters who... specialize in finding witches and... eliminating them as threats," Ellen said uneasily. "Historically, when this happens, there usually ends up being a witch hunt. Some of them break out while the archmage is still reigning, but he usually deals with them swiftly and mercilessly. You see, hunters usually take advantage of these times of flux to take out as many witches as they can. Our family is one of the oldest on record. Many people change their last names and go into hiding, and entire families are often wiped out."
"Ours was in the Trier witch trials, wasn't it? I remember reading in the book that we were almost wiped out then," Stiles said, connecting what little he'd read in the book about his history to what his aunt was telling him about current events. "So is that what everyone is doing? Going into hiding?"
"Not exactly," his Aunt Ellen said. "You see, beneath the Archmage is the council of Grand Witches. Beneath them are the High Witches. Everyone is seeking refuge under their spheres of influence. Once, witches only lived near their regional superior for protection. In the last century, the Archmage made sure that we were all so well protected that witches started to leave the safety of their covens and live where they pleased. Now, a lot of witches are going back to the old ways and forming covens again for survival. So most of our family dropped everything and moved as soon as they heard about the Archmage."
Stiles' stomach churned and his head swam in a sea of new and terrifying information. Since discovering that there were werewolves in the world, Stiles had made a point of taking extra precautions. Now, he felt as if the only safe thing to do was hole up in a bunker and assume the fetal position. "How long does it usually take to appoint a new Archmage?" Stiles asked, feeling sick.
"It can take up to a decade," his aunt responded, confirming his worst fears. "It depends on how long it takes for someone to prove their abilities as being exceptional. Being an Archmage is something that you're more or less born with, though the power won't manifest while there is another still alive."
"So what? We're just supposed to sit around and wait to die until someone happens to try to light a candle and burns down a village?" Stiles asked, his first glimpse into the world of witches making him wish that he were still spellbound.
"Oh honey," Ellen said, her voice softening and taking a sympathetic edge. "I promise that being a witch is a beautiful, wonderful thing. You just happen to have come in at a bad moment. It won't always be a fight for survival. There are many incomparably marvelous parts of our world that you'll see. Right now, though, you should probably ind the nearest High Witch and try to find a living situation there. There should be a map of them in the grimoire. Everything will go back to how it was soon, I promise."
A million questions made Stiles' head foggy. "So when can I see the family?" he asked, suddenly having a vivid childhood memory of being lost inn the supermarket after getting separated from his mom.
"Soon, I promise," she said, her feathery soft voice making him want to believe her. "We're all a bit scattered now, but soon enough we'll all be back in contact. Then maybe we can find a safe place to convene. But I have to go now. I have to pack and leave as quickly as possible."
Stiles had a feeling like sand falling through his fingers as he heard his only family member saying her goodbyes. "I love you, Aunt Ellen," he said, honestly feeling it despite having been distant from her for the majority of his life.
She hesitated a moment. "I love you, too," she said in a strangled voice. "Stay safe."
Stiles waited for a long moment, listening to the dialtone. It yawned at him, confirming his loneliness as it echoed the myriad of questions that plagued his mind now. Hanging up the land line, he allowed his recent revelations to sink in. The chirping of crickets, buzzing of cicadas, and distant croaking of toads seemed like mourning calls now for the exciting life that he'd mistakenly believed his was starting. The danger of the world took away some of its wonder, now making it seem savage and competitive. He doubted very much that he could use his powers to take on a seasoned witch hunter. Or a relative novice, for that matter.
Gathering his wits, he shut all of the curtains and windows, locking them into place for a vague sense of security. Walking up the stairs to the attic, Stiles couldn't help feeling as if the mortal locks were almost laughably pitiful; a step above tying a piece of string with a tin can at the end to the window. Somehow, his mother's little room seemed like less of a private chamber for witchcraft and more of a hastily composed bomb shelter. It was the equivalent of a rodent's nest in a person's house, constantly fearing being seen by the larger beings of the outside world.
No.
Stiles bristled as he dug his heels into the dirt. He would not allow these witch hunters to sully the memory of his mother. She was proud and strong, and surely could have contended with any sort of hunter or other supernatural creature looking to do her family harm. With a deep breath, Stiles opened the cabinets. Before moving the jar of rosemary to get at the grimoire, Stiles made a point of taking out a handful of stems from the jar marked "purslane", counting out enough for each door and window to the outside of his house.
Flipping through the book, Stiles idly wondered when the index was made, since apparently it was after the creation of this book. After a few minutes of flipping, Stiles finally found a page that was folded over. Unfolding it, he found that it got several times larger, revealing a map of Earth. A small legend in the corner informed him that a blue dot indicated the Archmage, a purple dot represented a Grand Witch, with purple borders indicating his or her purview, a green dot showed a High Witch, and a circle around the high witch signified his or her area of control. His eyes swept over the continents, now understanding the divisions of Earth much differently. There were very few Grand Witches, and their green lines divided up the world into large chunks for each to watch over. Inside these divisions were green circles indicating where High Witches reigned. Stiles' eyes searched over the map, trying to make sense of the spacing of the circles. There were large areas of the world that were completely without the protection of a High Witch.
Stiles narrowed his eyes, looking for the closes green circle to Beacon Hills. There was a tiny one around San Francisco, which seemed to just barely cover the city. Stiles' eyes widened as he saw the tiny circle move. Taking a step back, he noticed that most of the little dots were moving. Some only made tiny little vibrations, while others seemed to move at steady paces, fast enough to be noticed. Stiles smiled to himself as he found the answer to his questions of accuracy. The map needed no updating, since it seemed to magically track the movements of each witch in the hierarchy.
Notes scrawled on the sides of the map filled Stiles in on many of the nuances of the population distribution. First, he learned that many of the large expanses without a High Witch were widely populated with other supernatural beings or were popular places for hunters. Stiles figured that the reason most of his area was without a High Witch was because there seemed to be an inordinately high number of werewolves. Second, he learned that a High Witch's circle of protection moved with him or her, whereas a Grand Witch can cross his or her own borders while still maintaining their influence over the area. Third, he learned that a High Witch's circle was directly proportionate to his or her power and therefore his or her ability to protect those inside of the circle. Thus, a smaller circle meant a less powerful High Witch, and a larger one meant a more powerful one.
Stiles assumed that most of his family decided to relocate closer to a large circle of protection. The circle over San Francisco was one of the smallest on the map, meaning that the High Witch living there probably wouldn't be much help to him. However, the closest sizable High Witch was in Arizona. A fairly large circle was located right near the western border. Drawing a line between Beacon Hills and the edge of the circle, Stiles figured that he would be several hours, almost a day, away from everyone he knew and loved. His stomach tightened and his breathing grew shallow. He thought of his dad, alone in Beacon Hills. Stiles searched for a plausible reason to get his father to come with them to another state, but he drew a blank. Short of informing him of the entire magical world beyond his realm of knowledge, Stiles couldn't think of a dire enough situation to uproot the man's entire life. Besides, he knew that his dad would be safer if he stayed away from this entire business and wasn't associated with a witch.
Numb fingers dug through Stiles' pockets, shaking as they scrolled through his contacts. The time restraint weighed heavily on Stiles' mind as he tried to sort out the different sides of the equation. There seemed no clear answer as to what he should do next. Too many thoughts started crowding his mind, each vying for his attention as it arrived. Clicking on the picture of a smiling boy with a crooked jaw, Stiles looked to the one person who could clear out the clutter of his mind and help him see clearly.
"Hey, Scott," Stiles started when the ringing stopped and a voice like honey sounded through the phone. "Do you have some time? I have about a week's worth of crap to dump on you."