Lydia risks a glance in his direction. Scott looks pale in the silver light. His eyes seem weary and his shoulders hang lifeless.
"Does that make you mad?" she asks.
"No, of course not," he says in croaky tone, "I mean, I knew that already. I just needed to know that you knew. But it makes me sad. Like really fucking sad." He picks up a stick that he breaks in half continuously until the parts are too small to break. He adds the pieces to Lydia's scattered pebbles. "You said we're changing. It's true. I can't keep pretending I'm the same person I was. It's like I can't hide things from myself when I'm around you, and that does kinda piss me off. I know it's not your fault, but. . . I don't know. Never mind. "
"But what? I make you feel like a monster? That's what you told Stiles today."
"Yeah," he says as he turns to face her, "You do. The part of me that did those things - it's still there. I feel it every time I see you. Every time I smell you. And it takes effort to control it."
"Well, congratulations on not acting on your homicidal fantasies," she laughs, but the sound feels hollow and empty. "Jesus Christ, Scott. What I am I supposed to say to that? Thank you? You killed me, and now you want me to apologize for how that makes you feel?"
"Uhhh," he groans loudly. "God dammit, that's not what I meant. Why do you always have to make things a fight?"
"Then what did you mean? How was I supposed to interpret it?" she says.
"I don't know!"
"Whatever, it doesn't matter anyway," she says while swinging her hair over her shoulder. "I'm moving over the break. Transferring schools and everything. So I won't be around to remind you of your monstrous nature."
"What?" His mouth hangs open after his question.
"It's my parents idea - I don't really have a choice," Lydia shrugs, "but I'm starting to think it's for the best. We could all use a break from each other. Don't you think?"
"You're seriously moving?"
"Yep."
"When?"
"I just told you, over the break."
"No, I mean, when were you gonna tell us?"
"When the time felt right."
Scott pushes himself up into a slow stand. He watches Lydia with his back to the moon and his face drowned in darkness, but she doesn't need moonlight to read his expression. Lydia imagines stern eyes and a wrinkled brow over frowning lips from the placement and angle of Scott's feet - left foot forward with the knee slightly bent and the right leg turned out with a soldier's posture.
"You should tell them tomorrow," he says in a tone that matches her prediction of his tense face. "If you don't, I will." He turns without waiting for her response and walks back into the woods.
She doesn't breathe until she's sure Scott is out of ear shot, and the air rips in and out of her lungs with heaving gasps when she finally opens her mouth. Her eyes start to burn and soon her face twists, and the energy building in her limbs becomes overwhelming in its demand. She gives in to her trembling mind and body with a deep whine that crescendos to a sharp sob. The banshee presses her face to the dirt and groans at her tears. She stays unmoving, save for the sobs that force her to chin to twitch, and waits for her tears to dry. The tension gone from her body, her skin slowly drips to the earth and makes contact like a slug's kiss. Her brain feels sluggish as well. She focuses on her breath and its white trails of moisture. That's it. The only thought that will fit in her mind is her own life force. The moment she thinks about Scott, or Allison, the white trails disappear, and it's not until she's lightheaded that she remembers no trails means she's not breathing. But gasping is useless when your lungs are chopping like the shoreline. Plus it sounds ridiculous. She sits up and drops her head between her knees. She has to get control of her heartbeat and breathing before she goes back to camp.
Lydia wakes up when she hears Malia open the tent flap. The banshee probably slept for three hours at the most, but Lydia's good at living with no sleep. She sits up and quietly reaches for her bag so as not wake the still sleeping kitsune. She changes into a blue hoodie and jeans and crawls out the tent with her boots in hand. Malia turns from the fire she's building to watch Lydia with a half-smile. It proves more difficult than Lydia anticipated to put her boots on while standing. After the struggle, she shambles over to the fire to sit next to the were-coyote.
"Morning, " Lydia greets with a small yawn. The air is chilly, and she scoots closer to the young fire while cupping her hands over her warm breath.
"Morning," Malia returns with a toothy smile. She places the last log on top of the kindling. "We're gonna need more wood for today and tonight. But this should get us through breakfast at least."
"Sure," Lydia says with a stretch, "We'll get some after we eat."
It isn't long after the girls start frying eggs that the two werewolves emerge with groans. Derek stretches as he exits his tent and plops down barefoot next to Malia.
"Sunny-side up please," he says while yawning.
Scott pokes his head out of his tent and calls out, "Same, please!"
Lydia rolls her eyes and hands the were-coyote two more eggs.
After breakfast, the two girls excuse themselves to gather more firewood. Lydia keeps with Malia's pace for the most part - regardless of what direction Lydia walks, she keeps Malia in the corner of her vision. The silence of the woods seems appropriate, and neither teenager breaks it with idle chatter. However, it's a repetitive and dulling task, collecting firewood. And so what begins as a potential distraction from her chaotic thoughts quickly swerves into extreme annoyance. Lydia shifts her stance to balance the bundle on her hip while she moves the arm holding it forward. The new position allows her to bend over to retrieve a stick and pass it to her other hand to be tucked in the bundle, all in one fluid, efficient movement. The tedious act leads her mind to gray areas. To areas she only explores at night. Once there, her thoughts feel muddled and warped. Always the same, yet unrecognizable in the light of day. Why should she stop at communicating with the dead? Her hand stills and hovers over the forest floor. If she truly has the power she thinks she does, she could easily do more than speak to a spirit. Nope. She can't entertain these thoughts. She pushes against them with all her might. All her morality. And still, the whispers persist. Soft but incessant.
What if there's a way to see her again for real? After all, what is death but another door to be opened for a banshee?
Lydia scoffs and surges her hand forward to grab a broken branch. She must be going crazy - making up ideas like that in her subconscious. Or at least she hopes the whispers are from her subconscious. The thought of the other-side beckoning her with this information is unpleasant.
She hears the leaves crunching behind her and turns around to show off her kindling-collecting skills to Malia. Except the were-coyote isn't there.
"Malia?" Lydia asks in a small voice. The absolute quiet of the woods is the only stifling response.
The banshee wastes no time and quietly drops her bundle of sticks to the forest floor. She knows what it means when the birds won't chirp. She hears a low groaning roar as she turns to sprint back towards camp. She has this sound memorized now. Berserkers are quite distinct. She pumps her legs harder at the sound of crashing behind her. If she runs straight, it'll catch up in now time. She needs to change her path and create obstacles. Lydia grabs the nearest tree branch and uses it to throw her body to the left. Her adrenaline makes easy work of the creek banks that feed to the lake and soon she finds herself breaking the tree line of the lakeshore. She turns her back to the water and stares at the woods while catching her breath. The berserker pushes past a pine tree but stops at the sight of Lydia standing still by the shore. She can tell it's waiting - but not for her. A slender silhouette extracts itself from the shaded trees and stands with an almost lazy posture next to the beast. Lydia's heart flutters as brunette hair flashes auburn under the sun.
Why does she keep seeing Allison with a berserker?
The hunter rushes her before the question can be pondered. Allison grabs her by the shoulders, and Lydia watches as the berserker advances towards them.
"Let me go!" the banshee screams as she pushes against the arms holding her, but the hunter's grip is unyielding. The berserker marches forward, and Lydia can already feel the boned fist that promises to smash her face. She doesn't want to do this, but she doesn't want to die either. Lydia reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a broken silver tipped arrow.
"I'm so sorry, Allison," she says as she swings the arrow at the hunter's temple.
Her attack is stopped short by a stone grip on her wrist.
"Lydia, stop."
Her blood runs cold at the command.
"What are you doing?" the voice continues.
She whips her head to see who dares retrain her, but her anger dissipates at the image of a pale and sleep-deprived boy.
"Stiles?" she says, "What are you doing?"
"What am I-" the boy stutters in clear exasperation. "What are you doing?" he emphasizes his words with a gentle shaking of her wrist.
Lydia shifts her gaze from the silver arrow in her captured wrist to the hunter that still holds her. "I was-" she stops when she catches sight of the clawed hands gripping her shoulders. Her heart sinks as she raises her eyes to meet the questioning glare of Malia. Lydia can see Scott and Kira standing with a shocked expression over the were-coyote's shoulder.
"Is that one of Allison's arrows?" Stiles continues, "Lydia, what's going on? That, that-" his voice shakes as he increases his volume. "A fucking silver arrow to the brain would kill her!"
"Stiles," Scott calls out, "Let go of her, dude."
Lydia says nothing as Stiles's face scrunches to a heated pinch. The boy drops her wrist to run both hands through his hair. He shakes his head slowly between his hands then sits down facing the lake, and although his back faces her, Lydia can feel his eyes, blown wide with fear and anger, still blistering her skin.
"I'm sorry," the banshee says, but the words sound wheezy and air-filled. She clears her throat and says it again, stronger this time.
"It's okay," Scott says as he walks towards her with his hands up and visible. "Everything's okay, Lydia. You're safe."
"I think she knows that," Malia cuts in sharply. "Don't you?" she continues as she lifts her chin at the banshee. Lydia nods. The were-coyote studies her in silence, and Lydia has a hard time deciphering any of the emotions that flicker in Malia's stare. "So what happened?" she finally says, "I lost you in the woods, and when I find here, you almost kill me."
"I don't know. I didn't recognize you," Lydia says, "I haven't been sleeping that great. It's probably just sleep deprivation."
"Bullshit!" says Stiles as he stands up and turns to face her. "She's lying."
"About my sleep deprivation?"
"What?" Stiles says, "Okay, I actually didn't hear what you said, but I assumed it was something about how this has only happened, once so it's no big deal."
"It has only happened once," Lydia declares.
Stiles lurches forward as he points a finger at the banshee. "Lies," he hisses. "I saw you in the hallway when you ran out of Coach's class this week. She acted like someone was chasing her."
"Wait, seriously?" asks Scott while he turns to look at Lydia.
"I remember that actually," Kira says in a hesitant tone, "She just bolted from the room without saying anything."
"Have you noticed anything, Malia?" the Alpha asks.
"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Lydia snaps.
"We just want to help you," Scott continues, "That's all we want to do."
"No, it's not," she says with her hands on her hips. "I know what you really care about. I know why you want to help. Why won't you just ask me?"
Scott's shoulders melt to his ribcage as he meets Lydia's determined stare. When he gives her only silence, she turns her eyes, now tinged with desperation, to Stiles.
"Please," she says, "Just ask me. Stiles, I'll seriously lose my mind if you don't just fucking say it." She feels a sickness coil in her stomach as the boy bites his lip and turns away from her.
"I'll say it." Malia's voice is unforgiving in its nonchalance. "Are we at risk? These visions - will they affect the pack?"
"Malia," Stiles groans as he drops his head back.
"What? She said to say it, so I'm saying it," the were-coyote shrugs. "It's what we're all thinking anyway, right? You're visions usually mean something. I mean, you are a banshee."
"That's right," Lydia says while dropping her arms to her side. "I am banshee, which means I know the difference between a warning and stress-induced hallucinations."
"That's not the point, Lydia," Scott says, "We're a pack, and like it or not, your 'stress-induced' behaviors always happen before a crisis. We can't keep things from each other. Not anymore."
"Oh my god," she laughs, "Are you serious? This is how its gonna be? Everyone gets a private life except for me? No secrets for Lydia."
"Lydia, that's not what-"
"But it is!" she cuts off Stiles with her words. "That's exactly what that means!" She walks away from the shore with heavy, stomping steps but doesn't miss the knowing look shared between Scott and Stiles.
"Wait, where are you going?" Scott calls out as he jogs up behind her.
"Back to camp to get my cellphone," she answers without turning to face him.
"Why?'
"So I can tell Jordan to come pick me up."
"Lydia, stop."
"This was a terrible idea," she continues without acknowledging Scott. "I knew I shouldn't have come. I hate camping. I'm not ready."
"Lydia," he says again, and she can tell he tries to mask the anger in his voice. He reaches a hand out to catch her hoodie, but Lydia spins to face him the moment he makes contact, breaking his grip on her clothing.
"Don't touch me, McCall," she says behind wide eyes. "I am so fucking serious. If you touch me one more time without my permission, I'll scream until your ears bleed."
He draws his hand back slowly and watches her with tired eyes. "Why are you being like this?"
It's official. She hates him. She hates him so fucking much.
"What ever I'm like, it's because of you," Lydia says quietly. "It's your fault. And I can't even go through it in privacy. No, I have to make a spectacle of myself in front of the pack. You have no idea what that feels like, Scott. To have your friends cross their fingers that you're going insane. Nothing to worry about, just Lydia being crazy again, right? How many voices do you think she heard today?"
"What are you talking about? No one wishes you were crazy!"
Lydia ignores him and continues her rant. "I can't stand this anymore. I don't understand how any of you think you're helping me." Her voice is thick and she can't stop the tremors that run through her throat. "Did anyone ask if I was okay?" she says. "Did anyone actually care about me? No. You only care about my powers. That's the only meaning I'll ever have to the pack, and I'm fucking sick of it." She turns from Scott and continues her march to camp.
"Lydia, please wait and talk to us about this."
"No, leave me alone," she says without turning around.
"But you haven't even told them you're moving yet," he says with a whine.
"You can tell them for me, I don't give a shit. I'm done pretending."
Lydia turns her phone off the second she gets in Jordan's car. It started raining while she was packing and now the droplets hammer down on the windshield wipers with brutal force. Jordan doesn't ask her what's wrong. He seems to understand that she needs time before she can discuss it. The ride is silent save for the sound of the rain, and Lydia keeps her eyes trained out the passenger side window to avoid acknowledging the awkward quiet. Once she starts to see signs for Beacon Hills she turns to Jordan and clears her throat.
"You can drop me off at Deaton's," she says softly. The Deputy nods with a sigh.
The car whines to a stop in front of the vets and Lydia grabs her array of bags to exit.
"Lydia," Jordan says.
She looks over her shoulder and waits for him to continue.
"You know you can always talk to me. About anything. I'm here for you, night or day."
She nods and turns back to the car door, but Jordan places a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm worried about you," he says, "And I won't force you to talk about it, but I need you to know that."
She closes her eyes and takes his words deep into her heart. How does he always know what she needs to hear? She sets her bags down to lean over the center console and wraps her arms fiercely around Jordan, tucking her head into the crook of his neck.
"Thank you," she whispers.
The soaked banshee stands in a near stupor in the middle of the vet waiting room as Deaton looks for a clean towel. The water puddles under her feet and she can hear the small splashes the droplets make as they escape her wet hair. Deaton returns with a mug of coffee and a towel. He hands the mug to Lydia and then drapes the towel over her shoulders.
"Camping didn't agree with you?"
She doesn't dignify the question with a response and instead walks over to sit by his desk and drink her warm coffee. The Druid watches her with seemingly clinical yet caring eyes.
"No, of course it didn't," he answers his own question and sits down behind his desk to face her. "But I'm sensing there are larger issues at play here."
Lydia looks up dully from her drink and shrugs.
"Or perhaps I'm wrong," he continues, "Perhaps you just decided to stop by and enjoy a cup of coffee at your local veterinary office."
"You're not as good at this as your sister was," Lydia says with a small smile.
"Well, she was a counselor," he says, "I, on the other hand, am a vet, so I'm not used to my patients talking," he finishes with a warm smile.
Lydia lets out a tiny laugh and sets her cup down on the desk. She takes the corner of the towel and wipes away the water that drips from her hair to her face.
"I'm moving. I don't want to, but I have to," she says after a long silence. "And things have been so messed up lately, I almost tricked myself into thinking it was my best option, but . . . the pack," her words fade softly.
Deaton remains quiet, silently beckoning her to continue with a nod of his head.
"I just don't know how I feel about anything anymore," she says, "When I'm not around them, I think about them. I miss them. I want to help them. And then I see their faces and I remember things, and I get so pissed off. I can't even stand to hear their voices. How does that even work?" She crosses her legs and looks down at her lap to her fidgeting hands. "I resent them. Every single one of them."
"Why?" The question is posed gently by the Druid. It's clear he makes every effort to keep the word free of any accusation.
"Look," the banshee sighs, "The only way I know to explain it is this: Everyone has a role in the pack, and mine is the canary. I don't even feel like a person anymore. The way they look at me - like I'm a just weekly weather forecast or something."
Deaton sits back in his chair and folds his hands on the desk.
"It's times like this," he begins slowly, "That I find it difficult to be an Emissary." Lydia looks up sharply from her lap. "I want to be able to comfort you," he continues, "I want tell you that everything will work itself out, but you and I both know that isn't true. Banshees are supernatural creatures of a very strange nature. You're much closer to the unknown than any other being. You stand at the threshold between this world and the next. Anything that disrupts that balance will show itself through you."
"So I have no choice is what you're saying?" she says. "No matter what, I'll always be a canary? That's not fair."
"No, it's not," Deaton agrees, "But there is very little fairness in life, Lydia. I'm sure you know this by now."
The banshee crushes her lips between her teeth and shrugs the towel off her shoulders with a shake of her head.
"I don't really know what I expected from coming here, but thanks for listening to me anyway," she says as she stands and turns to the door.
"Lydia," Deaton says in a calm voice. She stops with her hand on the doorknob but doesn't turn around to face him. "You may be trapped in this role, but don't ever think you're as helpless as a canary. You have far more power than you realize."
She exits without acknowledging his words.
Rain obscures Lydia's vision of the parking lot, and as the wet cold creeps under her jacket, she wishes she hadn't insisted that Jordan leave. He'd wanted to wait for her, but she'd been stuck in a self-punishing mode of thought. His offer had repulsed her in that moment. Lydia gnashes her teeth and pulls her jacket tighter in a futile battle to keep out the rain. Stupid girl. She hates this about herself. Why does present Lydia have to suffer for past Lydia's tantrums? What does walking home in a storm even prove? How pitiful she is? Lydia can't draw any other conclusion. She hates pity, and thats the point. This punishment functions on multiple levels. Stupid smart girl. All that awareness, and yet she knows nothing. Contradictions are all she has left. And they're everywhere. They scratch her eyes and get caught between her teeth. It's maddening. Why does she feel so bad for walking out on the pack when they deserved it? If someone had just tried to connect with her before demanding answers, maybe she wouldn't be walking home in the rain right now. They expect too much of her. Everyone else can control their freak abilities. They can't understand what it's like to have random power.
Someone shouting her name startles the banshee, and Lydia turns swiftly to see Derek leaning out the window of his Camaro. The werewolf motions for her to get in the car, and she doesn't wait for a second invitation. Lydia plops into the passenger seat with a sigh and pushes her waterlogged hair from her face.
"Shouldn't you be up in the mountains?" she says while buckling her seatbelt.
"I had everyone pack up after you left," he says before turning into the parking lot of a coffee shop. "Camping sucks in the rain anyway. Here, hold on," he continues, "Just looking at you is making me cold. I'll be right back."
Lydia watches Derek run across the parking lot and disappear inside the building. He returns four minutes later with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. He gives one to Lydia as he gets in the car.
"Thanks," she says as she holds the warmth between her palms.
"Jordan picked you up, right? Why were you walking?"
"I had him drop me off at Deaton's," she says.
"And he didn't wait?"
"I didn't let him," she says after taking a sip of her coffee. "Anyway, I'm not going to apologize, if that's your game plan. I don't think I did anything wrong."
"You're right," says the werewolf, "You didn't do anything anything wrong. It was my fault. I shouldn't have pushed us into a trip."
The banshee watches him carefully from the sides of her eyes.
"But they're terrified, Lydia," he continues, "You guys have been through so much that I forget you're still just kids. No question about it - what happened at the lake should have been handled better, but it's only their fear getting the better of them."
Lydia rolls her eyes at the obvious statement. "It's their fear that I resent," she huffs. "Do you know how much of burden it is? What it feels like to have everyone turn to you like that?"
"I know," Derek nods, "It's an extreme responsibility, but it's meaningless with out the power to back it. And you have that power."
"Are you trying to build up to the Spiderman quote?" she snorts, but stops her laughter at Derek's confused face. "Nevermind," she says. Stiles would've have appreciated the reference. Derek turns the car into her driveway, and she reaches for the door handle.
"Power doesn't automatically create responsibility, Lydia," the werewolf says. She looks back at Derek over her shoulder as he continues, "Responsibility is created from the expectations of those around you. You carry this burden because the pack trusts and respects you."
Lydia pulls her lips into a sharp grin. "Yippie," she says in a falsetto voice. Derek seems unimpressed at her sarcasm and the banshee sighs. "I know all of that already, okay? You're the third person to say it to me," she says. "I just have a lot of things going on right now. A lot of unprocessed things. Like my death, for instance. And it's not like I'm leaving the pack. I mean, I'm moving, but I can't control that. I'll still be a part of the pack. . . probably."
"Don't rush things on how you feel," Derek says with sad smile, "This weekend was my fault. I should've known to give you more time. I hope it didn't set you back too much."
"Please," Lydia says as she tosses her hair over her shoulder, "It takes way more than that to set me back. But time never hurt anything, right?" She attempts a smile as she exits the car, but she can tell from the tension in her jaw that it came off more as a smirk. She realizes a smirk works better with her image anyway as she slams the car door.
Monday comes far too quickly for the banshee's liking. Lydia still hasn't decided if she's going to tell the pack about her Berserker visions as she pulls into the Beacon High parking lot. On the one hand, it feels like the right thing to do, but on the other, it feels wrong depending on the pack when she doesn't trust Scott. Lydia doesn't hate the True Alpha at the moment, but she knows that could change when she sees his face. She doesn't want to make waves in the group so maybe it's best to keep her distance. But if, on the off chance, her visions aren't PTSD related, she'd be leaving the pack exposed by not telling them. Lydia parks and then drops her head to the steering wheel. Today already sucks.
A tapping on her window registers in her mind and Lydia raises her head to see Kira shyly standing next to the banshee's car. The kitsune waits until Lydia is out of the car to speak.
"Morning," she greets in a soft voice. "Um, listen, I want to say I'm sorry." Kira looks down at her feet and puts a hand to on the back of her neck. "Derek was really pissed at everyone for what happened."
"It's fine," Lydia says as she starts walking towards the school building.
"No, it's not fine," says Kira as she speed walks next to the banshee, "You're going through something. Something's really bothering you and instead of trying to figure it out with you, we cornered you. That's not how friends help each other. I'm really sorry, Lydia."
Kira's words make Lydia feel toasty inside, but she keeps her face neutral.
"I promise not be an asshole like that in the future," the kitsune finishes.
"I'm going to hold you to that promise," Lydia says as she pushes a clump of hair from her face. Kira smiles brightly at the response as she turns the corner and offers a frantic farewell wave to the banshee before she disappears down the hallway.
Lydia slows her steps and lets out a loud sigh when she spots the lurker next to her locker.
"Good morning, Scott," she says in a dull tone without looking up as she enters her combination. She sees his feet shift clumsily in the corner of her vision.
"Uh, yeah, morning," answers the Alpha. Eloquent as always. The open locker blocks Lydia's view of Scott's face, but if his body language and voice are any indication, the werewolf is embarrassed. "So I, um," he stops then starts again, "That is, uh, I know," he stops again and sighs. Lydia closes her locker loudly, and turns to the stuttering teenager.
"Scott," she says in a clipped tone, "If you're trying to apologize, just forget it. Kira already said sorry. I assume it's on behalf of everyone."
"No, that's not it," he says, "I mean I do want to apologize, but it's just. . . I want to talk to you."
Lydia tilts her head as she pushes her lips out into a frown. "I'm not eager to repeat our last conversation," she says as she starts to walk away. Scott scrambles to keep up with her heeled strides.
"That's the thing," he says, "It won't be a repeat. I promise. I talked to Derek, and I think I get it now."
"Get what?"
"How you feel."
Lydia stops to face him. "I don't even know how I feel, Scott," she says, "How could you possible know?"
"Just give me a chance, okay? Please?" He puts his whole body into the plea, clasping his hands while widening his eyes and bending his knees, back, and shoulders. Lydia's height has increased by four inches thanks to the soft pink peep-toe heels the banshee sports today, and the Alpha stands almost three inches shorter than her in his currently curved position. The satisfaction of seeing the top of his head nearly stills her breathing. She feels a strange inner peace at being able to physically look down at the True Alpha. Scott straightens his body, as if somehow sensing Lydia's thoughts, and the height ratio shifts back in the werewolf's favor. He says something, but Lydia misses what it is in the process of trying to shake off the serene spell left by her brief moment of physical advantage. She ignores the heated embarrassment creeping over her cheeks that accompanies the realization that she had officially zoned out. Lydia clears her throat and tosses her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her wrist.
"Fine, we can talk," she says, addressing the only the topic she can remember. She mentally crosses her fingers that it's a suitable response to whatever Scott just said.
"Really?"
"Yes, really," she answers with a huff.
"Alright," says Scott as a relieved looking grin spreads across his face. "Then how about after school in the library?"
Lydia nods in agreement as the first bell rings then disappears into her classroom with a passing group of students. She sits in a desk close to the front and sets her purse on top of it. The banshee busies herself pulling a notebook and pens from the oversized accessory. Her fingers brush against a sharp point and she draws her hand back with a shocked hiss. Allison's silver arrowhead. The banshee's been carrying it with her since she got out of the hospital. It must have fallen out of the scarf used to wrap it. Lydia tenderly reaches back into her purse and holds the arrowhead in her palm before wrapping it back up in the silk scarf. Maybe she'll make the tip into a necklace. Would Allison like that? She tucks the bundle in her purse and uncaps her pen. She's already read past the chapter that the teacher is lecturing on, but taking notes helps keep her mind occupied which it does nicely until the bell rings for class change. Second period passes as quietly as first, and soon Lydia finds herself having to occupy her mind through third period. She succeeds for most of class until she feels her mental control slipping and gives up on taking notes altogether. She'll draw instead. The banshee presses the pen hard against the paper to create small, scratchy lines. Lydia has no idea what the lines are supposed to form, but she knows it's relaxing to draw them. She stills the pen when she realizes the teacher has stopped talking. The silence of the room takes on an unnatural quality, and fear begins to coil in Lydia's stomach. She lifts her head at the sound of soft growling to her far left. A berserker hovers in the classroom door. A tainted laugh catches Lydia's attention next, and she turns to see Allison perched on the teacher's desk. The hunter smiles at her with a mocking tilt of her slender neck. The berserker walks with thumping footfalls that echo in the banshee's already hammering heart. There's no where to run this time. Lydia grips the edges of her desk and closes her eyes. She won't die, she tells herself. It's not real. It can't hurt her. She squeezes her eyes shut tighter at the tickling sensation of warm breath ruffling her hair. It's not real. Bone clicks against the pressed wood as the creature grips the desk and leans in closer. It's not real. Lydia counts to the three and opens her eyes. A bone-plated face stares back at the banshee with an uncanny familiarity she can't place.
"Lydia?"
The sound of her name breaks through Lydia's panic, and the berserker is gone before she can even turn her head to see who called out to her.
"Lydia?" The soft voice repeats, and Lydia looks up to see Kira smiling down at her. "That was the lunch bell. Let's go," the kitsune continues before she looks down at Lydia's notebook. "Hey, that's neat," she says with a nod, "What is it?"
Lydia fixes her eyes on the notebook in confusion and sets the pen down that just seconds ago she had moving in furious patterns over the paper.
"I don't know," the banshee answers slowly as she studies the design. "But something tells me we need to find out."
The rest of the pack sits quietly at the lunch table after Lydia shows them the unknown design. Stiles leans back in his chair until its front two legs lift off the tile while drumming his fingers next to his tray. He titters precariously a moment then allows the chair to return all four legs to the ground with a slam that launches him forward.
"And you don't remember drawing it?" Stiles says as he reaches for the piece of paper.
"I remember starting it, but I don't remember finishing it," says Lydia. "I don't recognize any of the patterns either."
"Could it be another language?" Kira asks.
"It's possible," Lydia says, "But if it is, it's one I've never seen before. And look, see how the lines come together like they're merging? Typically, a written language has more distinct symbols than that. If this is a language, it's an old one." She finishes with a sigh.
"Lydia," says Stiles as he cradles his head in his hands, "I'm not trying to be mean, but have you ever thought of trance writing answers instead of their impossible-to-solve, riddle counterparts?" He wipes a hand down his face with the question.
"Come on, dude," Scott says, "They're not impossible. We solved every single one so far."
"Yeah, literally by the hairs on our chinny-chin-chins!" Stiles counters loudly.
Lydia rolls her eyes at his outburst and continues speaking as if Stiles had never opened his mouth. "There's one more thing," she says while tucking some hair behind her ear. She's not eager to open this topic of discussion, but after the events of third period, she can't risk keeping it a secret any longer. "I still don't know if it means anything or not," she continues, "but I've been having visions of a berserker."
"You were running from a berserker at the lake?" Malia says with wide eyes.
"Why didn't you tell us then?" Stiles says with a hint of regret hiding in his voice.
"I didn't think it was important then," Lydia says with a flip of her hair.
"What changed?" asks Scott. "What makes it important now?" His words could be confrontational but his face and tone show clear concern.
"Well, for starters, that's what I was seeing when I drew the pattern," she says with a nod towards the paper.
"And for enders?" says Stiles.
"You know how I said I know the difference between warnings and stress hallucinations?" Lydia pauses after her question to wet her lips before continuing, "I'm not so sure this is a hallucination anymore."
The banshee half runs, half walks down the hallway. She'd gotten all the way to her car before she'd remembered that she's supposed to meet Scott in the library. She slows to a stroll when she sees the library doors and calmly walks inside and over to a round table where the True Alpha sits reading.
"Hey," she greets in hushed tone as she takes a seat.
"Hey," Scott returns as he closes his book.
"So," she continues in tight voice, "I'm here. What did you want to talk about?"
"Yeah, okay, first off. . . um," he stops after stumbling through the words.
"Scott," she presses with a slow tone and and wide eyes.
"Well, I owe you a lot apologizes so I'm trying to think of what to say sorry for first," he says while staring down at his hands.
Oh god, not apologizes. Sorries are the last thing Lydia needs to hear from Scott right now. She gets exhausted of thinking about all the wrongs he's committed against her.
"Then let's skip the apologizes," she says. "What was the other thing you wanted to talk about?"
"Oh, well, it kinda got addressed at lunch," he says with a slight frown, "But it's definitely related to the apologizes."
She narrows her eyes and purses her lips.
"So I will definitely find a way to explain it with out saying sorry," Scott continues in a rushed tone of voice.
Lydia nods with a perky smile.
"Right, so I talked to Derek and to Deaton," he says. "Or they talked to me, actually. About you, obviously. . .Well, your powers to be more specific. Or your relationship to the pack because of your powers to more specifically specific." The Alpha stops his butchered speech with a sigh. "Can I start over?"
"Please do," the banshee says.
"Lydia, the pack needs you," Scott says in a serious manner. "Not your powers, but you: Lydia Martin. We need your problem solving skills. Your critical thinking. Your. . . how many languages do you know?"
"Three, if you count archaic latin although technically it isn't spoken," she replies.
"See?" Scott says as he raises a hand and lets it fall slowly back to the table, "That's amazing, and we need it." The noticeable excitement fades from the Alpha's voice leaving a more sincere and calm sounding tone when he continues speaking. "The pack wouldn't be the same without you. We wouldn't even be here without you. And we should've done a better job of showing you how important you are. You're not some thing. Not some prediction of the future. You're Lydia. You're our friend." He emphasizes the group of words by saying them softly, then clears his throat as if trying to cover the tenderness shown in his earlier tone. "And friends help each other no matter what, right? So when you scared, or you feel weird about something, remember that. . . you're not alone. You've got a pack. You don't have to tell us what you see. . ." He pauses like he's struggling to find the right words then carries on, "Or even why you're seeing it if you don't want too. Just lean on us a little. I know you don't trust me, but you can trust them, can't you?" the Alpha says in a slightly desperate sounding tone.
The banshee raises her eyes to meet Scott's imploring look, but refrains from speaking. She doesn't have an answer for his question anyway.
"Lydia, I promise we'll do everything to figure out what's going on," he says, "Stiles is on his way to Deaton's with the pattern right now. We going to solve this before anyone gets hurt."
For one second, his words erase everything that's happened in the last six months. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine them back at the beginning of junior year. Before Lydia had a name for her supernatural affliction. Before Allison was dead. He sounds so much like his old self that Lydia's heart splinters and cracks. It's not fair. Why did things have to change? Why did Allison have to die? Why did Scott have to hurt her?
"Lydia. . ."
When Lydia hears the soft devastation shadowing Scott's voice, she knows she was unsuccessful at stopping her oncoming tears. Although he could probably smell her pain and grief before the emotions took a liquid form.
"I need to go," she says quickly as she swipes under her eyes. "I'm supposed to meet Jordan, and I refuse to be late." She stands with a small sniffle and swings her purse over her arm. She walks to the door before she stops and looks over her shoulder at the still sitting Alpha. "I'll call Stiles later to see what he found out," she says before walking out the door.