Hi everyone! Thanks for all the great reviews!

This week's chapter was kind of an experiment with formatting, so I hope it works!

Chapter 21: Origin

Clara, Scott, and Isaac sat slumped over in their seats as Stiles drove back into the suburbs. After hours of wandering around downtown Beacon Hills, they had become exhausted and discouraged. They walked up and down the streets and in and out of dozens of buildings trying to get any sign of Lydia's presence. But no scent or vibe from her could be detected anywhere. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, only the needle had probably been enchanted to look like more hay. They couldn't help but feel like she was somewhere under there noses, but unable to be found.

"Well that was a bust," Isaac sighed as they made their way home.

"There must have been something we missed," Stiles said, holding on to the hope that they could still find her in time.

"Maybe the others had better luck," Scott mused. The only hope they had left was tracing the creature back to its master.

"You're awfully quiet," Isaac said softly to Clara, who was leaning her head against the slightly rolled down window, her long hair tickling her face as the wind blew through it. She had been staring off into space for most of the car ride, but she turned her attention to the boy as he spoke.

"Not much to talk about," Clara answered. She wasn't in the mood for another pep talk, even though she knew he meant well.

The car fell silent for a while, only the rustling sound of the breeze flowing through the windows filled their ears. They were almost back to Stiles' neighborhood when the sound of Scott's phone buzzing recaptured their attention.

"Ok, we'll be there," Scott said after a few seconds of listening to the other end. "That was Deaton. He said to meet him at the clinic as soon as possible."

"What's going on?" Isaac asked.

"He didn't say exactly, but it must be important," Scott replied. "He said to bring Clara."

Stiles quickly looked behind him to make sure no one was coming and then quickly u-turned in the middle of the road. Clara felt her body slam into the door as the car spun around. After a few minutes they pulled up beside the building labeled "Veterinarian."

Even though it wasn't after hours yet, the lights were off and the closed sign was hung up on the door. Scott took out a set of keys and promptly let them in. They walked through the doorway, setting off a quiet bell as they did so. Clara could feel the presence of Mountain Ash lining the room. Walking into a new place completely defenseless wasn't exactly comforting to her, but she had learned to trust these werewolves, as counterintuitive as it felt. A bald, black man in a lab coat greeted them at the doorway, opening the gate for them to enter. He propped the gate open, breaking the circle, and then led them into a back room filled with medical supplies and caged animals. It all seemed like a fairly ordinary vet's office, but, there was one thing about the place that stuck out as abnormal: the unconscious man stretched out on the examining table.

The man was emaciated and sickly looking, like he had been living in a cave for years. His eyes were sunken in and lined with thick, dark circles. His teeth were rotten, many missing all together, and his face looked like it had been broken and not healed properly. He was restrained on the table with heavy, leather straps and had an IV drip attached to his arm, keeping him from waking up. The man was covered with a white sheet, but the parts of him that were visible were covered in dried blood. Judging by what she could see, the man didn't just look old, he looked ancient. On his head grew tufts of white hair and his hands and feet were veiny with sagging skin. Clara wondered if he really was old or if the trauma had made him look this way. She wasn't sure if she should despise him or pity him.

On the other side of the room hung the creature's hide. It was foul, covered in blood and mangy hair. It was cut lengthwise in an odd spot, which made it lay in a strange shape. It was unlike any animal skin she had ever seen displayed before. There were several tracks of thread sewn up and down it that were hidden from the outside. It was the only thing about the creature that could have been considered neatly done.

"So this is him," Isaac said as his eyes lingered on the man's face.

"Not what you were expecting, huh?" the vet replied. Then he turned to face Clara. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Dr. Deaton."

"Clara," she replied. "Delacroix."

"I know of your family," he said, looking at her face as if to find something familiar. "Though there hasn't been much contact with them for many years."

"We're very private people," Clara replied, issuing her usual response. For a brief moment she reflected on her life before she started going to school in the open. Before getting entangled with strange creatures, werewolves and normal humans. How everything was so much quieter before.

"I've heard you're quite the talented witch," Deaton said, pulling Clara's attention back to him.

"Enchantress," Clara stated. The term witch didn't really bother her that much, but for some reason she couldn't stop herself from correcting him. The man wasn't bothered though, he just smiled at her with his eyes.

"I was hoping you'd be able to help us," he said, walking back over to the head of the table where the man slept. "I wanted to ask him some questions earlier when he was awake, but that proved to be...impossible," he added, opening the man's mouth, to reveal that his tongue had been cut out. The sight sent shivers down Clara's spine but she never took her eyes off of him, even as she heard Stiles gagging behind her.

"I can try," Clara answered, knowing that her past attempts of using her craft had proved useless.

"That would be much appreciated," Deaton replied.

Clara joined Deaton at the head of the table, staring upside-down at his face. She cautiously placed her hand on his forehead, which glowed softly as she connected to his mind.

"What is your name?" She asked. The answer rang inside her head in a haunting, gravelly voice.

"Silas Faust," the voice echoed.

"No, that can't be possible," Clara said, looking up at the rest of the group with wide eyes.

"What?" Scott inquired.

"He says he's Silas," Clara answered. Confused looks spread across everyones' face. Clara turned her attention back to the man on the table. "Silas Faust is dead."

"I live," the menacing voice said. "I will always live!" the man said again, this time shouting so forcefully that it caused the lights to flicker and Clara's mind to snap out of the connection.

"Clara, are you ok?" Isaac said, trying to get her attention as she stared blankly down at the man.

"I'm fine," she replied, breathing heavily. "Clearly he's not very talkative."

"Then, what should we do?" Stiles questioned.

"If he's not going to tell us, let's make him show us," Clara said. "Grab hands," she ordered. They did as she said and formed a circle around the table, hands linked.

"Why are you're hands so clammy," Isaac muttered, uncomfortable holding Stiles' hand. He much preferred the feeling of Clara's in his other one.

"This is weird for me too," Stiles countered.

"Stop talking," Clara said, silencing the two boys. "Close your eyes and clear your minds."

"Yes ma'am," Stiles said, prompting Scott and Isaac to elbow him on either side.

As Clara began to chant some foreign sounding words the world they stood in began to peel away. Each member of the circle began to feel a strange weightless feeling as their minds blocked out anything other than Silas' thoughts. They felt like they were being sucked into blackness until Clara gave the command to open their eyes. The scene played out like a film projecting onto their minds. They watched as everything unfolded around them.

"That's where your wrong. The only part of the plan that failed was that you got out alive," they heard a hateful voice say. The words were familiar to Clara's ears. It was Silas, standing above Jarvis Hales' dying body in the same moment she had seen before with Lydia. It was as if she had pressed play on a film that had been paused for decades.

Silas lingered for a moment, watching the young Hale boy bleed to death. There was no remorse on the boy's face. Just a satisfied expression, like he had just swatted a fly that had been bothering him. He seemed impressed with himself — with his newfound skills. The power he obtained from Edith's Orb was so raw and concentrated, it was like a magical high. He could not wait to test the limits of his abilities.

The boy's smug grin quickly disappeared as he heard the sound of footsteps rustling the dead leaves on the ground. His first instinct was to hide — to duck away quickly behind a tree or a bush. But then he thought of a better idea. He closed his eyes for a moment and began to concentrate hard. When he opened his eyes, he looked down at his body, which had seemingly vanished. The satisfied smirk returned to his face as two dark haired boys rushed right past him, oblivious. They stopped in front of Jarvis' bleeding body, falling to their knees.

"Jarvis...Jarvis," one of them said frantically. "Brother, what happened? Who did this?"

"F- F-...Faust," Jarvis managed to croak out before the light left his eyes. The older boy's eyes lit up a glowing blue as he growled so loudly that it shook the trees. The cry only meant one thing: war.

It was two o'clock in the morning. The woods were still, except for the rustling of nocturnal animals and the sound of crickets chirping through the night. Silas ambled through the darkness, not particularly caring if he ever got where he was going. He had spent countless hours off in the woods, practicing new spells and charms. Seeing how far he could take his new gift. In this moment, nothing else mattered. All of his attention was focused on his powers.

After a few more steps, he landed on the doorstep of a quaint, wooden house. It was the house he grew up in, but he no longer saw it as his home. All it was now was a barrier between him and greatness. A constant reminder of how inferior the family practice of alchemy was. His days of toiling with potions were done.

He was lost in his thoughts as he walked through the house, until suddenly he was rushed by a petite figure who clung to him tenaciously. It was his mother, sobbing as she embraced him. Silas was not amused by the flagrant display of affection, but he had to play along.

"My baby," his mother managed to say between sobs.

"What is it mother?" Silas said, trying his hardest not to sound cold. She could barely form enough words to answer him. He looked up and saw the cause of all this emotion through the doorway to the dining room. There, lying on the table were his two younger brothers, blood soaked from the claw marks that killed them.

"It was the Hales," Silas' father stated, approaching his now only living son with solemn eyes. He was holding a shotgun by his side. The blood of his sons stained his hands and clothes. "They think one of our boys killed Jarvis. This is their revenge."

"Monsters," Silas spat with faux rage. "They will pay for this."

"No son," his father said. "You must leave Beacon Hills tonight. They won't stop until all of our boys are dead."

"I'm not afraid of them," Silas said. "We should fight back."

"This is not a matter for boys," his father stated. "The men will take care of it."

"Please Silas," his mother sobbed. "Listen to your father."

"If that is what you want, then I will obey," he said, crouching down to look his mother in the eye. "But promise me one thing. Kill them all."

Silas left Beacon Hills behind him, never once looking back. He knew he could never return, as he was suspected of murder. But that was not what kept him from ever venturing back. He had made a new plan for his life and it did not include home or family or any of the other sentimental things people always went on about. He had one goal: to become the greatest enchanter the world had ever seen. He traveled miles upon miles, searching every corner of the world for anything that would make him more powerful. He traveled with magical gypsies, learning their secrets and tricks. He learned the powers of the mind from monks and shamans. He lived among druids and warlocks, mastering the depths of dark magic. He created and destroyed powerful enemies, making a name for himself in the underground. He lived a life in shadows, surrounding himself with the things that terrorized the night.

His new life of darkness would have been perfect if it were not for one thing: his human body. Silas was aging, just like any other human. He saw it as his only weakness. His greatest enemy. He switched his attention to new forms of magic. Magic that was darker than anything he had ever encountered before: immortality.

He watched his own burial. There was a small funeral in which all attendees were new generations of Fausts. He'd never seen any of them before, and they knew nothing of him. Only that he was a long lost relative who had a space in the family plot. He looked on at the spectacle amused, sitting high up in a tree, invisible to their eyes. He laughed at the gullible men and woman who morned over the body of some drunken homeless man he had found in the streets.

There was only one thing of meaning in that coffin, the journal which he started under the Coven decades ago. Now, no one would ever know the means by which he gained his powers, and no one could ever surpass him. With all memories of Silas Faust buried he was now free. Free to live forever, wherever he pleased.

Decades passed by incessantly. Such a lifespan made the days melt together and the years blur into indistinguishable stretches of time. A new era had arrived and Silas had become a wonder of the past. The long, endless years of dark magic had taken its toll on him. He could never have predicted the state his glory days would leave him in. He was a shadow of a man, desperately clinging onto life.

For the past several years he spent all of his days locked away in a cabin in Siberia. The bitter cold nipped away at his rough face, but the isolation made it tolerable. He had grown to hate the outside world. Instead he chose to waste away alone in the darkness. Most of his time was spent writing, keeping record of the magic he had discovered throughout his life. His books were like anthologies of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of the world. They were only missing one thing. A thing he had buried long ago.

Silas stared intensely at the fireplace that blazed opposite the desk where he sat. The sound of the harsh winds blowing was interrupted by the unwelcome sound of footsteps. It was soon followed by the sound of screaming. Silas had set up several vicious traps for those who dared to disturb him, which weren't many.

"Who are you?" Silas barked at the intruder. It was a young man, around thirty, with long slender limbs and chestnut brown hair. Silas now had him bound to a chair with invisible straps that crushed his ribs gradually.

"My name is Lawrence. Lawrence Faust," the young man said. "I am a distant relative. The youngest of the remaining Fausts."

"What do you want boy?" Silas said menacingly. He was surprised at how well the man was standing his ground.

"I want to learn from you," he answered. "I have spent over a decade searching the world for you, seeking out anyone who could help me find you. I had heard whispers that you still walked the earth and were powerful beyond compare. I knew they were true."

"I am not a teacher," Silas remarked harshly. "Besides, what was wrong with your home training?"

"No one in the family practices alchemy anymore. They gave it up long ago," he replied, a hint of resentment trickling out of his voice. "They try to hide the fact that our family was once involved with such things. It took a great deal to uncover our family's secrets."

"We are not family," Silas said coldly. "You are just a boy who has wandered into my home uninvited. A common last name means nothing. Besides, I'm surprised through your quest to find me no one told you I do not practice alchemy. I gave that up over a century ago, you foolish boy."

"I know," the younger man said. "I was hoping you would teach me what you do practice: the Craft."

"As I said, I am not a teacher."

"It wouldn't be starting from scratch," Lawrence said. "I know many things already. I have practiced for some years. But now I want to learn more. I want to learn the dark depths of my powers."

"Oh do you? And who taught you? Some traveling magician? Or a gypsy woman?" Silas scoffed.

"I learned from an...acquaintance," Lawrence answered, unsure of how to label the person he was describing. "A Delacroix."

"A Delacroix," Silas said in disgust. "Even worse."

"I understand your hatred of them," the man said.

"And how could you understand that?" Silas responded, dubiously.

"Because I hate them too," Lawrence answered, his eyes glistening with distain. "She promised to teach me everything. To make me powerful. But she lied to me."

"If this is a love story, save it," Silas spat.

"It is not," Lawrence replied. "There was no love from my end. I only did what it took to get what I wanted. But she got what she deserved, regardless."

"This is all very dramatic," Silas said. "But I am still not interested and I won't help you. Now if you would leave before I make you leave that would be beneficial...for you."

"Won't...or can't?" Lawrence mused.

"Excuse me?" Silas growled.

"You can't, can you old man?" Lawrence began. "You are too weak. You're clinging to an empty life, aren't you?"

"Get out!" Silas roared, using his mind to tighten the straps of Lawrence's chair until they almost crushed his ribs. His outburst caused him to expend a great deal of energy. Energy he did not have.

"What if I could help you," the young man said, his tone shifting. He watched as the old man struggled to stay on his feet. But it was not with pitying eyes, but the eyes of a predator.

"And how could you help me?" Silas questioned. Though he was doubtful, there was a part of him that longed to be strong again. "Just a minute ago you were begging for my help."

"I know someone. A man in Beacon Hills who I encountered through my journey. He could help you," Lawrence explained cunningly. "I can take you to him."

Silas woke up, feeling unlike his normal self. The usual pains of old age had been replaced by a new feeling. A feeling like his body had been bent and contorted into unnatural positions. He felt like he was trapped. He had no recent memories and his normally sharp mind was groggy. Where he was and how he'd come to be there was a mystery. When he opened his eyes, at first he couldn't see. But after a few moments, the world started to fade back in. Now, he could see better than ever. He could smell and hear better too. His senses flooded him all at once, overpowering him.

He looked around the room and noticed the walls were lined with dead animals. Not the kind that were rotting away, but the kind that had been preserved. They were stuffed and mounted for display. Their dead eyes and empty expressions were inescapable.

"He's not very pretty," he heard a shaky, nasal voice say. "But he works."

"It better," a more familiar voice replied. "Considering how much I'm paying you."

"He is my greatest creation to date," the first voice replied with nervous excitement. "He might be a bit...slow...at first. He will need to be trained. You never mentioned what he was for?"

"Think of him as an attack dog," the second man said nonchalantly. Silas realized that it was Lawrence, his long lost relative. "How do I make him dance?"

"With a bit of magic and some brain rewiring I have programmed him to follow your command," the man explained, amused by his own work. "Anything you want him to do, he will obey."

"Excellent," Lawrence said, a devious smirk spreading across his face as he looked down at the creature. "Silas, attack."

Without a moment's hesitation, Silas lunged at the other man. Though his new body was foreign to him it already knew what to do as he viciously attacked. He was not able to summon enough will power to disobey the command, so he tore the man apart as he was told. The man was screaming and thrashing on the ground in pain and his left arm was torn off.

"Now Stop," Lawrence shouted. The creature stopped and stood over the man's red stained body. "Good boy," Lawrence cooed tauntingly. "I think we should work out a different payment plan," he said, staring down at the man on the floor, smirking. Then he put on his hat and strode towards the door. The man scrambled to his feet and followed Lawrence, limping as he walked. "Now stay," Lawrence turned around to say before he exited the room and locked the door, leaving Silas in the dark.

Suddenly, the memories came to the end and everyone in the room was violently snapped back to the present.

"Is anyone going to mention how insane that was?" Stiles interjected, steadying himself on the counter.

"It was quite the experience," Deaton stated.

"So this really is Silas," Isaac said, slightly bemused. It seemed like only the other day he was staring into his dug up grave, and now there he was.

"What a reversal of fortune," Deaton commented.

"More importantly that was the man who took Lydia," Clara said. "Lawrence, he's the man I saw, he has to be."

"That still doesn't tell us where he is," Scott said. "Where Lydia is."

"It might have told us more than you think," Deaton replied. He crossed over to the other side of the room where the creature's pelt hung on the wall. "Look here," he said, pointing out a specific detail on the skin. "I noticed it the other day, but wasn't sure what to think of it before now. The whole thing was sewn up, but in a very peculiar way. But what struck me was the thread used. I couldn't identify it before. It's not the kind you would use for regular sewing or the kind you would use to sew up a body. Well, not a live body."

"What are you saying?" Scott asked.

"I'm saying this kind of thread is typically used for one thing," Deaton continued.

"Taxidermy," Stiles concluded.

"Exactly," Deaton replied, examining the pelt further. "I never understood the art of taxidermy. Why would anyone want to surround themselves with lifeless animals. I guess as a veterinarian it would come as a foreign concept," he mused.

"A taxidermist who wanted to bring his creations to life," Stiles mused. "He could literally create a monster."

"What do we do now?" Isaac asked.

"I can look up every taxidermist in the surrounding area," Stiles suggested. "We could find the guy who made this...thing. He could lead us to Lawrence."

"I can look through my family's records," Clara said. "I can try to find anything on Lawrence. If he knew us, there would probably be something."

"Sounds good," Scott said. "I'll go with Stiles, Isaac you go with Clara."

In that moment Clara felt something buzz in her pocket. It wasn't the familiar vibration of her phone, which meant one thing. It must be Lydia's. Her heartbeat quickened for a second as she pulled out the phone. Was it another text from Lydia's captor?

"It's her mother," Clara said, a different type of worried look striking her face. "What should I do?"

"Tell her she's staying at your house again. But say it as Lydia," Stiles commanded. "We just need to keep everyone off our backs for a little bit longer."

"Ok, but eventually she's going to notice she hasn't seen her daughter in days. What do we do then?" Clara said.

"We find her before then," Stiles said definitively.

Lydia woke up for the second time since she had been taken. Since there was no seeing out of her small, windowless room, she had no idea how long it had been. She felt dirty and disheveled, but she could barely even focus on that considering how hungry she was. She sat up on the rickety cot she had been in for hours. While she was adjusting her body, she realized something: her chains were off and she could move freely. She stood up, stretching her aching muscles. The whole time she couldn't help but worry the man would come back into the room. What were his plans with her? Why would he untie her?

She walked around the room slowly, observing the strange stuffed creatures that lined the walls. The dim orange light cast an ominous glow on the lifeless faces. It was one of the creepiest displays she had ever seen. The fact that their eyes were always pointed at her was unsettling. If it weren't for the dust that had settled into their fur and their inanimate expressions, she might have believed they were real. She leaned in closer to inspect them. Even though they were dead, part of her was still scared that one might spring to life and bite at her. She had seen stranger things.

She moved around the room in a circle, looking at each curiosity that was perched before her. After a few minutes she found herself at the other end of the room beside the door. Something made her reach out her hands and push at the handle. It opened with her push, slowly revealing the other side. It would have seemed strange to her that her captor would leave the door unlocked, but she was zoned out completely, as if she were on autopilot. She stepped out into the dimly lit space between the door and the stairs. She didn't even flinch at how cold the concrete floor was against her bare feet. She just kept walking up the stairs.

Lydia made her way into a another room, only a bit bigger than the one she was being kept in. All of a sudden she was in control of her mind again. She wondered how she had come to be in this pitch black room. She felt up and down the wall, looking for a switch. Finally her hand came into contact with one and she flipped it upwards, illuminating the room with bright, fluorescent lights. She was in a workroom with wooden floors and wood paneling on the walls. Again were more stuffed animals, all real species this time. But they were displayed more elegantly, unlike the basement which must have been for storage. She looked around the room, stopping at the large desk that was in the middle of it. She approached the desk and noticed the way in which the tools were strewn across it. It looked like someone was in the middle of working, but judging by the layer of dust that covered the tools, they must have suddenly abandoned it. She drew a small line in the dust with her index finger and then wiped it off on her top.

As she looked up from the desk she noticed a large chest sitting against the wall. Something compelled her to stroll up to the chest. There were no locks on it, just two latches that she easily undid. The lid was heavy as she lifted it up, revealing, to her horror, a dead body. It's skin looked as though it had been preserved with the same chemicals used on the animals. It was missing an arm and its eye sockets were rotted out. Lydia gasped loudly as she slammed the chest shut.

"I see you've found Mr. Sylvester," a voice said from behind her, causing Lydia to jump. Her heart was beating loud and fast, and she was worried she might have angered her captor.

Till next week! Leave a comment :)