17 of 17
Lydia doesn't sleep when she gets home. She tries but dreams of decaying roots and choking waves of blackness wake her with every attempt. Now, she sits on the floor of her small, still unpacked, room, and fumes over Peter's accusation. Her grief for Allison is not an obsession. Peter's a god damn sociopath. No understanding of human behavior what-so-ever.
You can push it onto Scott all you want. . .
She shakes the words from her mind. She's not pushing anything onto Scott. He's the one obsessed. The one willing to hurt others to catch his obsession. So Lydia's been dreaming of Allison lately. And seeing her in the woods. And sure, the hunter might be all the banshee thinks about now a days, but she's not obsessed. Not like Scott.
It's only a matter of time before he figures it out. . .
Figures out what? There's nothing to figure. She's not obsessed with Allison. Not one bit. She shouldn't have talked with the older werewolf. She should have marched out of the woods the moment he showed himself. There's too much going on for her to get distracted by Peter. Sure, she figured out what the Berserker represented and even how Allison played into it, but she still has no idea what's written on the curse tablet. Or who was at the graveyard and at the nemeton with her. Or what her dream about Allison means. She has much more important questions to ponder than whether she should believe Peter or not. Lydia stands with an angry huff, walks over to her bed, and crawls under the covers. She tosses and turns until dawn.
Lydia's lack of sleep shines on her face in the morning. Sunken eyes and blotchy skin mock her in the mirror. It's all the banshee can do to apply a layer of foundation on her face instead of destroying the traitorous image staring back at her. Next, she winds her hair into a bun on top of her head and smears a pink gloss over her lips. Decent, she thinks. At least, decent enough to avoid questions about her lack of sleep. Then she remembers she goes to Glendale High and not Beacon Hills. There's no one to ask about her. She can't decide if that improves or worsens her mood.
The hallway feels somber. Students scurry from lockers to classrooms without making eye contact. Strange. Lydia walks by a group of tear-streaked girls. She's used to this behavior at Beacon Hills, but it seems out of place at Glendale. What happened? It's equally stunted in her first period, and Lydia begins to get irritated. She's not used to being out of the loop. Ms. Hewitt scribbles an equation on the board, and Lydia makes use of the teacher's distraction to turn around in her seat.
"Hey," she whispers to the boy behind her. He's the same one that introduced himself in the cafeteria but she can't remember his name. B something. She waits for him to look up before she continues, "Why's everyone so quiet? What's going on?"
"You haven't heard?" he says with an air of disbelief.
"Obviously," she says quickly.
"Another girl went missing," he says. "She was in this class."
"Missing?" she hisses.
"Lydia," Ms. Hewitt snaps. "Please turn around and face the front."
The banshee huffs and turns back to her desk. The moment Ms. Hewitt faces the board again, Lydia leans her chair back to continue the conversation.
"What do you mean missing" she whispers. "How many people have gone missing so far?"
"This makes it four," the boy answers.
"And none have turned up yet?"
"Not yet," he says.
The information alarms Lydia, and she turns around again to face the boy. "Are there any leads?" she asks, her voice rising above a whisper.
"Miss Martin!" Ms. Hewitt's shrill voice intrudes on the conversation. "I won't ask you again. Turn around and face the front before I have you move your seat."
Lydia grinds her teeth to avoid telling Ms. Hewitt just where she can put the seat and faces the blackboard once more.
"Hey, it's okay," the boy whispers to her. "We can talk at lunch."
She nods, too preoccupied with the information of the missing girls to actually process his words. Which is the only explanation for how she finds herself having lunch with what's his name two periods later.
"So," Lydia begins tersely as she stabs a strawberry with her fork, "Start from the beginning. When did the first girl go missing?"
"Hm, I'd say almost three weeks ago?" the boy muses. "One's gone missing pretty much every week."
"Where do they go missing from?"
"Different places. Their homes, the school. One was even at a club."
"So there's no pattern so far," she mumbles under her breath before she bites into the fruit. "What about suspects?" she asks after chewing a mouth full of berry.
"If the police have any, they haven't gone public with 'em," he says. "But why are you so interested? You almost sound like a cop."
She shrugs at his question. "Girls are going missing," she says. "I'm a girl. Why shouldn't I be interested?"
"You worried you'll be next?"
She puts her fork down to fix the boy across from her with a stern stare. "Believe me," she says, "That's the last thing I'm worried about."
Lydia excuses herself from the table, the cogs in her mind turning too fast to humor conversation. First things first, she should figure out if the missing girls are isolated to Glendale. She tries to remind herself that not everything is supernatural. There could always be a deranged kidnapper and murderer on the loose. She snorts softly, amazed that her life has reached the point where a regular serial killer would be a comfort. She needs to call Jordan. He'll know if there are other girls involved.
"Missing teenage girls?" Jordan parrots.
"Yeah," Lydia answer. "In the last month or so."
"Lydia, do you know how many missing people there are in Beacon Hills?" he sighs. "Even if I limit it to teenage girls, it'd take me at least a week to weed out the recent ones."
The banshee groans into the phone as she shoves her hair out of her face. "Please, Jordan," she says. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
"Fine, I'll look into it," he continues, "But you've got to answer something for me. How is it that you've only been in Glendale for five days, and you're already involved in a possible multiple kidnapping case?" He sounds as serious as he sounds perplexed.
"What can I say?" she smiles the words, "It's a habit."
"I'm serious, Lydia," he says, not echoing her humor. "This could be dangerous. I mean, how do you even know it's not . . . supernatural or something?" He whispers the last part of the sentence. He must be sitting at his desk and not on patrol. She can imagine him hunched over his cellphone, his eyes moving rapidly over the computer screen. He's probably already looking up if there's any missing girls for her. Lydia sinks back into her bed and closes her eyes. She hasn't seen him since she moved. Five days. She misses him. Lydia bites her lip to keep the words from escaping.
"Hold on," he says, "I think I just found something, but it's not a missing person's report."
"What is it?" she says immediately as she sits back up.
"A Jane Doe was brought into the morgue today. Seventeen. Died from exposure," he says, his voice drifting off into silence.
"Jordan, if you can access the Glendale missing persons," she says.
"Already on it," he answers quickly.
Lydia realizes she's chewing her nails and pulls her hand away from her face. She hates waiting. It makes her feel tiny. Tiny and powerless. She won't let those words have meaning this time.
"Rachel Brien, seventeen years old," Jordan says softly. "She'd been dead awhile. Missing since January 8th."
"Three weeks ago," she says under her breath. "Where was the body found?"
"Beacon Hills Preserve," he says.
"The Preserve?"
"But that's not the weird part," he says. "The report says she was holding something. . ."
"Holding what?"
"A clay doll made to look like her," he says slowly, probably reading more of the report. "The doll's hair even matched the body's DNA."
The minute she gets off the phone with Jordan, she dials Stiles. Maybe she's rushing into things, but four missing girls and a weird clay doll seems reason enough to alert the pack. Especially since the body was in Beacon Hills and not Glendale. She chews her thumb as she waits for Stiles to pick up. He answers on the third ring and she barely lets him get out the word 'hello' before she starts talking.
"A voodoo doll?" Stiles voice is sharp coming through the phone. "Are you fucking serious?"
"We don't know that's what it is," Lydia corrects with a sigh. "Jordan's getting more information so we shouldn't jump to conclusions, but I think we should get together tomorrow. Get all our facts straight."
"Uh, duh," he says, "We needed to get together like yesterday. How many girls did you say are missing?"
"Four."
"Great, that's just great," he groans. She can imagine him shaking his head with his words. "Voodoo dolls, curse tablets, and now missing girls."
"Don't forget mystery villains," she adds.
"Oh, come on," he says, "I was saving the best for last, thank you very much."
"So you'll tell everyone?" she asks while rolling her eyes at his sarcasm. "My place at five?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll tell them," he sighs. "You know, just once, it'd be nice if you called to say 'hi, how are you, Stiles?' instead 'hi, here's one more fucked up, terrible thing you might have to fight, Stiles.'"
"Hi, how are you, Stiles?" she says with a grin tainting her otherwise deadpan tone.
"Oh, you think you're so smart, don't you?" he snaps. "You know that's not what I meant. It's weird not seeing you at school. We haven't talked in over four days."
"I saw you yesterday at Derek's," she says.
"I meant non-supernatural or death related talks," he says, "You can call even if you don't have anything important to say. For instance. . ." He gets quiet and she can imagine him chewing his bottom lip as he struggles to think of topic not related to the supernatural. "Okay, I got one," he says, "What's your new school like?"
"Actually," she begins as she leans back against her pillows. "There is this one teacher named Ms. Hewitt. I can't stand her."
"See? Now we're getting somewhere," he says and she can practically hear him rubbing his palms together. "Tell me more."
The next day Lydia waits outside her dad's apartment, watching for a blue jeep to swerve around the corner. She said to meet at five and it's almost five twenty. The banshee leans against the building with a scoff as she flips her hair over her shoulder and fishes her phone out of her purse. No missed calls. She dials Malia and irritatedly taps her foot as she waits for the werecoyote to answer.
"Hello?"
"Where are you guys?" Lydia snaps. "I said five, not five twenty, or five thirty."
"Yeah, I know," Malia says, "But the jeep died again and it took almost ten minutes to start the hunk of crap back up."
"Hey!" Lydia hears Stiles yell. "Don't talk about her like that! She's a sensitive ride, god dammit!"
"Anyway," continues Malia, "There's no room for you in the jeep since Stiles had to bring every book he owns-"
"You know what?" Stiles's muffled voice says, "Give me that. I don't like how your conducting the conversation." He must have taken the phone from Malia because his voice comes through clear and Lydia can barely make out the werecoyote's huff of outrage. "Okay, listen," he says, "I've got all the files Jordan pulled on that Rachel girl, plus any book I thought might have some information on voodoo dolls or whatever we're calling them."
"Okay," she answers, "So why is there no room for me?"
"Well, I've also got Liam, Malia, and Kira. . . so technically, the files and books are in your seat."
Lydia rubs her temples and leans her head back on the wall behind her. "Where's Scott then?" she says.
"He went to get his bike when the jeep broke down," Stiles says. "He'll pick you up and then we'll all meet at the library near your dad's."
"Fine," she sighs and hangs up without saying goodbye. She stares at her phone screen a moment before shaking her head and dropping the cell back into her purse. The banshee lets out a humorless laugh as she thinks of the True Alpha on his way to get her. It's probably Stiles's idea to shove them together. She's been doing a lot better around Scott, but she's not a hundred percent comfortable with him by any means. Plus, this outfit is not practical for a motorcycle. She pulls at the hem of her dress self-consciously and chews her bottom lip. She's debating on whether to go upstairs and change when she hears the hum of Scott's bike pull around the corner. He rides up to her slowly and kills the engine before taking the helmet off his head.
"Hey," he greets as he slips off the bike.
"Hey," she answers. Neither one of them looks the other in the eye.
"Just so you know," he says, "I didn't suggest - I mean, I didn't think you'd want. . . but you know, Stiles thought."
"I know," she says softly. "I figured it was his idea."
"Yep," the werewolf says as he looks down at his feet.
"Well, do you have another helmet?"
"Yeah, of course. Here," he says as he holds it out for her.
Lydia slips the helmet over her hair and waits for Scott to get situated back on the bike before she gingerly crawls on behind him. Her hands rest lightly on his shoulders and she makes sure the rest of her body isn't touching him. They sit in silence a moment before Scott clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at her.
"Um, Lydia," he says, "You're uh, you're gonna fall off unless you hold on tighter."
She sighs and scoots a little closer to the Alpha. "Better?" she asks.
"Not really," he says. She lets out an angry puff of air into her helmet and rolls her eyes. "Just. . . here," he continues as he moves her hands from his shoulders to his waist. "Lean in some more and use your arms and legs to hold on to me."
"I'm gonna kill Stiles," she mumbles as she follows Scott's advice.
"Get in line," answers the True Alpha.
The rest of the pack is already seated at a table when Lydia and Scott walk into the library. Stiles looks up from his book and slides a bright smile onto his face.
"There they are," he says. "I told you they wouldn't be long."
"No thanks to you," the banshee says. Stiles puts a hand over his heart and leans back in his chair. "So," she continues as she takes a seat next to Kira, "where should we start?"
"I think we need to find out what the doll means," says the kitsune. "The file says the doll was made from clay and that got me thinking. . . What if that's why they needed Allison's grave dirt?"
"But that doll was made before her dirt was taken, right?" Malia asks.
"Well, not for that one, obviously," Kira continues, "But maybe there are more dolls we don't know about."
"There could be one for each missing girl," Liam says as he reaches for the file prepared by Jordan.
"So then they are voodoo dolls," Scott says with a heavy sigh.
"We don't know that for sure," Lydia says. "Think about it. Why would she have her own voodoo doll? I mean, doesn't the doll usually stay with the maker?"
"Lydia's right," says Kira as she slumps in her chair. "It doesn't make sense."
"Well, that's why we're here," says Stiles. "We're literally surrounded by books. One of them has to have something on creepy clay dolls."
The group divides up to scour the shelves of the library. Lydia walks silently next to Liam but pauses when she sees a red leather bound book. She picks it up and begins flipping through its pages.
"A History of Play?" he reads from over her shoulder.
Lydia nods. "There's gotta be a section on dolls," she says, "And we can check the references to find more books."
"Smart," says the younger werewolf as he leans further over the banshee's shoulder to read.
She lifts her eyes from the page and turns to face Liam. "Do you mind?" she says in a sharp tone.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry," he says as he takes a step back.
"It's fine," she answers with an eye roll and gives her full attention back to the book. She gets absorbed in the read and doesn't even notice when Liam walks down another aisle.
"Lydia?" a deep voice questions.
She looks up quickly to face the speaker. "Oh," she sighs, "It's you. . . Brian."
"Blake," he corrects.
"Whatever," she shrugs.
"Are you always this hostile?" he asks, his face scrunching in confusion. "Did I do something to make you hate me?"
"Look," she says as she closes the book in her hands, "I just don't have time for these little - whatever you want to call them - interactions."
"Too busy trying to find those girls?"
"How did you know that?" she asks with narrowing eyes.
"I overheard you and your friends," he says while gesturing over his shoulder to where Stiles and Scott are seated. "What are you guys? Some sort of detectives club?"
"Something like that," she says.
"Well, here's my number," Blake says as he holds out a piece of paper. Lydia raises an eyebrow while pressing her lips into a thin line. "In case you need any more information about the girls," he quickly adds. "They all went to Glendale so I kinda knew them."
She looks down at the paper then back at his face before she plucks it from his outstretched hand. She waves with the two fingers that are clutching the piece of paper as she turns and walks back towards the table. The banshee sinks into the seat next to Stiles with a flustered groan and shoves the book and Blake's number away from her. Scott looks up from across the table.
"Find anything?" he asks.
"Not really," she says. "You?"
"Nothing," he sighs.
"Well, we've only been here for fifteen minutes," Stiles cuts in without looking up from the book he's reading, "So maybe we want to wait a few more minutes before we start with the defeated groaning."
"This would be so much easier if we could translate the curse tablet," Lydia says as she rests her head on the table. "Has anyone heard from Deaton?"
Stiles closes his book and drops it to the table before rubbing his face with both hands. "No, not yet," he says. "Knowing him, he's probably got to go on a vision quest or fight a ancient god or some shit before he finds the right language."
"Sounds about right," Scott says as he leans back in his chair. He reaches for Rachel's file and begins flipping through the pages with Stiles leaning over his shoulder.
"Wait, wait, wait," says Stiles as he puts a hand on the Alpha's shoulder to lean further over. "Go back. Do you see that?" he asks while pointing to a photo of Rachel's body in the preserve.
"See what?" says Scott as he pulls the photo out of the file.
"That," Stiles says. He furiously taps the photo.
"I don't see anything," the werewolf answers in an irritated tone.
"Exactly," says Stiles. He leans back with a satisfied smirk. He looks around the table at the confused faces of Scott and Lydia. "Come on, seriously?" he continues, "The doll! Where's the doll? She's supposed to be holding it, right? So where is it?"
"Let me see that," Lydia says as she snatches the photo from Scott. "I don't understand. Jordan said she was holding a doll."
Scott is already busy searching through the file for the initial report. "Here. Maybe he was reading from the 911 transcript," he says. "The caller says they found a body clutching a clay doll."
"So between the call and the cops showing up, someone else was there, right?" Stiles says, "And they took the doll."
"Meaning, if we go to the spot where she was found," Lydia says, "There might be a scent for you follow." She looks at Scott with her words.
"It's worth a try," the werewolf answers, already pushing his chair away from the table. Lydia immediately stands as well, and it's not until the pair are half way to the door that she stops and turns back to look at Stiles. He waves off her questioning eyes with his hand.
"Go," he says, still in his seat, "I'll stay here with everyone else and continue researching. You know, the fun part." He pulls a book towards him and thumps it on the table before continuing, "We'll call you if we find anything."
The second trip on Scott's motorcycle is much easier than the first. She knows where to put her hands and legs to keep a good grip without pressing her body flush against his. They reach Beacon Hills Preserve in under fifteen minutes thanks to Scott erratic back and forth weaving through evening traffic. It'll be a small hike to reach the location where Rachel's body was found, but it's nothing Lydia can't handle. At this point, she's lost count of how many times she's walked these trails in heels. She's usually out here during the day though. The woods feel different at night. The air heavier and the trees denser.
"You okay?" Scott asks her after they've walked for awhile.
"What?" she says, startled from the silence of the woods. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You just. . . smell kinda nervous," he says softly and then continues in a near whisper, "Is it me?" His mouth hangs open slightly after the question and his eyebrows raise giving him a hesitant, almost frightened, appearance.
"No." She turns to look at him and shakes her head. "No, it's not you," she says. "I just. . . I don't know." She folds her bottom lip under her teeth and looks around the dark forest. "I can't explain it."
"Are you having a bad feeling?"
"I don't think so. . ." She trails off then stops walking. "It's just, Rachel was the last girl to go missing, right? So why was she found first? It's weird."
"Maybe she got away?" the werewolf supplies.
"Which begs the question - from what?" Lydia says slowly before her eyes catch a flash of yellow in the fading light. "Over there." She points. "I see the police tape."
She stays back so Scott can filter through all the scents. The Alpha breathes deep through his nose with his mouth open and his eyes closed. He turns his head to the side before opening his eyes and walking towards an oak tree to his right. He touches the bark and brings his hand to his nose.
"What is it?" she calls out.
"Clay," he answers while crouching close to the ground. He moves his hand over the dirt until he brings up a clump of grayish dirt. "It's on the ground too," he says as he stands.
"Think the whatever made the doll tracked it here?" Scott nods at her question. "So then can you track its scent?" she asks.
"Definitely," he says, already pointing in the direction they need to head. The scent leads them up a steep stretch of hill, through a twisted, dry creek-bed, and past the cave Malia used as a coyote. They continue over another hill and then Scott stops them by holding up a hand. He stares at another shallow cave not fifty yards from where they stand.
"What?" says Lydia tensely, "Do you smell something?"
"Yeah," he says in a wary tone, "But it's not clay. Wait here."
"Excuse you?" she bites out, "Wait? Like hell I'm waiting out here alone." She grabs the sleeve of his jacket and angles herself behind the Alpha. "Okay, let's go."
She doesn't miss the irritated roll of Scott's eyes, but the werewolf doesn't say anything as he leads them towards the cave. Lydia pulls her phone from her pocket with her free hand and fumbles to turn on the flashlight app before holding it out Scott to cast over the small cave. She's not prepared when the light shines onto the dirty skin and a sunken face of a teenage girl. Lydia takes a sharp intake of breath and stumbles step back before letting out a groan.
"God, I hate finding bodies," she says as she pushes her hair from her face.
"You'd think you'd be used to it by now," says Scott absentmindedly as he lowers himself to inspect the body.
"Yeah, well," the banshee huffs, "Usually, I have an idea of what I'm going to find. When it just pops out of nowhere like that. . . I don't now why I couldn't sense it," she says as she steps closer to the werewolf.
Scott leans over the body before looking back over his shoulder at Lydia with widening eyes. "I think I know why," he says, "Because she's not actually dead."
Stiles meets them at the hospital almost an hour later. Lydia's finishing up her interview with the Sheriff when the spastic teenager bursts through the doors. Stiles shows slight signs of over exertion, but it's most likely due his excitement. He looks around the waiting room until he sees Scott and walks over to the werewolf. Lydia can hear their conversation as she turns away from the busy Sheriff.
"Like in a coma?" Stiles asks.
"Something like that," Scott says. "I could hear her heartbeat and her eyes were open, but it's like she wasn't there. I couldn't make out any chemo-signals. Nothing."
"Her name is Lily Swartz," Lydia says as she sinks into the seat next to Stiles. "She was the first girl to go missing in Glendale."
"Okay, well, get this," he says with a rush of air. "You know how you kept telling us it couldn't be voodoo dolls?" He directs the question to Lydia but doesn't wait for her to answer. "Well, yeah, I believed you until I read this," he says while pulling a book from his bag and opening it to a folded page. He thrusts the book towards Lydia. The banshee accepts the read with a roll of her eyes and pushes her hair back to properly view the words.
"Astral zombie?" she asks.
"Keep reading," he says with a nod of his head.
She leans back in her chair as she reads and slowly a brings a hand up to cover her mouth.
"What?" asks Scott in a obviously concerned tone. "What does astral zombie mean?"
"Are you serious?" Lydia says as she closes the book.
"It would make sense," Stiles answers, "Especially now that you've found Lily."
"Can someone please explain what the hell is going on?" Scott says loudly.
"Zombies," says Stiles, "Zombies are going on. And I swear to god, Scott, I knew this day would come. Everyone laughed when I suggested we have a zombie apocalypse plan, well who's laughing now? Huh?" He throws his arms up with his words and shakes his head. "We're all gonna die because, once again, you never listen to me."
"Wait, how do this become my fault?"
"It's not," Lydia interjects, "And it's not zombies. At least not how Stiles means it."
"What are you talking about?" Stiles says with a cry. "It literally says the word 'zombies' right there." He flips the book open and taps the page with an angry hand.
"What do you think of when you hear the word zombie?" Lydia asks the hysterical teenager as she fixes her face in a no-nonsense expression.
"Um, I think of zombies?" Stiles says, "Skin-tearing, flesh-eating, Night of the Living Freaking Dead, Zombies!"
She rolls her eyes at his outburst before turning to Scott and continues speaking, "That's the pop-culture idea of zombies. The phenomena of zombified states was first observed in West and Central Africa, and then later in Haiti. It means someone who preforms your will. A slave." She looks at Stiles as she says, "It has nothing to do with flesh eating, unless of course, that's what you command it do."
"What does any of this have to do with Lily and Rachel? Or the doll for that matter," Scott says.
"Because," Lydia says as she opens the book back to the pages marked by Stiles. "In theory, this specific process involves catching the soul inside a clay form, also known as a voodoo doll, thus creating an astral zombie, and allowing for the control of the remaining physical form." She hands the book to Scott and leans her head into her hands. "It's a dangerous ritual, that's why it's mostly preformed on the dead. The soul can easily get lost before reaching the doll. . . leaving behind an empty husk of a body."
"Lily," Scott says softly.
Stiles nods as he stares at the hospital floor. "She's not all there," he agrees.
Lydia is quiet on the ride back to her father's apartment. She watches the outside blur past the speeding blue jeep as she chews her bottom lip. Her stomach twists and she folds her arms across the uncooperative organ. She's felt sick since she read the passage from the book. Why would you need three girls for such a risky ritual? Practice?
"You okay?" Stiles asks without taking his eyes off the road.
"I'm fine," she says.
Stiles scoffs and spares her a fast glance. "Look, I know I'm not Scott, but I don't need a super nose to tell me you're upset."
She presses her lips together in a defeated sigh before she leans her head against the window. "Just putting it all together," she says quietly. "The missing girls, the grave dirt, the dolls. . . I think I know what they're trying to do."
"Yeah," he sighs as he reaches a hand out to Lydia. "Yeah, I think I know too." He squeezes her hand tightly in his and the two ride the reminder of the trip in silence.
She has insomnia when she finally sinks into bed, but at least there's an actually reason tonight. Not getting any sleep isn't so bad when you know why. Someone wants to resurrect Allison. And they've been practicing the art of soul extraction to do it. They failed on the first try with Lily, but Rachel may have been a success. Dolls are supposed to stay far away from their original bodies. If Rachel's body some how got too close to its soul doll, she might have regained control of her zombified form and made a run for it. It would make sense as to why her body was found so close to Lily's. The doll maker must have been using the cave as a temporary workspace. Lydia turns over in her bed and crushes her pillow into her side. She can't entertain these thoughts. Allison isn't back. The banshee has to remind herself that the impossible is impossible. Allison is dead. She can't come back.
Right?
Jordan drives out to see her the next day. She's missed him so much, she can barely stop herself at a kiss in the elevator. She has Parrish pressed against the wall, her hands on either side of him, when the doors open. The banshee steps back from the deputy at the click of disapproval from her elderly neighbor as the old woman hobbles onto the elevator. She and Jordan quickly exit and walk to her door.
"My dad isn't here," she says before closing the door and pulling her shirt over her head
"Whoa, Lydia," he says as she presses against him. "Hold o-"
He doesn't get to finish his sentence. She covers his mouth with hers and begins unbutton his uniform. Jordan pulls back sharply and catches her hands.
"I said hold on," he repeats.
"I just, I miss you," she says in a husky whisper as she pulls her hands from his and reaches for his belt. He stops her hands from reaching the metal.
"And I said hold on," he says firmly. "Lydia, what's going on? Are you okay?"
"Nothing's going on," she snaps as she pulls her hands away and turns from Jordan. "I'm fine." She runs her hands through her hair and walks back to the door. "I'm sorry," she says while slipping her shirt back over her body, "This was my fault. Maybe. . . maybe you should go home."
"Wait, go home?" Jordan echoes. "Are you kidding me? We need to talk, Lydia. You need to talk."
"No," the banshee says too quickly. She pushes hard with her palms against her eyes until white light replaces Allison's face. "I don't want to talk. I don't need to talk."
"To me?" he asks.
"To anyone," she says as she sits on the couch.
"It doesn't seem that way," he says he buttons his shirt.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she demands as she looks up at the standing deputy.
"It means. . ." Jordan looks away with a sigh before he faces her again. "How do I take my coffee, Lydia?'"
"What?"
"How do I take my coffee?" he asks again. Lydia opens her mouth to answer but she can't come up with an response. "See," he continues, "You don't know because we've never even been on a real date."
"Of course we have," she interrupts. "There was the time. . ." Her voice fades out as she struggles to bring forth a memory.
"No, we haven't," Jordan says in a strong voice, "We just meet at your place and have sex. And maybe that's enough for you, but. . . I need more than just a physical connection with a person. And I don't think you're interested in more than that with me."
"I don't. . . Are you breaking up with me?" she asks quietly, not willing to look at him.
"I don't know," he sighs, "I guess, I am? I want you to figure out what you really want. And if it's me, I'll be. . . thrilled, over the moon. But you have to figure it out first."
Jordan leaves but Lydia doesn't hear the door close. The banshee doesn't know she's called Stiles until her picks up.
"Lydia?" he asks, his voice groggy still from sleep. "Lydia, is everything okay?"
She rolls onto her side and hugs the phone close to her face. "No," she says softly after she gains control of her breathing. "No, I'm not okay, Stiles. . . Can I see you?"
The drive to Beacon Hills goes faster than she ever remembers. Lydia parks in front of the Stilinski home and tumbles from the car. She hadn't even put shoes on her feet. Stiles meets her at the front door and she pushes past him with a poorly contained sob.
"Lydia, what happened?" he says as he pulls her into a crushing hug. "What happened?" She soaks the words up through her skin as she presses her face against his chest.
"There's something wrong with me," she whispers.
"No, no," he answers softly. "There's nothing wrong with you."
"I've been seeing Allison," she says through choked laughter as she clutches his shirt. "I chased her through the woods, Stiles." She tilts her head up to meet what she knows will be a stern stare. Stiles always grows stern when it comes to Allison. So she's not prepared when she meets his pity-filled eyes.
"Lydia," he says in a small voice. Almost as small as she feels.
She can't take it. Not from him.
Lydia does the only thing she knows will shut Stiles up. She pushes their bodies together and swallows his words with her mouth. She tease him by running her tongue along his bottom lip until he opens his mouth. She presses against his lips and eases him back towards the couch, waiting for him to make contact so she can crawl over his prone form. Once his on his back, the banshee wastes no time slipping her shirt off.
"Lydia, wait, this is," he says in-between the gaps of kisses her gives him.
"Shhhh," she says against his neck as she reaches for his pants. "We need this."
She slips her hand inside his boxers and Stiles goes quiet, his eyes wide. They don't exchange a word as Lydia strokes him. She lifts her body enough so that she can slide her underpants down and then leans back over him to place a kiss on his lips as her hands seek his shirt. Stiles meets her hands at the hem of his tee-shirt, and he helps her pull the fabric off his skin, all the while, never breaking the kiss the banshee initiated. He reaches an arm around her and pulls her closer as he shimmies from his jeans. Lydia pulls back to take him in her hand and guide him inside. She wants close her eyes as she feels him enter, but she forces her eyes open to make sure it's Stiles underneath her. The angle is awkward and she leans back so he can put one leg on the ground for balance. He places one hand next her head and the other he uses to hold her left leg up as he moves inside her. She tries to focus on the sensation. When that doesn't work, she tries to focus on his face. It doesn't work either. She moves her hands from his hair to his face. She's not even sure what's happening until she drags her nails down his cheeks. Stiles breaks their kiss with a cry and Lydia takes a gasping breath as she pushes against his shoulders with her bloody nails.
"Get off of me," she says, short of breath.
"Lydia, jesus chris-"
"Get off of me," she repeats as she shoves him harder. Stiles pulls back in confusion, his face bleeding. Lydia stands quickly and pulls her forgotten shirt over her head before leaning over to reach for her underpants. She's able to pull the cotton over her skin before she sinks to the ground. The banshee covers her face with both hands and breaths deep through her fingers. Her measured breaths turn to gasps and now she's hyperventilating. Stiles grabs her by the shoulders.
"Lydia, you're here," he says, as he slides his body against hers, "It's okay. It's okay."
Every word she wants to say gets clogged in her throat and the banshee simply nods against his shoulder. Stiles says nothing as she cries into his cotton shirt.