Aside from being awoken with icy-cold appendages, Quil can't judge his new housemate too harshly. She's only a spirit, after all - who knows what the ethical code for her type is.
Besides, she's an excellent alarm clock, startling him awake an hour before he has to be at school. Considering he typically snores through 'til 3PM, she's in the running for the MVP of the shack, pulling ahead of Embry and his charitable grocery drops. Actually graduating senior year would be pretty sweet, even if it's with the prodding of an apparition.
She follows him in companionable silence as he bustles about, shoving dry toast down his gullet as digs around for clean clothing. He can't see her, but he can certainly sense her presence, lingering just out of arm's reach. Part of him wishes he could properly see her, just like he did the first time in the mirror, but whether she's unable or unwilling remains to be seen. Even though he can't see her expression, he's pretty positive that she's watching with disdain as he sniffs yesterday's tee, checking for passable stinkiness. He offers up little comments here and there as he dresses, but she's markedly less chatty than the night before.
It's only when he slips his sneakers on to leave that the reason becomes clear.
"I wish I could come, too," she mutters, toying with the cabinet door.
He watches as it swings open, shut, as if pushed by some invisible hand.
"Tell me about it. The school could use the air-con," he jokes, hoping for a giggle.
She doesn't respond.
He walks to school in pensive silence.
The plan doesn't really take shape until far later in the day, after snoozing through Geometry and muddling through an English presentation (his knowledge of Wuthering Heights could fit on the back of a postage stamp with room to spare).
Instead of trudging to the cafeteria like usual, Quil takes a route he hasn't used in years, following the long-forgotten corridors as they twist and turn around the building. He pauses to admire the faded letters arching over the doorway, once canary-yellow, now peeling.
Quileute Tribal School Library.
Quil is essentially living proof that miracles can - and do - happen, judging by the startled expression on the elderly librarian's face. There's no time for pleasantries, though - he has twenty minutes, if that, before lunch ends and one of the pack comes looking for him, and explaining the real reason for the library visit is totally out of the question.
He hastily depresses the power button on a gigantic computer modem, willing it to spring to life at a respectable speed. The display whirrs to life painfully slowly, and he has to type and re-type his password twice over with his newly gargantuan fingers.
Computers are definitely not designed for lupine use.
As soon as he's able, he fires up the internet browser, rushing to type his queries into the search box.
How to free spirit from house - about 3,240,000 results (0.46 seconds)
Quil scratches his head. 3 million results? He definitely can't read all of those before the end of lunch.
Quileute spirit haunting - 921 results (0.11 seconds)
Quil cracks his knuckles, pulling a scrap of paper and a pen from his backpack. He clicks on the first result, nervously checking the time on the display as the webpage loads pixel-by-pixel.
Sightings of Quileute Spirits (A Brief History)
A-Ka-Lat or James Island
Prior to the arrival of the White Drifting-House people (ho-kwats), the Quileute Indians and the ghosts of their ancestors lived and hunted upon A-Ka-Lat. Today, Quileutes need only to glance upwards to see the burial place of chiefs atop A-Ka-Lat.
From childbirth's cry to death's final breath, the Quileutes have relied upon the assistance of the spirits. Though there is no shortage of spirits residing upon Quileute lands, youths may seek their own taxilit, a personal guardian power, to act as a guide.
Both guardians and monsters alike roam the beaches and forests, offering both strength and strife to those in their paths.
He narrows his eyes, squinting to read the squiggles on the screen, as if seeing better will make sense of the foreign words. It's bound to be stuff that Old Quil and Billy would have told the pack about, but he cannot recall a single useful piece of information from his overloaded brain.
"Goddamn it," he hisses, running a calloused hand over his rapidly growing stubble.
He highlights taxilit, pasting it into the search bar and mashing enter. He's acutely aware of his limited time, and God knows when he'll be within spitting distance of a computer again.
There's far less results this time; he picks the first article of three, desperately hoping it'll have some wisdom to impart.
The taxilit Wikipedia page is less than helpful, but within a few clicks he's landed on something far more promising.
Appeasing the Tutelary
The conscious medium embraces the influence of the spirits of the land, allowing them to guide his practice. One such spirit that offers immense potential is the tutelary; tutelar deities seek to protect particular areas, people, or groups, exalting guardianship above all else. In Native American societies, they are often associated with totems, which promise the protection of a group.
Whilst one may encounter a tutelary in a variety of circumstances, they are most commonly detected in areas of high conflict. When serving familiar folk, they are often considered to be benevolent, though there are always exceptions to the rule. Avoiding the control of malevolent spirits, otherwise known as demons, can be best achieved through the provision of appropriate offerings.
Once the tutelary has been appeased, the medium may proceed to converse more openly with the spirit, going as far as petitioning for the fill of particular needs. As such, a mutually beneficial relationship can be established with the aid of careful offerings, improving circumstances for spirit and medium alike.
Quil logs off the computer in a daze, his thoughts swimming with memories of the intricate carvings that litter the shack, remembering the sweltering summer mornings he'd spent as a boy learning to whittle under the watchful eye of Billy.
It's a crazy idea - that he's somehow come into the orbit of a (hopefully) benevolent spirit, hell-bent on protection - but the whole situation is nothing short of nuts. He's swinging his backpack across his shoulders, thinking hard about how exactly to utilise this information, when a heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder.
Quil almost slips off the chair, letting out a small squeak that is absolutely, positively, not masculine.
Jared dissolves into peals of laughter that garner a furious shh from the scowling librarian.
"Jeez, Quil. What's got your panties in a tizzy?" he taunts, twisting Quil's ear between his thumb and forefinger.
Quil shakes himself loose, doing his best to appear suitably put-out. That part is easy, at least. "Missing assignments. I'll have to start praying to get a diploma, I think."
"As if. Surely Sam can pull some strings," Jared says, shrugging. "Hey, Emily's doing pot roast tonight. You coming?"
He has some faint recollection of an invitation transmitted via the pack mind, but everything non-ghost related is far from his focus.
"Yeah, sure. Anything for a free feed."
"Atta boy," Jared says, ruffling his hair before Quil can dodge his massive paws.
Who knows - maybe Sam can even help him with his possession issue, but only after he's nabbed a little meat.
Somehow, in the moments between asking the question and passing the gravy to Jared, the ceramic boat ends up slipping to splinter into a million ceramic shards on the linoleum. Emily sighs in displeasure, immediately moving in with a dish towel, but Sam is entirely unconcerned (about the gravy, at least).
"Are you stupid, Quil? What are you doing, poking around with spirits? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" he thunders, his voice reaching an unsettling crescendo.
Sam rarely yells.
Jared's eyes are flickering rapidly back and forth between his pack mates, eagerly watching the chaos unfold. He's always been a sucker for drama.
"It's just something I heard, maybe I should ask -"
"No," Sam growls, his voice heavy with the timbre of an alpha order. "No more spirit talk."
Quil's mouth snaps shut, immediately silenced. Something passes between him and Sam in that moment, a volley of indecipherable looks that make him feel as small, as insignificant, as the pack Omega.
(Tuesday, an otherwise unremarkable day, become an excellent one for Brady).
The table resumes a stilted discussion post-dressing down, but Quil keeps his mouth shut (aside from shovelling in pot roast, because a man has priorities).
He stays quiet through dinner, silent through the clean-up, and he mutters only a short farewell as he takes the winding path back up the hill.
He knows that, in time, the secret will come out, and the pack will know of Mary. They'll learn of his disobedience, his recklessness, and he is absolutely certain that there will be hell to pay.
Quil can only hope that by that time he'll have figured out a solution.
A/N: The history of A-Ka-Lat is paraphrased from the Quileute Nation History page. The other concepts - taxilits, totems, and tutelaries - are real, but are not represented here with historical accuracy. No disrespect intended.