Chapter Seven: Olapa

In the beginning the sun married the moon. They travelled together for a long time, the sun leading and the moon following. As they travelled, the moon would get tired and the sun would carry her for three days every month.

One day the moon made a mistake and she was beaten by the sun in just the same way women are beaten by their husbands. When she was beaten, she fought back, and wounded the sun's forehead. The sun also beat the moon and scratched her face and plucked out one of her eyes.

When the sun realised that he was wounded, he said to himself, "I am going to shine so hard that people will not be able to look at me." And so he shone so hard that people could not look at him without squinting. That is why the sun shines so brightly.

As for the moon, she did not feel any shame and so she did not have to shine any brighter. And even now, if you look closely at the moon, you will see the wounds that the sun inflicted on her during their fight.

x.

The next day, Stiles wasn't there as the bell rang and first period began. Scott got out his phone and tried to stealthily send a text, but the teacher said, "Put it away, McCall," and he nodded, opening his backpack, and doing, he thought, a convincing job of pretending to slip his phone in. It wasn't a minute or so later that the teacher said once more, sharply, "McCall," but then the door to the classroom opened and Stiles stumbled in, and Scott breathed in relief. Stiles handed a note to the teacher and then headed down to sit right behind Scott, a spot he'd deliberately saved for his friend.

"Dude," whispered Scott, "is everything OK?"

"Yes," replied Stiles glumly. "My dad's super late to work and I didn't finish any homework for today, but sure, everything's friggin' fantastic."

With genuine, sincere concern, the likes of which Stiles had envied for a long time, Scott asked, "Why is your dad late to work?"

Stiles let out a breath of impatience and frustration and said, "He drove me. He said I didn't look up to driving myself. I was gonna stay home, but my grades are-" he broke off, shaking his head, lowering his face to his desk. "I hate everything," he mumbled. "I want to go home."

"Are you still not sleeping?" asked Scott.

"No, Scott," said Stiles irately, lifting his head enough to look at his friend, "I was busy all night sexting my girlfriend. Of course I'm not sleeping, this – this thing won't just leave me alone…"

Scott grinned at him. "All right, man," he said. "Your first real girlfriend. Right on! When did it get official? At the party?"

Stiles looked at him in something verging on disgust.

Scott's expression faltered. "Oh… you were kidding?"

The other boy raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I was kidding."

"Sorry," said Scott. After another moment, he added, "I don't get it. It didn't look like you were having any trouble sleeping that night I was there. After all the crying and stuff died down, you slept the night."

"That's the thing," pressed Stiles, eyes red, face haggard. "We need to have sleepovers more often, or something, because the whole time you were there, it was fine. It was regular sleep. But the second I'm alone – it's like something's holding me back. Like, literally, physically holding me. Like I can't breathe."

Frowning, Scott asked, "Like a panic attack?"

"Yes," he insisted. "And it's just weird, because it's been forever since I-" he stopped abruptly. He glanced around, and then he continued, his voice lower, "Anyway, I don't have problems with that anymore. And what's even worse," he continued petulantly, "is that I had that one good night, and now it's worse than ever. It's killing me. Did you know you can die from lack of sleep faster than you can die from lack of water? Yeah. You just sit pretty knowing I'm like this close away from death by sleep deprivation." He shook his head sadly, clenching his jaw. "After all the insanity and weird supernatural creatures we've seen," he said weightily, "to die an insomniac would just be insulting."

"Stilinski," called the teacher. "Do you have something you'd like to share with the class?"

He lifted his head. "Uh, yes," he said, glancing around. "Does anybody want to let me copy the homework from last night?"

The class broke out in giggling laughter, and the teacher rolled their eyes, threatened detention, and then returned to work. After a moment, Scott leaned back and whispered, "Can you keep your eyes open for the rest of the day? Allison says she found something about the symbol."

"Oh, wonderful," muttered Stiles. "More insanity and weird supernatural creatures. Just what I need."

After the last bell rang and school let out, Scott dragged Stiles out to Allison's car, where they stood together. She pulled an old book out of her backpack and opened it, laying it on the roof of the car. "Look," she said. "It's the same symbol. Lydia was right, it's called a triquetra, and it used to mark the territory of the original beast that my family killed." She looked up at them. "If Cora was right," she continued, "and it's a symbol of the Hale family, then that could mean that my family and theirs have been-"

Two loud honks resounded in the parking lot. They all turned around, and then Stiles let out a deep sigh, pulling his hand down across his face. Parked right outside the school was the sheriff's car, BEACON HILLS COUNTY SHERIFF branded in huge letters on the side. The sheriff himself stepped out of the car and looked up at them, then held up a hand to wave at Stiles. "OK," said Stiles, turning away. "If we just pretend we don't see him…"

Allison glanced behind them. "I don't really think that's going to-"

"Shh," hissed Stiles, taking her arm and pulling her to look away, but it was too late. His father was already sidling up to Allison's car.

"Scott, Allison," he said, nodding to the both of them. Then he looked at his son. "Stiles," he said.

"Dad," he said, the parody in his voice not quite coming through, what with his strained, indistinct character of speech, "are you really gonna embarrass me in front of my friends?"

"Well," said his father, taking hold of his arm, "the day is young. And you have about two weeks of homework to catch up on, not to mention enough extra credit to make up a month's worth of failed tests." To Scott and Allison, he said, "Sorry, Stiles can't hang out today."

"Um," said Scott, "OK." When Stiles shot him a look of betrayal, he shrugged pointedly, unsure of what to do.

"You two take care," he said, nodding to the other two teenagers, and then, still holding on to his son's arm, he headed back to the car.

"Dad!" said Stiles, struggling to get out of his father's grip. "This isn't fair! I have things to do with them!"

"Things to do?" repeated the Sheriff, nodding for Stiles to get into the car. Going around and slipping into the driver's side, he asked seriously, "Is that why you've been so tired lately? Because you've got so many things to do with Scott? Or with Derek Hale?"

"No," replied Stiles obstinately, sinking low in the seat. As they left the school parking lot, students were peering into the car, trying to see if there was anyone in the back seat. "I'm so tired lately because I can't sleep."

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

"It's not that I'm not sleeping, it's that I can't sleep. There's a very subtle yet incredibly important difference."

"Don't give me that, Stiles. Just answer the question."

"I don't know!" exploded Stiles, his voice heightening to a shout. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. "I feel like it's–" he broke of suddenly. After another moment, without looking up, he muttered, "I feel like I'm eight years old again. I can't do this."

He trailed off and fell silent. The Sheriff looked at his son, then back at the road. He reached out and put his hand on Stiles's back. "Yes, you can," he said. "We'll figure it out. Don't worry. I'll help you." He paused, then added, "But this doesn't get you out of doing your homework."

That night, Stiles's father was gone, working late to make up for the time he'd taken off to bring Stiles to and from school. An odd, indistinct sort of guilt lingered in Stiles's stomach, as it always did when he thought too much about the sacrifices his father had to make. He had been doing homework for hours at his desk, and he was exhausted. Despite the dull, now-ubiquitous fear that pounded at the back of his skull, he fell into bed.

Over an hour later, he sat back up. Every time he began to drift off, he thought of something important that he had to think about, and his mind raced, refusing to let him go to sleep. Beneath his buzzing mind, there was an impending sense of terror rising in his gut, so desperate not to suffer like every night. He got up and shuffled to the bathroom, leaning into the mirror, inspecting the gross, translucent skin beneath his eyes.

Again, the next morning, Stiles wasn't in first period. But he didn't walk in halfway through. Scott texted him, and there was no reply. Between class, Scott called him. Allison reassured him that Stiles was probably just taking a day off to catch up on sleep, and this was more than plausible, but as soon as the bell rang for lunch, he ran out to his bike and headed towards Stiles's house, just to make sure.

The Jeep was in the driveway. Scott knocked on the front door, and rang the doorbell three or four times. Then, when there was no reply, he scaled up the side of the house onto the roof and crept along until he found Stiles's room. The window was locked, but the blinds were open, and he could see that it was empty.

Unsure of what to do, he hovered by the window for a moment, suddenly afraid.

And then he went back to his bike and rode down to the Sheriff's office. He barely had his helmet off by the time he went in and, breathlessly, he asked the woman at the counter, "Hi, is Sheriff Stilinski here?"

"No," she replied, "not at the moment. There was a family emergency."

Something dropped like a stone into Scott's stomach. He stared at her, eyes wide, then asked, "What kind of emergency?"

She blinked at him. "I'm not sure," she replied. "But I understand he's at the hospital now, with his son."

"The hospital?" echoed Scott disbelievingly, but before she could reply, he was already outside, returning to his motorcycle, heading out down the streets, beating down panic. Discarding his helmet, he ran into the hospital, heading towards the front desk. The woman there looked up and something sparked in her eyes, and she got to her feet, catching him before he reached her.

"Scott," said his mother benignly, taking hold of his arms, "you should be in school."

"Where's Stiles?" he demanded. "Is he here?"

"Yes," she replied, "he is."

"Where?"

She hesitated, and then she said, "Room one-eighteen. But, Scott, I didn't call you specifically because I knew you'd do this. Just give him some time, go back to school, and you can see him afterwards."

"What happened?" he asked her, heading down the hall, peering at room numbers, his voice somewhere in between fear and resolution. "Is he OK?" Distressed, he continued, "I knew he was sick-" but his mother spoke over him.

"He'll be fine," she said reassuringly, still holding on to him as he moved, although she was nearly jogging to keep up. "He'll probably be here for the night, you can see him after school."

"I want to see him now," replied Scott.

"You can't," said Melissa, her voice sympathetic, but firm. "You can't right now, baby. I'm sorry."

"Why not?" he asked, coming to a stop, looking at her.

She stopped, and then she glanced behind him. The glass paneling of the wall was uncovered by curtains, and sure enough, Stiles was on the bed there, in a hospital gown. His father sat beside him, holding his son; even from behind the glass, Scott could hear the Sheriff's soothing shhhs, and Stiles's desperate, hopeless crying, holding tightly to his father, the moment of weakness so profound Scott had to look away.

Melissa tugged her son away from the room. "Because he's with his father," she said gently. "Give him some time. Like I said, he'll be here for the whole night, at least." She watched her son, the anxiety in his eyes. "He's going to need you here for him," she murmured to him. "But just not yet. OK?"

After a moment, Scott nodded tightly. "OK," he said. "Yeah. OK, Mom."

He said nothing more, only reached out and embraced his mother, the sound of his best friend's sobs like crushed glass in his head.

After about an hour or so, Melissa gave up trying to persuade her son to go back to school. Scott sat outside Stiles's hospital room, arms crossed tightly, his expression an open and bleeding wound, perpetually moments away from breaking down into tears. His phone buzzed in his backpack by his feet, but he did not notice, all his senses focusing on the room behind him, listening in to the conversation. He did not move for hours, standing there like a statue, until finally the door to the room opened, and Scott snapped up, eyes wide. The Sheriff came out of the room accompanied by a doctor, who stopped and said, his voice low, "Well, a twenty-four hour watch is protocol, but he doesn't seem to be a danger to himself. You'll be able to take him home tomorrow morning."

"All right," said the Sheriff, sounding tired. "Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor left. After a moment, Stiles's father turned to look at Scott. Instantly, Scott asked, "Is he OK?"

The Sheriff didn't move. And then he shrugged, allowing a small sigh. "He'll be fine," he replied, looking back at the room. "You can go in and see him if you want." He paused, then added, "He might talk to you."

Scott nodded, peering into the room, and then he slipped past Stiles's father, heading into the room. "Hey," he said, going to his friend's bed, never taking his eyes off Stiles's face. "Dude. What happened? Are you OK?"

Stiles's gaze was fixed on his hands before him, rubbing at his knuckles. He glanced up at Scott, and muttered, "Did they tell you?"

The windows on the walls around them were wide open, visible from all sides. The Sheriff stood outside, talking on a cell phone, every now and then glancing back into the room. Standing beside the bed, his fists clenched and face pale, Scott said nothing at first, biting on his lip, and then he confessed, "Yeah. My mom did."

There was a silence.

Then Scott reached out and took hold of Stiles's arm firmly, almost tightly. "What happened?" he asked again, and his voice was even lower now, brow knit in fear. "If you need to… I mean… don't you know you can always talk to-"

"Oh, come on, Scott," snapped Stiles, annoyed, tearing his arm away from the other boy. "I didn't O.D. on sleeping pills because I wanted to die, I did it because I wanted to go to sleep. And now I'm stuck under suicide watch for twenty-four hours, and my dad is…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "He doesn't believe me," he muttered, looking away from Scott, down at the bed.

Scott didn't know what to say for a moment, and then he asked tentatively, "Did it work, though? Did you get to sleep?"

Stiles looked at him with an expression that answered that question quickly. "Well," he began derisively, "I did pass out for an hour or so, before my dad found me unconscious in the bathroom, lying in a pool of my own vomit."

With a nod, Scott blinked. "So it didn't really work."

Stiles rolled his eyes as scornfully as he possibly could, but he barely had the energy to respond with a witty comment. "No, Scott," he said, exhaustion in his voice, "it was not the ideal outcome of events." He paused, then shrugged, raising his eyebrows slightly. "But I guess if I'm that tired, never waking up kind of would solve the problem, right?"

"No," replied Scott, aghast at the suggestion. "Dude, Stiles. How could you say that, after everything that's happened? Last year you were the one talking me down, remember?" Stiles glanced up at his friend, the loving, earnest look in his eye. Glancing back at the window, Scott leaned in and said, "This is what we've been saying, man. There's this…darkness. And it's getting to you. I mean, you just tried to kill yourself-"

"I did not try to-"

"But the point is," continued Scott, his voice strained, "this thing. The way you can't sleep. It's connected to everything else, don't try to tell me it's not."

"But it isn't," insisted Stiles. "Scott, believe me, I know-"

"How?" asked Scott. "How do you know, for sure?"

There was a silence. Stiles watched his friend for a moment, then looked away, his expression hardening. Then, very quietly, his voice raw and hoarse, Stiles asked, "Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis?"

"Sleep paralysis?" echoed Scott, taken aback. "No. Paralysis like – like the kanima's venom?"

"No," said Stiles patiently. "And kind of yes. That's what it feels like. But it's like…" he trailed off, searching for words. "It's like, you're awake, but you can't move. You can barely breathe. It feels like there's literally something, or someone on your chest, so you can't even inhale. People used to think they were, like, demons or something." He fell silent. He added, "You get hallucinations, sometimes."

"Wow," said Scott, looking away from his friend, in genuine shock. "Like really intense nightmares?"

"A little," answered Stiles. "But the thing is, you're awake. The whole time. And you can't shake yourself out of it."

"OK," said Scott, nodding. "But that still seems pretty supernatural. Maybe you're, like, cursed or something"

"No," insisted Stiles, distress in his voice. "Scott. You don't get it."

"What am I not getting?" asked Scott, pressing him. "You can't sleep because you're awake all night completely paralyzed, some kind of demon sitting on your freaking chest. That sounds pretty creepy and unbelievable to me!" Stiles shook his head, looking away from his friend, his lips pressed together tightly. He let out a loud breath through his nose, his face pale, his head shaking back and forth very slightly. After a moment, Scott relented. "Dude," he said. "Talk to me. Please."

There was a long moment of silence. Stiles lowered his gaze, biting on his lips, blinking. With his heightened senses, when Scott peered at his friend, he could see the dewy drops of tears collecting on Stiles's eyelashes.

Again, Scott reached out and placed a calming hand on his friend's shoulder. "Just tell me what's going on," he said. "I don't care what it is, I don't care if it has everything to do with freaky werewolf stuff, or nothing to do with it at all. Just tell me."

Stiles said nothing at first, but Scott waited, giving him time. And then, finally, his voice very quiet, Stiles mumbled, "Do you remember when my mom died, and I was…" he let out another loud breath, and self-consciously touched his hair, messing up his bangs. He clenched his jaw, and then continued lowly, "I got bad. Do you remember? It's the same thing. The panic attacks, not being able to sleep, the nightmares. I'm…" he shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together, as if he didn't want to speak. "Hallucinations," he said slowly, his words carefully measured, "were just another part of it. It's been going on for months, Scott, it just gets worse and worse. And it's the same it was back then…this thing, that's on my chest, making it hard to breathe, it's not like this is new, Scott, it has nothing to do with your stupid werewolf haunting stuff because I got this same thing for a long time after she…"

He glanced at Scott, something like fear in his eyes.

And then, unsteadily, he breathed, "It's my mom."

Scott stared at him. Then, disbelievingly, he asked, "What?"

"It's my mom," repeated Stiles, his voice breaking. "When I wake up and I can't breathe, it's because she's there. Right there, holding me down. The way she looked the day she died. I still remember exactly what she was like, and she's right there, every night, and I can't breathe or do anything but stare at her."

Stiles wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his hospital gown. Scott only watched his friend, concern in his eyes. He asked, "Did you tell your dad?"

"No," retorted Stiles instantly. "God, no. Do you know what that would do to him?"

"Maybe he could help," said Scott pointedly. "Or get you whatever kind of help you need."

Again, Stiles shook his head. "You don't get it, Scott."

"Fine! I don't! Help me get it, man!"

There was a silence. And then Stiles looked up, his eyes dry, and he said curtly, "My mom's been dead for eight years now. It's been eight years since I saw her outside a picture frame." He hesitated and then, glancing away, he said, "I hate not being able to sleep. But I don't hate seeing her." He looked down at the bed before him, his hands in his lap. "I don't want her to go."

Scott stared at his friend, unsure of what he could possibly say. He lifted his hand and held on to Stiles's shoulder, unable to express anything in words. Stiles sniffed, wiping his eyes again, glancing up and around and taking a deep breath, desperate not to cry. He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand and then, alarmed, Scott said, "Stiles!"

He looked up at his friend questioningly. Scott reached out and took hold of Stiles's hand, holding it up between them. Stiles's eyes widened as he saw the thick, viscous blackness wiped across his skin, and Stiles tore his hand away, putting it back to his nose, as the darkness slid down his philtrum, dripping into his gaping mouth.

It was dark that night. Allison had briefly joined Scott, visiting Stiles, but he seemed to be back to his regular sarcastic self, if just slightly touchier than usual. She wanted to stay the night with Scott, but she and her father had found the body on the Nemeton and he insisted she join him on patrol. Stiles and Scott and the strange symbol were all on her mind, but she held her bow, trekking along the wet ground. The sky was exceptionally clear, and the half-moon shone down on them. She moved with her father in silence, until she came upon a clearing, and she looked up at the burnt shell of a home where the Hales used to live.

The moonlight shone down, casting the house in a silvery glow, as if it were made of mist and lengthening shadows. Squinting into the night, she stared at the boarded-up window of the second floor. A yellowish light flickered behind the wood.

She glanced behind her. Her father was following a trail not far from her. Reaching down to finger the handgun tucked into her thigh holster – a gun she had, thankfully, not yet had the chance to draw in action – she headed into the clearing, going up the steps to the front door. It was stained an ugly, dark crimson, as if someone had splashed blood on the wooden paneling.

Reaching out, she pushed, and the door swung open. There was no flickering firelight inside, but she stepped in anyway. The house seemed to tug at her, pulling her in.

Slowly, she entered the room where Peter Hale had killed her aunt. The wood was dark and charred, but it seemed like there was something painted there in a deep, dark color. Beneath her feet, the floor creaked as she moved forward, brushing her fingers against the wall against which Kate's blood had been spilt, where there was now a huge symbol, the same symbol Allison had seen carved into her mother's forehead. Closer now, an odd, metallic scent reached her nostrils, thick and sharp, and she realized it was not drawn with red paint, but rather with blood.

The memory overwhelmed her, and she shuddered. As always when she thought of her Kate, something roiled in her stomach, hate and disgust forever tainted by the deep love she had always had for her, before she knew the secrets of their family.

Shaking her head to rid herself of the image of her aunt's body and the searing thoughts at the corners of her mind, she turned around to leave the house again, and then froze.

Not five feet before her, there was an animal. It had gray fur and golden eyes, and it watched her intelligently, as if it recognized her. She stood completely still, frozen to the spot by its unnatural gaze. The wolf cocked its head, eyes never shifting away from her.

And then, from nowhere, the sounds of huge paws padding against the floor: Allison glanced around, jerking her gaze away from the wolf which continued to stare at her, to see more animals advancing, coming out of the shadows, haunches raised, eyes wide. They bared their teeth, growling at her, moving sleekly back and forth behind the first wolf, who made no sound and did not move. Cautiously, very slowly trailing her hand down her leg to the holster on her thigh, Allison raised her voice and called, "Dad," but she did not think he could hear her.

Her hand reached the holster, and her fingers curled around the butt of the gun. At that exact instant, with a great howling roar, the wolves propelled towards her, thronging forward past the first wolf, smaller than all the others, and they dug their strong jaws into Allison's body, her arms and legs; she pulled the gun and, her heart racing, pain tearing through her, she shot at their faces and necks and chest, but they did not seem to notice. Her body and the dusty wooden floor beneath her was slick with blood, and they tore her down to the ground, their paws thick and heavy on her chest. She coughed, and blood spurted from her mouth and from the open wound at her throat, and she could feel their snouts and teeth on the inside of her body, digging around in her innards, and she did not scream but, finally, her eyes filled with tears, trickling down her face, clearing tracks through the blood, and the last thought that ran through her head before she closed her eyes was a name. Scott…

Suddenly, the wolves on top of her were gone. Hot blood coating her body evaporated, leaving a cool sensation along her skin. Rolling to her side, she retched onto the floor, and then wiped her mouth and looked up with heavy, hooded eyes.

The wolf with golden eyes was still there, staring at her perceptively. A warm, dry breeze swept through the room, bringing with it a horrific stench, like bubbling, blistering flesh, and Allison gagged, doubled over, closing her eyes against the sudden stinging smoke. Squinting, she looked up again, the heat of the fire filling the home; although her vision was blurry, she saw that the wolf before her was no longer there, replaced by a tall woman with dark hair. Blindly, she reached out, taking a step forward. "Kate?" she whispered, coughing against the smoke. "Kate?"

There was a banging by the front door and everything instantly disappeared as Allison's father came running into the house, into the room, and Allison's knees gave out and he caught her as she fell, but she struggled against him, pushing him away, regaining her balance, sweeping her hair back. "Allison," he said, the crease in his brow betraying his worry, "I heard gunshots."

"Yeah," she breathed, replacing the gun in her holster, glancing at him. "That was me."

"What happened?" he asked. Allison saw how acutely he did not face the wall behind him, but her eyes wandered there, past his face. There was no symbol drawn on the dark, charred wood paneling. "Was it the new pack?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, staring around them. Her gaze stopped on the floor, and she knelt down, trailing her fingers along the dust. Staring down at the floor, she murmured, "Not a new pack, I don't think."

There were four large paw prints there, wider than her palm, the marks crusted with earth and mud and, it seemed, stained with blood.

I split this chapter in two, so it went from almost 9000 words to about 4700 and 4300. They feel kind of short to me, but believe me when I say the story's starting to really pick up :) expect some answers - and possibly the Name of the creature causing this - next chapter.