Chapter Nine: Ishtar

"If thou openest not the gate to let me enter,
I will break the door, I will wrench the lock,
I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors.
I will bring up the dead to eat the living.
And the dead will outnumber the living."

"Listen to me while I tell the tale of your lovers.
There was Tammuz, the lover of your youth,
for him you decreed wailing, year after year.
You loved the many-coloured Lilac-breasted Roller,
but still you struck and broke his wing [...]
You have loved the lion tremendous in strength:
[...] You have loved the shepherd of the flock;
he made meal-cake for you day after day,
he killed kids for your sake.
You struck and turned him into a wolf;
now his own herd-boys chase him away,
his own hounds worry his flanks."

Ishtar's Descent; Epic of Gilgamesh

x.

Cora stood before her locker, staring glumly at the books. There was a photograph taped onto the inside, the only decoration there: a picture Derek had given her, from before the fire. No more than ten years old, she beamed up at the camera with a tooth missing in her mouth, a canine. On one side of her, leaning in towards he girls, a sixteen-year-old Derek grinned openly, a light in his eyes Cora hadn't seen since she came back. In the image, Cora sat on the lap of a beautiful young woman with long dark hair and the same broad, wolfish smile characteristic of her family. Cora did not look at the photograph. She had memorized its every line and curve and color in the time that she had been back.

Someone appeared, leaning on the locker beside her. "Hey," said Sam breathlessly. "The bell rang."

Sourly, Cora replied, "I heard it."

"Are you just going to stand here for the rest of the day, or…?"

After a moment, Cora let out a small sigh, shifting her gaze to face Sam. "I don't want to go home," she admitted. When Sam raised a questioning eyebrow, Cora tried to explain, "My brother is… we're not getting along all that well, right now."

Sam nodded wisely. Her eyes flitted past Cora's head, and she nodded towards the picture. "Is that him?" she asked.

Cora turned, looking at it. "Yes," she replied, watching it bitterly. "But that's from a long time ago."

While Cora watched the photo, Sam's eyes flickered back to her friend's face. "Who's that girl?"

"Her?" asked Cora, and then she looked around with, to Sam's surprise, a small smile on her face. "That's me," she said.

A glowing smile broke out on Sam's face, mirroring Cora's expression. "Not that girl," she said. "I could tell that much. I mean the other girl." She reached out, holding a finger before the picture, pointing at the woman who held Cora on her lap. "This one."

"That's my older sister," replied Cora.

"Is she a lot older than you?"

Cora didn't answer immediately. And then she said: "She was."

"Oh," said Sam, retracting her hand, as if she'd been burned. "I'm sorry." She hesitated, then asked tentatively, "Was she in the fire?"

Without looking back at the other girl, Cora stared at the face in the photograph. "No," she replied. "But she was killed a few years ago."

A group of the last few straggling students passed them, laughing together. Sam leaned against the lockers, watching Cora's face. "Do you miss her?" she asked.

Closing the locker with a small breath, Cora replied, "I don't know. I hardly remember her. We weren't really – she wasn't around, after the fire. Neither was I, really."

"Where were you?"

Something clenched in Cora's jaw, but despite Sam's careful eye on her, she did not seem to notice. "Around," she replied. "Not here." She pulled one arm out of the strap of her backpack and unzipped it, tucking a book into it. While doing so, she continued, "It's complicated. I was young when my family died-"

"You weren't that young."

"Young enough that I don't remember them all that well," she said, shaking her head. "That connection to them, that memory that won't let you go – Derek has that. I don't."

"What does that mean?" asked Sam dubiously. "You don't feel connected to your family anymore?"

"Yeah, I do, I guess," replied Cora, threading her other arm through the strap of her backpack, pulling it on again. "But it's – as history." Nodding back to her locker, she said, "Like in pictures. Not in real life. As for that deep bond, that thing you're supposed to feel with your family? I don't know. I don't get that."

They headed towards the doors of the school. Sam held a binder close to her chest, watching the floor before them. "I don't know," she said fairly. "I mean, I…hate my parents. I'm glad they're gone, that house was – never a home for me." She paused, glancing up at Cora. "But even I can't erase that feeling of something there. Almost like I owe them something."

Cora shrugged. "Is that because they were your family?" she asked. "Or is that because of the way they treated you?"

At this, Sam seemed viscerally taken aback. "Everybody has that connection to their family, Cora," she said shortly, and her voice was stronger than Cora had ever heard it. "I was a victim then, but there's something to be said in doing what you're told. In following orders. Everybody has a commitment to their family. Even I know that."

She broke off suddenly, blinking. Cora stopped walking, staring at her, frowning faintly.

Sam brushed her short hair back. "Sorry," she murmured, glancing around. "I just think…maybe you're underestimating your relationship with your sister."

At this, Cora looked around, then shrugged. "Maybe," she said. "But she's dead. So it doesn't really matter either way."

With an odd, sighing breath, Sam ran her hands through her hair. "I should go," she said. "I'll see you around, Cora."

"OK," said Cora, slightly confused. "See you tomorrow."

Sam didn't even look at her, and then headed off down the sidewalk, the way she normally walked home. Cora stared at her receding back for a moment, until a car pulled up in the parking lot just before her, and Stiles appeared, sticking his head out of the back window.

"Yo!" he called, waving at her. "Get in loser, we're going shopping."

In the front seat, Lydia rolled her eyes. Cora raised an eyebrow at them, then moved forward. Addressing Stiles, she began, "Derek usually picks me up-"

"Yeah, I texted him," said Stiles, waving his phone. "This is more important. Get in, we're kidnapping you."

Cora looked to Lydia, who nodded towards the seat beside her. Crossing around the car and getting in the passenger's seat, Cora buckled herself in and turned around, asking, "Where's your car?"

Cheerily, Stiles shrugged and replied, "I'm not allowed to drive myself for a while. Still technically on suicide watch, I guess."

Alarmed, Cora began, "Suicide watch-?" but he waved his hand nonchalantly, speaking over her.

"Nah, don't worry about it. Long story. Anyway, Scallison are busy doing their cutesy romance-y thing today, but fortunately I have my back-up plan."

He patted Lydia's shoulder affectionately and she asked, disdainfully, "Scallison?"

"Yeah," he said seriously. "Like Brangelina?"

"Hold on," said Cora, as Lydia drove out of the parking lot, "why are we going shopping?"

Lydia glanced at her pitifully and Stiles began, uncertainly, "Cora, no, we're not literally… That's OK, we'll get you up-to-speed on pop culture references after all this blows over."

"Stiles," said Lydia, "I'm just going to take you home."

"No, no, no, no, no!" protested Stiles. "Come on! This is important stuff here!"

"I have a test tomorrow!"

"Yeah, in calculus," said Stiles, rolling his eyes. "Lydia, you taught yourself calculus in ninth grade." She considered this for a moment, pursing her lips. He added, "And I'm sure you're pretty sick of seeing dead people everywhere, too. The sooner we figure out what's going on, the less you'll have to go all Sixth Sense all the time."

After a few moments, she let out a defeated breath and said, "Fine." Stiles grinned triumphantly, and she added, "But only because you'd do it anyway, and there should be at least one sane person running around chasing after ghosts."

"Hey, that's offensive," replied Stiles, leaning forward, in between the two girls. "Cora's totally sane."

"Where are we going?" asked Cora, and Lydia opened her mouth to reply, but Stiles spoke first.

"Exploring," he said, and he was, Cora thought, far more excited than he should have been, given the circumstances. "Maybe we'll find the third sacrifice on the Nemeton, huh?"

"Sacrifice?" echoed Cora, frowning, glancing to Lydia.

"What, are you kidding?" asked Stiles, leaning forward again, slipping the top strap of the seatbelt off of his neck. "Two bodies with a mistletoe spear through their hearts, laid out on the Nemeton, and you're not thinking sacrifices?"

With a slow shrug, Cora said, "I don't know about the member of Grace's pack, but from what Derek tells me, there are a lot of people who might want to get rid of Gerard Argent."

"Well, yeah," responded Stiles fairly. "Let's be real, we kind of all wanted him dead, he was a total creep. But no, the way they were killed was way too specific for just a regular old revenge-murder. I'm totally calling sacrifices."

"Oh, God," said Lydia, her lip curled in a grimace. "Don't tell me Miss Blake is back."

"Nah, don't worry about that," replied Stiles, shaking his head reassuringly. "Now that she's dead, all the sacrifices she was doing, whatever spell she was casting – I think it got reset. I bet this is something else entirely. Remember what Deaton said about the Morrigan? She gets her power from the dead. Like, from sacrifices." He reached out, pointing at the windshield. "Turn here, turn here."

"In the middle of the trees?"

"Yeah," said Stiles, nodding, peering out. "Down to the Hale house." Cora's eyes flashed slightly, but she said nothing. "Here's good." Lydia stopped the car, and Stiles got out quickly, slamming the door shut behind him, opening Lydia's door for her and bowing his head slightly. She rolled her eyes but got out anyway; when he glanced over and saw Cora getting out, he said, "Wait, wait, wait, wait!" and crossed the car and took the door, already half open, and held it open for her.

"Thanks," she said, deliberately fighting the smile tugging at her lips. She met his gaze for a moment, and they didn't look away immediately, and then Lydia cleared her throat from the other side of the car.

Blinking, Stiles looked around, then muttered, "Oh, right," and crossed around the car again, closing Lydia's door for her. Lydia thanked him curtly, adjusting the gloves on her hands. "Can you walk OK in those?" asked Stiles, glancing down to her tall heels. He said, "Here, let me help," and reached out to touch her elbow, supporting her, but she shook him off contemptuously.

"I'm fine," she sniffed. Nodding at the house, she said, "But if you're going in there, I am not coming with you. Last time I was there, I ended up bringing somebody back from the dead."

"Yeah," said Stiles, with an awkward laugh. "Oops. Nah, we're heading out to the Nemeton, see what we can find there."

Cora raised an eyebrow at him, across the top of the car. "You know where it is?" she asked him.

"Well," began Stiles, his gaze jerking over to her, "in theory. I guess. But-"

She cut him off. "You can never find it when you want to," said Cora shrewdly. "Yeah. That's how it works."

"You're the werewolf," he retorted. "You should be able to find it."

"How would I-?"

"The tree," said Lydia suddenly, interrupting them both. "The Nemeton is the big tree. Right?"

A breeze stirred the leaves on the ground, whipped through Cora's hair. She tucked it behind her ears, watching Lydia with eyes slightly narrowed. Holding her gloved hands, Lydia looked far away, eyes staring indistinctly into the distance. "Um," said Stiles, glancing in between the two girls, "yeah. Can you-"

"It's this way," said Lydia, striding forward, into the trees. Stiles's eyebrows shot upwards in surprise, and he hurried to follow her, Cora cautiously following.

"How can you tell?" asked Cora lowly, behind them.

"Wait, wait, wait," said Stiles, trekking beside Lydia, watching her; he tripped on a root and almost fell, but quickly recovered, glancing back at Cora self-consciously. "Miss Blake called you a banshee. Didn't she? You think that has something to do with this?"

"I don't know, Stiles," said Lydia impatiently. "Sometimes…I know things. Mostly about dead people. I don't know why, I just do."

"Banshee?" echoed Cora, speeding up, slipping between Lydia and Stiles. There was an odd mixture of concern and confusion in her eyes. "The Darach called you a banshee?"

Indignantly, Lydia nodded. "She seemed surprised," she said. "But I have no idea why. I don't even know what that means."

A crease in her brow, Cora moved along with them, lost in thought. Then she asked, "Did Derek bite you?"

"No," replied Lydia coolly.

"Peter did," offered Stiles helpfully.

Lydia finally glanced over at Cora, noticing the look on her face. "What?" she asked. "I scream a lot," she sighed, sweeping her hair back, "if that explains anything."

"What?" asked Cora, then she shook her head. "No," she continued, "it's just that I've never met one. My sister told me about them, but-"

"Obviously," snorted Stiles, moving ahead of them eagerly, balancing on top of a thick root on the ground. "Of course your sister told you about this crazy mythological BS. Jeez, I'd love to have been there for a Hale family reunion, wow."

"Would you?" Cora asked, her voice suddenly sharp. "Because my family has a pretty bad track record when it comes to surviving those, to be honest."

Awkwardly, Stiles whipped around, looking at her with an expression on his face that showed he knew how profoundly he shouldn't have said that. After a moment, he turned around and mumbled, "Sorry," and began to walk again, then promptly tripped, falling face-first.

As he sprang up, assuring them he was fine, dusting the earth off of his pants, Cora turned back to Lydia. "A banshee has nothing to do with screaming," she told her. "It means like – ghost. In-between. It's when the bite doesn't take, but it doesn't kill you either. So you're not quite human anymore, but you're also not a werewolf."

"I'm not human?" echoed Lydia, appalled. "What does that mean?"

"It means," replied Cora, "it'll be like – you'll always have your finger on the pulse of the supernatural, whatever happens. And since Beacon Hills is prone to a lot more of that than most places, your sense of things like that is probably heightened here. That's why we're all so tuned in to the sound of your voice, too. It's – I don't know how to explain it, but when you scream, it's more like a howl."

"Why does that happen?" asked Stiles, walking backwards, facing them but glancing at the ground behind him every few seconds. "I mean, Jackson turned into a kanima and not a wolf because he was a total asshole." Lydia shot him an angry look and he added, "Sorry, but that's literally why. So why did you get a banshee and not a wolf? Because you're smart?"

"No," said Cora, and then she glanced at Lydia and said, "Not that – I don't know if you're smart, I guess, but – anyway, no." She tucked her hair behind her ears again, her breaths puffing white in the cold air, and continued, "A new wolf will always be a Beta, and once you've been bitten, that distinction is very clear. But for humans, the line between an Alpha and a Beta isn't so obvious. So sometimes, when a human's been bitten, and their inherent nature is so strong that it can't fit into the role of a Beta…" she trailed off, and shrugged. "It won't even take."

"Hold on," said Stiles suspiciously. "Scott's the one who's a True Alpha. If he was so powerful, why didn't that happen to him?"

"First of all," she began pointedly, "I don't believe in True Alphas. I think they're a bedtime story our mom told us, and the reality is that Derek was such a bad Beta that Scott easily eclipsed him." When Stiles began to protest, leaping to the defensive of his friend, Cora continued, "But. A True Alpha is said to rise from Beta. A banshee, on the other hand, can't be turned into a Beta to begin with."

Something like pride glowing on her face, Lydia let out a satisfied little, "Hmph. I knew it was something like that."

"No, you didn't," said Stiles, turning back around, rolling his eyes.

Cora looked at her, then back to the ground. "It's a sign of huge power. I don't know if it's true, but I've heard that if they're strong enough, a banshee can link humans and werewolves, acting like an in-between, connecting them, balancing their power."

"Like a druid?" asked Stiles.

"No," said Cora, shaking her head. "Druids are humans. Banshees are as strong as werewolves, except instead of physical strength, it's more of a…" she trailed off, searching for words; almost apologetically, she finished, "…psychic thing."

None of them said anything for a moment, and then Lydia, said, "So I am a psychic."

"In a very specific sense," replied Cora, with a shrug, "I guess."

"Well, gee," said Stiles, without looking back at them. "It would've been nice if Derek had told us some of this before."

"He probably doesn't know," said Cora, as they continued through the forest. "Why would he? He wasn't meant to be Alpha. Hale sons don't always even stay in the pack. As far as I knew, he planned on having a pretty human life, settling down with a nice human girl, having nice human kids. That's all he wanted."

"Man," said Stiles, sounding impressed, "he really screwed up on the nice human girl part, huh? Like. Over and over again."

"How do you know all this?" asked Lydia, her eyes slightly narrowed. "Were they all bedtime stories from your mother?"

Cora shook her head, shoving her hands in her pockets. Her gaze flickered down to the ground, watching where she planted her feet. "My sister taught me," she said, her voice lower now. "She was in training to rise to Alpha after our mother. While our mom was busy leading the pack, Laura would always make time to tell me about what she was learning."

There was silence, except for the ubiquitous buzzing of the forest around them. A crow cawed above them, and then Cora glanced up, surprised, as Lydia reached out and tucked her arm around Cora's, smiling at her. "I have a question," said Stiles, still ahead of them.

"No," answered Lydia immediately.

Stiles stopped, and looked back at her. "You don't even know what-"

"It doesn't matter," said Lydia shortly. The two girls kept moving, passing Stiles, stepping right by him. As he looked her in the eye, she repeated simply: "No."

"OK but," continued Stiles, following them, almost tripping again, then continuing right behind Cora, "seriously, though. For real." He paused, his breath coming in labored spurts from scurrying behind them. "Your sister's name was Laura?"

With a curious look at him behind her, Cora replied: "Yes."

"So," he continued, following them, his face deadpan, "did you have two other sisters named Nora and Dora?"

For a second, Cora just watched him, and then her eyes narrowed just slightly, as if she were concentrating very hard. Lydia did not stop walking; if anything, she sped up. "Did you hear something, Cora?" she asked, looking over at the other girl. Before Cora could respond, she continued, "No. Probably just some stupid bug."

And then, Cora stopped, and she pulled her arm out of Lydia's, turning around to look at Stiles. For a second, his little grin faltered, and the look on her face sent a chill of fear down his spine. Just before he began to mumble out an apology, she said: "We had an Aunt Dora."

Stiles blinked at her. "What?"

"An aunt," she repeated, and a smile tugged at her lips, easy and honest. "Her name was Pandora. Laura always joked I was named after her."

Thoroughly taken aback that his joke had some merit, he began, "Huh. Who knew."

"And pretty much nobody but Derek ever called me just Cora," she continued, turning around and taking Lydia's arm again. "Everyone else called me by my first and middle name. So no, the rhyming is not on purpose."

"What's your middle name?" asked Lydia.

"Lynn," replied Cora, as they continued on, deeper into the forest.

Lydia looked before her, tasting the name in her mouth. "Cora Lynn," she said. "That's…surprisingly endearing."

"Yeah," breathed Stiles. "No kidding."

He began to say something else, and then Lydia stopped abruptly, mid-afternoon sunlight flooding down on them in the sudden clearing. Stiles stood beside Cora, and they all stared ahead of them, at the giant tree stump, before them like some great monument. An odd thrumming filled the air, the feeling of shifting, molting life. It was Cora who finally broke the silence, raising a hand to cover her face. "Do you smell that?" she asked, revolted.

Making a face, Lydia pinched her nose, and Stiles sniffed the air and then said, "Actually, yeah. Wow. That's gross."

"Urgh," groaned Lydia. "What is that?"

"I don't know," said Stiles, and then he moved forward. "But I'm gonna find out."

"Stiles, no-!" but he slipped out of Cora's reach, and Lydia held her back, refusing to move any closer to the thing. He examined the base of the tree, then slowly moved around, searching for something. "This is so weird," he called. "Last year, this thing was destroyed. Caved in completely."

"Well," said Lydia, as if this were obvious, "it is magic, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," replied Stiles, then he straightened up, looking back at them. "That reminds me," he said. "Here's something I don't understand." He kept moving, searching for the entrance to the abandoned cellar infested with the ancient roots of the tree. "Sacrificing to the Nemeton doesn't do anything on its own, right? There has to be a druid around to focus or harness the power, like what Miss Blake was doing. And Deaton said that the Morrigan was manifesting on its own, like a bad omen, but he also said that someone was summoning her." He paused, looking up at them.

When he did not continue, Cora replied, "I don't understand. What's your question?"

"My question is," he continued, allowing a dramatic pause for emphasis, "who's trying to summon the Morrigan? And what is she going to do, once she gets here?"

"Isn't there another pack?" asked Lydia peevishly. "Aren't they doing it? They showed up right when all this started happening, there's no way it's not related."

Stiles ducked down, then called, "A-ha. Found it." He disappeared, slipping down underground.

Cora called his name, and he didn't reply. For a second she looked helplessly back at Lydia, and then Lydia said, "Uh-uh. No way. I am not going down there."

With a sigh, Cora pried her arm away from Lydia. "Stay right here," she said. "I just need to make sure he doesn't die." She headed over to where Stiles had been, all but holding her breath against the stink. As she crawled into the small opening, the smell intensified. "Stiles!" she called. "Are you there?"

His voice came back to her, reverberating in the space. "Yeah," he called, "I'm here."

She moved forward. As soon as she got to the open cellar, she put a hand to her mouth, then turned and vomited onto the ground beside her, emptying her stomach, retching onto the dusty floor. Gasping for breath, she pressed her sleeve to her face, eyes watering, barely able to breathe. Through hazy vision, she could see Stiles standing at the base of the tree, where the roots climbed down the low wall. He stared at something on the floor below him, but Cora could not see what it was. "What is it?" she croaked, trying to blink focus back into her eyes.

He turned, looking at her over one shoulder. And then he strode across the cramped room, holding his arms out. "Cora," he said, and there was an uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice. "Go back up. Just go back up to Lydia."

"What?" she asked, confused. "Is there something down here?" The smell washed over her once more, and she began to feel dizzy with the intensity. "Oh, God," she said, disgusted. "It smells like-"

She broke off suddenly, her eyes widening, staring at Stiles. "Cora," he said firmly, "no. Please. Listen to me, you don't want to see-"

Tearing past him, shooting across the room, Cora stopped before the tangle of roots and vines. She stared down at what lay before her, and then, very slowly, she fell to her knees.

"Cora," whispered Stiles, kneeling beside her, reaching out to take her shoulders, trying to physically move her away. She shook him off, trembling. "Don't look. Come on, don't do this to yourself-"

Her hands shaking badly, Cora reached out and pressed her hand against the cold cheek of her sister's face. Body face-down but neck bent so that she stared vacantly up at them, completely naked, limbs curled and bent unnaturally, the awful stench came from a wound around her waist like a belt. It was blackened and soft-looking, swollen with decay, although before Cora's eyes, the skin seemed to be re-stitching itself, flesh binding once again to flesh.

Reaching out, Stiles slowly wrapped his hands around Cora's, interlocking their fingers, gently pulling her away from the corpse before them. "Cora…" he began, but before he said any more, she snatched her fingers away.

"Stop it," she said, and her voice shook. "Stiles. Stop. Stop." She repeated this again, all the while staring at her sister's face. And then she shook her head, tearing her gaze away, wetness pooling in her eyes. She wiped her face with her sleeve, and then she asked meekly, "Is this really here?"

"I think so," replied Stiles, examining the body. "Jesus. I'm sorry. I don't think we're dreaming, or hallucinating, or anything." He paused, and then continued: "I can call my dad. They'll move the body, you can bury her again, or something, I don't know-"

"No," said Cora suddenly. "Stiles. No."

There was a silence. Gently, Stiles said, "You have to bury her, Cora. You don't get to keep people who've died." He stopped, looking from the girl to the body before them. Quietly, he said, "It won't bring them back."

Cora held her hand out, hovered it just above the ugly, rotten blackness of the wound around Laura's waist. "Look," she whispered. "Do you see it?"

"I-" he broke off, watching the wound. In shock, he looked back up to Cora. Very slowly, as if the image were still processing through his head, Stiles asked, "…Is she healing?"

Cora said nothing, only stared at the body before her.

And then Stiles said, "Hey. Look." He gestured to a faint mark at the base of Laura's neck, brushing her long, brittle hair out of the way to reveal it: a symbol in raised black lines, like veins close to the surface of the skin. It was the symbol of the Morrigan.

Above them, Lydia stood in the quiet afternoon, the air crisp and clear and cold. She shivered slightly, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. A fine mist began to hover near the ground, gradually working its way up around the clearing.

On the other side of the stump of the Nemeton, through the mist, Lydia could see a figure, but she could not recognize them. "Stiles?" she called. "Is that you?" The mist shifted, and Lydia could make out long, dark hair. "Cora?" The figure did not move. "Can we go?" she called. "It's cold. And you're totally creeping me out right now."

Across the clearing, the figure did not move. Through the mist, Lydia could see glowing red eyes peering back at her.

When Cora and Stiles finally returned, Lydia was lying on the earthy ground. When he saw her, panic shot down his spine, and Stiles shouted her name, running to her side. Cora followed soon after, kneeling beside her, the expression on her face hard. "She's breathing," Cora said. "I think she's-"

With a gasping breath, Lydia's eyes flew open, eyelids fluttering at them. "Wh…?"

"Lydia," said Stiles. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"What?" she asked fuzzily, squinting at him. "Oh. I'm fine, I'm fine." She glanced around, then gestured at something at her feet. "You were right, I guess," she sighed bitterly, as they all looked to see one of her shoes, the heel broken neatly off. "These shoes were not built for hiking around the woods." She nodded at the tree behind her and said, "I hit my head when I fell." They helped her to her feet, and she looked down at her outfit, disappointed. "This is so going to stain," she said. "Why did I let you talk me into coming out here?"

It took significantly less time to get back to the Hale house; Lydia still seemed slightly woozy, and they helped her into the back of the car, and then Stiles and Cora stood there in the shadow of the burnt-out home. His voice low, glancing into the car window at Lydia, Stiles said, "I don't know why your sister was there, but that was some serious sacrifice-magic going on back there."

Without looking at him, her eyes focused on the house before them, Cora replied softly, "You don't know that."

"Uh, no," he said, and there was an edge in his voice. "I'm pretty sure I do." He paused. When she said nothing, he continued stonily, "You remember last year, all of the sacrifices to Miss Blake?"

"You mean the Darach," she said.

"Right, sure, the Darach. But all of those sacrifices came in threes." He stopped, staring at her. "Think about it," he insisted. "What Deaton said, about the Morrigan getting her power from male sacrifices. The mark on your sister's back, the one we all keep seeing. The mother, the crone, and the maiden."

At long last, Cora glanced at Stiles, her eyes slightly narrowed in consideration. "What does that mean?" she asked.

"What if that's what's happening?" he pressed. "The sacrifice from the other pack. Was it a male?"

Cora stared at him, her brow creased in thought, and then she answered shortly, "…Yes."

"All right," said Stiles, nodding. "Then maybe he – I don't know, maybe he had a child? Or something? If the Morrigan is summoned by sacrificing a male version of the triquetra, then he should be the counterpart of the mother figure, like a father, or-"

"Husband," murmured Cora.

Stiles looked at her. "Exactly," he said.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head.

"What?" he asked. "What is it?"

With a defeated sigh, she told him: "He had a mate. They were married." She was silent for a second, and Stiles could tell she was not finished. He waited. And then she said quietly, "She didn't make it."

He stared at her. "What?"

"A mate," she clarified, looking up at Stiles, "is so much more than your human concept of a lover, or a spouse. A mate is for life. A mate is a part of yourself." She held her tongue, then added quietly, "Sometimes, if your mate is killed, it's impossible to live without them."

Stiles didn't say anything for a moment, unsure of what he could reply to that. "OK," he said. "That's the mother part. And then the crone-"

"Allison's grandfather," said Cora, looking up at him, nodding.

"Gerard!" said Stiles. "Right! And now all that's left is the maiden."

"Maiden?" repeated Cora. "So a boy."

"Well, yeah," replied Stiles, letting out a deep sigh. "I mean. Usually, maiden means, you know. Virgin. So." He paused, then cleared his throat. "I mean. For the purposes of, you know, safety and whatnot…"

Cora was no longer looking at him, cogs turning in her mind. Staring at the ground, her gaze far away, she asked, "But what does this have to do with Laura?"

The look in his eyes turned from caution to something resembling pity, and he turned to glance up at the tall house in front of them, burnt black and gray. "Here's my theory," he began. Slowly, considering his words before he said them, he told her, "The Morrigan isn't a creature. She's a person. And whoever it is who's making these sacrifices – they're not trying to summon her." His eyes slid across to Cora, who stared at him, deep in thought. Lowly, his voice little more than a mumble, he said, "They're trying to resurrect her."

When Cora returned to the apartment she shared with her brother, closing the door quietly behind her, locking it, Derek was in the kitchen. "Hey, you," he said. She didn't reply, but glanced at him and then went to continue on to her room. "Hold on," he called, reaching out, catching the back of her backpack. She turned around.

"What."

He watched her, something like amusement in his eyes. Then he pulled out his phone, scrolled through something, and read aloud: "Taking Cora home today. Don't worry." His eyes slid up to his sister, and then he added, "Stiles sent this to me."

"Yeah," she said.

There was a silence. He watched her carefully, but she said no more. Finally, he folded his arms and he said, "Stiles is an idiot. But if we need to have a – conversation – then you should know that there is no judgment on my part. None. If you need anything-"

"Oh, God," she said scathingly, rolling her eyes, turning around. "Like you have any right to dispense relationship advice."

"Look, just so you know, if you have any questions-"

She groaned loudly, opening the door to her room, entering, and slamming it shut behind her. Derek retreated, grinning, something like pride blooming in his chest.

It was late that night – she made sure to wait until she could hear her brother's gentle snores in the room next to her – that Cora slipped out of the apartment, heading down and out of town, slipping past the streets back into the dark forest from which she had come. She did not run, but passed the trees slowly, lifting a hand, brushing her fingers against the rough bark. Her claws left long marks along the wood, which she trailed around into a curve, a rudimentary spiral.

The trees broke: the shell of a burnt-out house before her. Standing on the front steps, Grace stood, Rosemary hanging back at the door, Jaz sitting on the porch, smirking up at Cora through the darkness, her eyes glowing golden-yellow.

Cora bared her teeth, fangs elongating, a growl purring in the back of his throat. Lowly, she said, "I know what you're doing."

"Do you?" asked Grace, calling to her, eyes glinting. "Did you just figure it out, Cora?"

Her voice hard, she advanced towards the house, claws sharp on the tips of her fingers. "You killed a member of your own pack," she hissed, but Grace shrugged.

"So did you," she countered. Without breaking Cora's gaze, she calmly descended the steps on the front of the house, continuing, "Good timing, too. Peter was holding you back, preventing from accessing your full power." A smile pulled at her lips, and Cora stopped abruptly, but Grace kept moving, advancing forward. She reached out and brushed her fingers through Cora's hair sympathetically, running her hands across the girl's shoulders, down her arm. Tenderly, she murmured, "Alpha is your inheritance, Cora. You have power you don't even know about. You are the last daughter of the Hales."

Cora glanced up at her, meeting her gaze.

The smile returned to Grace's face, broadening, shining. "Well," she said fairly, "for now, at least."

Cora stared at her, then took a staggering step back, pulling away from Grace's hands. The woman stood there, watching her. "So it's true?" Cora asked, her voice fearful. "You're going to bring her back."

Grace blinked, letting out a small, appreciative laugh. "No, no, Cora," she said, shaking her head, clasping her hands behind her back. Behind her, Jaz got to her feet, and Rosemary stepped out of the shadows, lingering on the steps of the front porch. Grace moved forward, her steps silent even on the dense layer of leaves and organic matter. "I'm not going to bring her back." From behind her, the house seemed to creak and groan, as if full once more, as if protesting against the threat that Grace's wide smile and gleaming eyes posed threateningly towards its daughter. With one final step towards Cora, Grace murmured: "You are."

Cora stared at her. A muscle jumped in her jaw, and her gaze flickered back to the other two wolves behind her. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice hard. Nodding back at Rosemary, she added, "Your emissary. Is she the one casting the spell?"

For a second, Grace only watched Cora. And then she turned, opening her body to look back at Rosemary. The tall woman with long hair bowed her head slightly, still on the steps of the house. "There are benefits and disadvantages," she said softly, knowing that Cora could hear her, however quiet she was, "to giving the bite to one's emissary." She shook her long hair back, her cheekbones harsh and high in the silvery light. "I can't harness that kind of power. I can only make it available to redirection to someone capable."

"Exactly," said Grace, nodding her head, slitting her gaze back to Cora. "Which is where you come in."

"Me? How?" demanded Cora. "I haven't done anything. I didn't even know."

"That's all right," said Grace reassuringly. "That's the beauty of it. You didn't have to do anything except come into the power that was rightfully yours. There are others who will complete the spell."

"What?" asked Cora, and she fought to keep her pulse down in anger and frustration, glancing in between Grace and her Betas. "Who?" So slowly it was almost unconscious, she continued to move backwards, away from them, away from her empty home. "I didn't ask for this," she reminded them fiercely. "I killed Peter because of what he did to Laura, and the way he treated Derek. I didn't do it to – I never meant to-"

"What are you saying, Cora?" asked Grace softly, staring into her eyes. "You don't want your sister back?"

"No!" replied Cora instantly, distressed. "Of course I – but she's…" he trailed off, and then, eyes wide, she asked, "…How?"

Grace lifted her hand to the hem of her shirt and tugged it down, exposing part of her chest on her left side. Over her heart, the symbol of the Morrigan was tattooed onto her skin in white ink, like a scar. "The mother, the crone," she said, staring at Cora, the marks along her chin moving with her jaw as she spoke, "and the maiden. When all three reach Alpha, the triquetra can be activated."

"What?" asked Cora. "What does that mean?"

"Don't you get it?" asked Grace, tension in her voice, covering her chest again. "The crone doesn't necessarily mean an old woman, Cora, it's the old, pagan definition, referring to proximity to death." She paused, but Cora did not seem to understand. "Your sister is coming back," she said clearly, enunciating every word, "but the spell isn't yet finished. She's only half alive." Her eyes were wide, focused solely on Cora. "The mother, the anchor," she said again. "Your mother. The crone, the receptacle. Your sister. And the maiden. The conduit." She stopped, staring at Cora. Shortly, she said: "You."

There was a deep silence. And then Cora took another step backwards, shaking her head. "No," she said. "This is impossible. I can't do this."

"Not alone, no," noted Grace, with a nod. "It's been a labor of love." With an elegant nod, she added, "And we've had some help. One needs a human druid to complete a spell through the Nemeton, of course. Obviously, there is a very real cost, and it can be dangerous for everyone involved." She paused, eyes on Cora. "But don't worry. We've been keeping an eye on you, to keep you safe."

From inside the house, there was movement. The red door shifted, creaking open, and a familiar scent filled Cora's nostrils, and she recognized who it was before she even stepped out of the shadows. Snarling, breathless with betrayal, Cora growled, "Sam."

Sam nodded, but there was no smile on her lips. "For the record," she said, stepping down the stairs, moving forward, towards Grace and Cora, "you are painfully bad at sharing secrets with your would-be best friend. It was turning into a chore."

Cora bared her teeth. "You've been with them this whole time?"

"Yes," replied Sam, with a shrug. "Good thing you never bit me, huh? That could have been awkward."

Heart pumping, Cora turned back to Grace, hatred dripping from her face. "Come on now, Cora," sighed Grace, moving forward, reaching for Cora's hand. "Don't turn this into a betrayal, not you. So we were keeping tabs on you. It was for your own protection."

She tore her hand away from Grace and said icily, "I can protect myself."

Grace watched her, the smile fading away from her face. Voice soft and infinitely more dangerous, she asked, "Can you?"

Cora narrowed her eyes, still retreating away from Grace, at the edge of the forest. She began to ask, "What does that m-"

Her foot hit something behind her, and she glanced around, expecting to see the solid trunk of a tree.

A face bone-white and bloodless leered at her, jaw loosely hanging from the rest of her face, eyes filmy and gray. Laura's body breathed the sour stink of rot into Cora's face, and Cora screamed; a hand shot out to the back of her neck, and she struggled against it, then something shot through her body in a wave of immense pain, and her eyes rolled back into her head, clenching her teeth, fingers spread apart, unable to breathe. From her nose, a viscous black goo streamed down her face, dripping from her chin to her clothes to the ground beneath her. At the base of her neck, black veins rose to the surface for just a single moment, outlining a symbol underneath her skin.

When she came to, she lay alone before her broken house. Getting to her hands and knees, she retched a thick black liquid onto the ground, then wiped her mouth, slowly rising to her feet. A circular spot on her back burned, the scar of the Morrigan – herself, her mother, her sister – carved into her skin.