Number 88 was not very impressive. While its immediate neighbors were nothing when compared to Laura Hale's townhome, they still attempted. They acknowledged, in an entirely unspoken way, that they were located in one of the most fashionable residential areas in the city – if only because of one of their residents – and their architecture and grounds should earn this accolade. Number eighty-eight was shabby in comparison.

Stiles knocked on the door. A man answered the door, giving Stiles a very rude look.

"Good afternoon," Stiles tried to smile pleasantly, but if the look the man was giving him was anything to go by, he didn't succeed. "I heard there was a group of scientists here? I met one of him while he was teaching at Columbia a few years back. I was wondering if they were taking on any assistant researchers. I have great credentials!"

Stiles really couldn't tell if the overeager student act was playing out well or not. He did look young for his age, but he wasn't exactly college aged anymore – or even close.

"There has been a recent opening-" Stiles brightened "-however, you'll need to apply online like everyone else." Stiles frowned a bit.

"Well, could I at least see the set up while I'm here? Are any of the lab areas open or anything? Just to get a look around?"

The man gave a very put-upon sigh, but motioned Stiles in.

It was obvious that this place was no longer used as a residence, but was used almost exclusively for research. Every room Stiles could see was wall-to-wall books. One or two rooms had their doors closed and Stiles supposed they may be offices.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Err—Finstock."

The man nodded, but did not give his name in response. He led Stiles to a back room. It was sparsely furnished with two desks and half empty bookshelf.

"This was the last assistant's office. She shared with another assistant. Most research was done in here. The practical research is mostly left up to the more experienced scientists."

Stiles nodded, wondering how he was going to get the man out so he could poke around. This was clearly what he was looking for.

Luckily, the doorbell rang.

"Excuse me one moment, that's our supply order. Please do not touch anything. I can explain the application process to you when I return."

Stiles nodded, still attempting to hide his desire to dig through everything immediately.

Once the man left the room, Stiles started looking around. He found very little he thought might be helpful, but there were a number of notebooks. He knew he couldn't take them all, but he grabbed the most recent and one that looked to be the oldest. He also grabbed anything that looked suspicious or out of place. He filled his briefcase as full as he dared.

When the man returned, Stiles figured he'd better make his escape and quickly followed the man back to the front. He was just being let out when a voice stopped them both. "Well, really, Mr. Stilinski?"

The man walking towards them was well-known to Stiles, but dammit, he still couldn't remember his name. Unfortunately, Stiles was all too familiar with his face.

"I thought you were dead!"

"Not quite. Although Mr. Hale did do his best." The man continued toward them, moving with a pronounced limp, probably sustained during the last battle at their workplace. He had been the biology professor helping Jennifer Blake abduct supernaturals years before.

"Yes, Derek does try. Shouldn't you be serving some sort of sentence then?"

"It has been served, I assure you. I think, perhaps, you should come with me, Mr. Stilinski."

"It's actually Doctor, now. Dr. Stilinski-Hale, to be precise. And I was just leaving."

"Oh you married him, did you? I had wondered after your little display."

Stiles backed toward the open door, pulling his baseball bat out of his briefcase and straightening it out. He lifted it into a defensive position, readying a numbing dart.

The man looked at it with wary respect. "Dr. Martin's work, isn't that?"

"You know Lydia?"

He looked at Stiles as though he were an idiot. Of course, thought Stiles, this is a chapter of the Order of the Ouroboros. Lydia is also a member. I did not realize the Order was reabsorbing its fringe group members. I need to tell Derek.

The biologist tilted his head. "What are you doing, Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. The man wasn't to be trusted. Apparently the biologist felt much the same about Stiles, because he issued an order to the now-forgotten man who'd let Stiles in.

"Grab him!"

Luckily, he was confused. "What? Sir?"

At which point, Stiles shot the scientist with a numbing dart. Lydia had armed the darts with high-quality, fast-acting poison. The biologist pitched forward with an expression of shock on his face and collapsed.

The other man recovered and lunged at Stiles, but Stiles flailed a bit, and, waving the bat wildly, managed to strike him on the side of the head.

It was not a very accurate hit, but it was violent. Another moment later, Stiles had shot him with a second numbing dart and then ran out onto the street, clutching his plunder and feeling very proud of his afternoon's achievement.

Unfortunately for Stiles, there was absolutely no one to appreciate his endeavors when he returned home. Disgruntled, he set himself up to examine his misappropriated loot.

Nothing was particularly interesting. The most recent journal, unfinished and unhelpful, articulated disoriented views. There was no way to determine whether she was the ghost who had come to warn Stiles, though. It seemed likely, though.

Stiles almost gave the whole excursion up as a waste, until he looked at the older journal. One entry was dated some twenty-five years earlier. The ghost had been older, so it was possible she was merely old for an assistant and this was her recollections. The handwriting was the same, in any case. The entry mused with interest over a new order – for ingredients to be sent by post in separate allotments for sake of security, to a werewolf pack in California. The connection between time and location caused Stiles to think of Derek's retelling of a certain betrayal. The same betrayal that caused him to abandon Beacon Hills and take over Newark. The entry didn't list the ingredients, but it didn't call it a poison, either. Most other entries mentioned the word poison somewhere, if that was what was dealt with. Derek's mother and brother were killed by fire, but it took a lot to kill the supernatural. Could they have had some chemical help? He realized there no way to prove a connection, but coincidence in date was good enough for him. What were the chances that the same girl was connected to both a murder twenty-five years ago and an assassination threat now?

But why order from New York? Stiles couldn't help but wonder. Why risk being caught? And then he had a thought. What if someone wanted to be caught? And they just weren't caught in time?

He was interrupted in his musing by Derek stomping into the room. He was dressed for work, but much better than normal. He looked much more pulled together than Stiles was used to seeing him. He had on a dark suit with faint pinstripes and a lovely green tie that perfectly complemented his eyes. Laura's drones must have gotten a hold of him. He looked irresistible. As a result, he also looked a little uncomfortable.

Stiles smiled up at him and for a moment Derek lost the slightly nervous look he constantly wore around Stiles – ever since they'd come back from Europe. Stiles knew why Derek looked nervous and he wished he could make it go away. But Stiles wasn't just going to tell Derek everything was forgiven and forgotten either. Derek had to work to re-earn that trust, although he was working on it. With all the attacks, though, it wasn't like they had a lot of time for just the two of them though. It had put some strain on the relationship. For now – for this moment, though – it was nice to see Derek without the nervousness. Stiles stood and pecked him lightly on the lips.

Then Stiles made the mistake of mentioning his afternoon's investigations and his theory.

"Stiles," Derek said in a drawn-out growl, "I'm not comfortable with that resurfacing. I really don't want that to come back up."

Stiles, perfectly aware this growl was one of distress and not anger, placed his hand over Derek's. "If there's a connection, I need to check it out. I promise just to look at the relevant details and not get distracted by personal curiosity."

Derek sighed.

Stiles moved closer. "I know it's painful, but it may be important. I'd like to know if this assistant was the same woman who became a ghost and warned me. It could be important."

Derek nodded sharply.

"I'll even take Scott with me."

Derek looked slightly more relieved at that.

When Stiles arrived at Lydia's shop with Scott in tow, it was to find Lydia looking practically gaunt. She had always been thin, but during her most recent travels, she had lost flesh she could not afford to lose. The inventor always had been more concerned with the pursuits of the mind over the body, but never before had she sported such dark circles.

"Are you okay?" asked Stiles. "It is Liam? He is supposed to be home for the month, right? Is he being horrible?"

Lydia's son was a cheerful creature with an unfortunate penchant for mischief. There was no malice in his actions, but his mere presence resulted in a kind of microcosmic chaos that kept his mother on edge.

Lydia flinched slightly and shook her head. "He's not here now."

"Then what's the matter? You really don't look alright."

"Just some trouble sleeping, Stiles. Don't worry about it. Did you come to pick up Newark's new order or is this merely a social call?"

Stiles accepted the conversational redirection. "Oh, is there an order? I guess I can take it. But actually I wanted to ask you about something."

They made their way downstairs to Lydia's underground laboratory.

"Ooh, is that a new commission?" Stiles made his way through the clutter. Dominating the lab was a partly assembled transport contraption. Or Stiles assumed it was – it didn't have any wheels or wings yet. Inside were levers and an operator's seat, though and small slits at the front for visibility. It was well out the ordinary of Lydia's normal subtle inventions.

"Something I've been working on."

"Is it armed?" Stiles asked.

"In part." Something in Lydia's tone warned Stiles off.

"Oh, is it a government contract? I won't ask anymore."

"Thanks." Lydia smiled in tired gratitude.

Government contracts were lucrative, but not something one could speak of openly, even to someone on the Shadow Council.

"Was there something specific you wanted?"

Stiles hesitated and then jumped right to the point. "Do you know anything about the Beacon Hills fire twenty years ago? I mean, anything from the Order of Ouroboros?"

Lydia started in genuine surprise. "What has brought that up?"

"I made a contact recently that led me to some information on it."

Lydia crossed her arms contemplatively. "I don't know anything. I was pretty young, but we could ask Deaton. I'm not certain how useful he might be but the attempt can't hurt."

"Deaton?"

Lydia paused a moment, her face sad. "He's finally undergoing diminished spectral cohesion. Even with all my preservation techniques and chemical expertise, it was inevitable. He has his lucid moments, though."

Stiles realized this must be the true source of Lydia's distress. She was losing a treasured family member – whether blood relation or not. The man who had raised her.

"Oh Lydia, I'm so sorry."

The inventor's face crumpled slightly at the sympathy. "I cannot help but think that this is to be my fate, too. First Allison and now Alan."

"Surely not! You cannot be so confident you'll be able to cling to this life." Stiles would have offered to ensure exorcism, but Lydia had been angry when he'd done it for Allison.

"No, you are correct. I have been traveling, researching, studying, trying to find a way to extend his afterlife. But there is nothing." Her tone was anguished, that of a scientist who sees a problem, but no solution.

"You've done your best. You've given him years longer than any other ghost."

"Years for what? Humiliation and madness?" Lydia took a breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get off topic. Do you still wish to speak to him?"

"Will he talk to me, do you think?"

"We can try."

Lydia yelled out, "Alan! Where are you?"

Several moments later, a ghostly form shimmered into existence.

"Yes? You summoned me?"

As soon as he spotted Stiles, the ghost drew himself inward, appearing to wrap the drifting threads of his noncorporeal self closer.

"You have the effervescent vising you. Honestly, I don't know why you persist with that." The ghost's voice was bitter, but more out of habit than any real offense. Then he seemed to lose track of what he was saying. "Where? What? Where am I? Lydia, why are you so old?" He swirled in a circle. "Why have you built that? I said never again. What could possibly be so dire?"

Lydia, her expression stiff in an attempt to hide distress, snapped her fingers in front of the ghost's face. "Alan, please pay attention. Stiles has something serious to ask you."

"Formerly Deaton, are you familiar with the Beacon Hills pack fire from about 25 years ago?"

The ghost bobbed up and down in surprise. "Oh, why, yes. Although not intimately, of course. From the sidelines. I lost one of my students because of it."

"Really?"

"Yes. Lost her to duty. Silly dogfight. Poor girl. Imagine having to take on that kind of responsibility. And over werewolves!"

"Cora Hale was your student?"

The ghost's head titled. "Cora. That name is familiar. Oh, yes. Such a smart girl."

Before the ghost could ramble anymore, Stiles tried to steer the ghost onto more relevant matters. "Did you happen to hear, at the time, whether there was a connection between the fire and the Order of Ourboros?"

"Connection? Connection? Of course not."

Stiles was taken aback by the firm confidence. "How can you be sure?"

"How can I not? I would have known. Someone would have told me." Formerly Alan Deaton swirled around in distress, once more catching sight of Lydia's latest project. He paused as thought hypnotized by the imposing thing. "Oh, Lydia I can't believe you would. I can't. Not for anything. Why, child, why? I must tell. I must convince . . ." He ended up facing Stiles once more and, as though seeing him for the first time, said, "Effervescent! You! You will stop everything in the end, won't you? Even me."

Lydia pressed her lips together, closer her eyes, and gave a sad sigh. "There he goes. We won't get any more sense out of him this evening. I'm sorry, Stiles."

"That's okay. I guess I'll have to send someone to California. I don't want to do this over the phone. I don't know what their security is like there and I'd rather as few people know about this as possible. I don't suppose . . .?"

Lydia looked even more unhappy. "Oh, no. I am sorry, but I cannot afford the time. Not right now. I have this" – she waved a hand at the thing she was building – "to finish. And Deaton to think of. I should be with him, now that the end is near."

Stiles turned to the inventor. "Would you like me to send him on?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"No, thank you. I'm not quite ready to let him go."

Stiles sighed, nodded, and gave Lydia a small hug.