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A laser trail of green neon and black smoke sped off down the train tracks that cut through Beacon Hills High School before doubling back to the woods. The train disappeared between the two sides of darkness split by storm lightning, its last horn calls and engine rumblings swallowed by the thunder.
For an endless moment after, the only sound in Beacon Hills was the rain hitting the leaves, and the desperate panting of the girl left behind, chasing ghosts. She collapsed on the fading track as her whispered protests broke out in a desperate, radiating scream that scattered the raindrops all around her.
If a banshee screamed and no one was there to hear it, did she really make a sound?
~
It didn’t matter how long Lydia sat there in the rain. They had failed to divert the train; every trace of its existence had disappeared, down to the last track. They were gone; she was alone, left behind, just like Lenora in Canaan.
Think, Lydia–think.
Canaan, land of the Canaanites, a catch-term for Semitic civilizations located in the Ancient Near East during the 2nd Millennium BC that included such cultures as the Ammonites, Moabites, Israelites, and Philistines. The last historical references to the Canaanites died out under Greco-Roman rule. Entire cultures, now nothing more than a footnote in a history book.
Canaan, a small town in northern California, so forgotten it wasn’t even a footnote. Current population stood at one banshee. And a ghost.
This isn’t helping.
More wasted time, but did it matter? Whose time was she wasting? No one would come looking for her if she didn’t come home, and who was there to rush home to?
She stiffened; she knew that thought was rhetorical a moment ago, but suddenly, she realized it wasn’t. Her memories were already slipping. Who was she supposed to go home to?
She stood and dug her nails into her scalp as terror set in. Beacon Hills was a ghost town. A train had come through, and everyone had left. But who was everyone?
The deadening despair that had kept her down now drowned in the panic of losing her mind. She stood suddenly, shaking her hands as her mind raced to hold onto whoever might be left.
Allison . Allison and Aiden. I’ve done this before; we can figure this out together.
Aiden was supposed to get back in town tonight from visiting Ethan in London, and Argent was sending Allison back from Mexico to finish out her senior year. She might even be back tonight. Between the three of them, they might stand a chance.
With renewed hope, Lydia hurried back to the school parking lot and her car. She climbed in and slammed the door shut, turning the engine and blasting the heat in a futile attempt to dry the water that was running off of her and pooling in the bottom of her seat before soaking into the upholstery.
Driving was a challenge; the rain sent hydroplaning rivers down the roads, and Lydia had to dodge abandoned vehicles on the roads as she made her way to the Argents’ old apartment. She parked under the valet awning and ran inside, tripping as the heel of her left chelsea boot caught on the rug. At the elevator, she pressed the button repeatedly as if it would make the car come any faster. The arriving bell seemed to underline the lack of life in the building, and as she rode up, each floor notification tallied up the missing residents. When it finally reached the Argents’ floor, she dashed to their front door, half expecting to get no response when she knocked. To her shock and relief, it opened before she even reached it.
Allison rushed into the hall, and Lydia let out a squeal as the girls threw themselves into an embrace, tears breaking from Lydia’s eyes. It felt like ages since Lydia had last seen another person, much less her best friend.
“I thought I was alone, I thought I had been left behind and I was all alone,” Lydia rambled.
“I thought I was alone, too!” Allison replied, pushing Lydia back to look at her face, streaked with tear trails and mascara and dirt and rainwater. Allison’s expression broke as she looked over her friend, and she comfortingly pushed a strand of hair out of Lydia’s face and behind her ear. “But I’m here, I’m here and you’re not alone. Lydia, where is everyone?”
Lydia’s response was cut off by the phone vibrating in her purse. The girls stared at each other, and Lydia shook herself out of her surprise to pull it from her bag.
“It’s Aiden,” she explained as she answered the phone. “Aiden, Aiden–are you here? Are you in Beacon Hills?”
“Yeah, but where are you? Where is everyone?”
“Allison and I are at the Argents’ apartment. Can you meet us here?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way.”
As she hung up the phone, relief overcame Lydia and her knees buckled. She steadied herself on Allison’s shoulder, and they entered the apartment. Inside, Allison went to the kitchen to grab her friend a glass of water and Lydia sat on the couch and pulled out her phone, forcing deep breaths.
Only nine contacts were listed; Allison, Argent, Aiden, Derek, Ethan, Isaac, Jackson, Kira, and…Meredith. Meredith . Another banshee. She wouldn’t have been taken either, but as an inpatient at Eichen House, her number was virtually useless. And without help, Lydia wasn’t sure she could break into her floor, even without an army of orderlies to avoid. She would need to get Meredith out, but she needed a plan first.
Nine contacts, and none of them were family. That was impossible. She had to have at least one parent, right? A stepparent? An adopted parent? A foster parent? She knew she had parents…she just couldn’t remember their faces, their voices, their names.
Nine contacts, and only one still lived in Beacon Hills, and Meredith didn’t attend high school. Lydia was a student; she had to have teachers. She was in classes; she had to have classmates.
There had to be more, even if she couldn’t remember a single face. Knowing there should be memories gave her courage to start, but trying to pick who to start with was overwhelming. Logically, she should start with her mother.
“Ok, Lydia, what happened?” Allison disrupted Lydia’s thoughts as she came in, set the glass on the coffee table, and sat on the couch next to Lydia.
“The Ghost Riders.”
“Ok–”
“The Ghost Riders are a supernatural force that rides through the storms, hypothetically maintaining supernatural balance in the world. Each place they ride through, they take anyone that sees them to become new Riders. And when I say take, I mean they take everything–every memory, every piece of physical evidence they can to erase their victims from history.”
“So no one even knows the victim is missing?”
“Yep.”
“Then…how could you–anyone–possibly know about them?” Allison looked at her skeptically. “I mean, there wouldn’t be any witnesses.”
“They slip up. Existence is so much more complicated than presence, memory, or things. Matter can’t just disappear; it has to go somewhere, so there is a dimension the victims and things go to before they become Riders themselves, called the Wild Hunt. Often, bits and pieces get left behind.” Lydia paused, her chest tightening. “And sometimes, strong enough connections can bring back everything that was taken.”
“Then the entire town of Beacon Hills has been taken by these Ghost Riders?”
“It wouldn’t be the first.”
“Lydia, how do you know all of this? Who told you?”
“I don’t know,” Lydia whispered, staring past Allison. “No–no one person; we pieced it together.”
“Who’s ‘we?’”
“I don’t know…” She shook her head slowly. “There must have been a first.”
“A first what?”
“Someone had to go missing first. Someone close enough to us that we would piece together what happened to them.” Lydia’s eyes gazed unfocused as she processed. “Usually, they fill enough of the gaps in people’s memories that they never realize something is missing, but this time, they took too much. I mean, they took the entire town–teachers, doctors, law enforcement, grocers, librarians, family, friends. There isn’t even enough context left to create a false life, or we would have been left essentially brainless.” Her eyes lit up as she looked into Allison’s. “This could make all the difference–last time, we had to deconstruct our perceptions before we could restore what we’d lost. The very fact that I know there was a first time, that I know I wasn’t alone is good.” She reached over and grabbed Allison’s forearms. “You have to help me. These people, they had to be important to you, too. Maybe to Aiden as well. We can’t let an entire town disappear, especially if the people we love have been taken along with it.”
“‘We love?’” Allison questioned.
“You lived here, too. We had classes together–your family hunted werewolves till your mother’s death and Gerard went nuts. There had to be werewolves to hunt.”
“Yes,” Allison answered, looking at Lydia oddly. “There were. And we drove them out of Beacon Hills. Derek, Jackson, Isaac, Ethan and Aiden–well, Aiden’s apparently back. But we got all the werewolves.”
Lydia looked up at Allison, and gently took the silver wolf pendant that hung around her friend’s neck in her hand. She closed her eyes as she ran her thumb over the raised stars, opening her mind to its history…but nothing came. She dropped it, discouraged, but not diverted.
“We need to figure out how to get the Ghost Riders back in Beacon Hills.”
“What’s a Ghost Rider?” Aiden’s voice rang through the hall as he stepped through the unlocked front door and dropped his wet bike helmet on the floor.
“Aiden!” Lydia shrieked as she ran over and threw her arms around his neck. He leaned down and kissed her deeply, the pressure of his lips against hers so familiar and comforting…yet off, somehow, and lacking, as if the taste was not what she expected or craved. He kissed her forehead, sending the thought away, and she buried her face in his chest for just a moment.
“Missed you, too,” he said, that half grin crossing his face. “Can you get me caught up?”
“They’re the supernatural creatures that took all of the residents,” Allison explained. “The Ghost Riders, I mean.”
“And they don’t just take people–they take everything that has to do with the people they take, including memories of them,” Lydia continued.
“And you want to bring the Ghost Riders back here?” Aiden asked, his grin dropping into a look of concern. He glanced back at Allison, though her expression was more difficult to read. “I’m pretty sure we should be booking plane tickets for two back to London. Three, Allison, if you wanna join.”
Allison shook her head. “No, I’ll be–”
“Aiden, we cannot leave,” Lydia cut in, her tone dropping, slowing. “Beacon Hills needs us. My parents need us. Our friends need us.”
“I’m pretty sure my only friends in Beacon Hills are standing right in front of me.”
“That’s because the others aren’t in Beacon Hills. Kinda the whole point here.” Her tone rose impatiently on the last word.
“No, I mean that the only two friends I’ve ever had from Beacon Hills are right here. And, no offense, Allison, but I’m using that term loosely for you.”
Allison shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“Look, Lydia, we can’t stay here. There is literally nothing here anymore.”
“I have to try,” Lydia insisted. “Please, Aiden, at least help us try. If…if we can’t…I’ll go.” Lydia refused to break their locked stare, and he was forced to give in.
“Fine. Eight hours.”
“Twenty-four.”
“Ten. I don’t think I can sleep in this creeptown. There isn’t a single heartbeat for miles, aside from yours.”
“I didn’t say you had to sleep; I said I wanted 24 hours.” She turned and headed back into the living room.
“Twenty-four sounds reasonable to me,” Allison agreed. “Should give us enough time to come up with a plan and hopefully execute it. Besides, if they left town less than two hours ago, they can’t be far.” Aiden groaned as he followed Lydia into the livingroom and dropped into an overstuffed chair across from the couch.
“I don’t think our standards of time or distance apply to them,” Lydia pointed out.
“What brought them here in the first place?” Allison asked.
“The Nemeton,” she answered. “Then Kira’s lightning caused a disruption with the Eichan House’s electromagnetic fields, trapping them here for a time. Of course, we can’t replicate that event without Kira, and even if I could get in touch with her, there’s no way the Skinwalkers would let her go again.” Her eyes lit up. “But maybe if we can light the Nemeton again, it would be enough to–”
“Hold it–last time we tried to do anything like that, some of us had to die,” Allison pointed out. “And this time–”
Lydia grabbed Allison’s arm. “You remember? What happened last time? Who was there last time? Allison, who died?”
Allison stopped. “I died…and you and Isaac were there.”
“You said some of us had to die,” Lydia insisted.
“Lydia, that was a general ‘us,’ not like, an actual plural ‘us.’ Come on, you were there; you remember.”
Lydia’s demeanor dropped. “Right. Isaac had to be your tether to pull you out.” Her eyes widened again. “But we know how to do it! I can do the ice bath this time; one of you can be my–” Lydia’s gaze drifted.
“What is it?” Aiden asked.
“What was I doing during the sacrifice?”
“You were watching,” Allison answered.
“No, my hands were cold. Ice cold.” Remembering the sensasion made her arms tingle strangely all the way past her elbows, almost to her shoulders.
“You…were holding me down,” Allison offered.
“No, Derek said–” She stopped again. “Only one person each was supposed to hold someone down, and to pull them back, or it would mess up the ritual. But Derek didn’t say that.”
Allison scrunched her forehead. “What are you talking about?”
“Derek wasn’t there; someone else was directing us, and I was holding someone else down. I was someone else’s tether.” Overwhelming grief twisted her heart as she strained to remember who could have been so important to her that she could pull them back from the grave. When she refocused on the room, she caught Allison and Aiden sharing concerned looks.
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Lydia; I do,” Allison said. “It’s just hard to doubt my own memory.”
Lydia didn’t answer.
“The last time you died to use the Nemeton,” Aiden asked Allison, “was it to light the thing?”
“No, it was to fulfill a sacrifice and find our parents,” Allison admitted.
“So this ritual–which could kill you–” Aiden started.
“Does kill you, technically,” Lydia corrected.
“–may not even work to do what you want it to do, because the ritual was designed to do something else.”
“But it was lit as a side effect,” Lydia pointed out. “Repowering the Nemeton is what drew more supernatural creatures back to Beacon Hills. So actually, we do know it will work.”
“You’re also talking like the Nemeton is somehow un lit,” Allison said. “How did that happen? When?”
“I doubt it’s unlit,” Lydia corrected, “but a surge of power may be enough to bring them back.”
“But will it bring back the Ghost Riders specifically?” Allison pressed.
Lydia had no answer for this; even if they lit the beacon, there was no way to guarantee the Riders would return.
“And once they’re here, what are we supposed to do?” Aiden pressed.
“We need to make a dimensional rift to pull them from the Hunt,” Lydia said slowly. “Last time, we did that by remembering.” Her voice picked up speed with her enthusiasm. “That’s what makes this perfect–the ice bath works to bring on hypnosis, too. Two birds, one stone. We used the cryosis chamber in your basement last time to remember…” She grunted in frustration. Each attempt to pull up the missing pieces was like staring at the darkness behind closed eyes, like there were gaping black splotches, moving holes in each picture. “...whoever was first.” She shook her head as she glanced at the ceiling. “Whoever ‘we’ were.”
“Let me get this straight,” Aiden said, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair. “You want to risk your life to maybe bring the Ghost Riders back and maybe create an interdimensional rift to maybe pull the good citizens of Beacon Hills out of the hunt.”
“Who may be Ghost Riders already,” Allison added, her gaze focused across the room and lips pinched in thought.
Aiden looked at Lydia as he raised his hand towards Allison, acknowledging her amendment. “Who may be Ghost Riders already.”
“Do you have a better idea? Aside from leaving?” Lydia challenged him. He glanced towards the window and back to her. “What if it was Ethan? What if Ethan had been taken? Would you do it for him?”
“I wouldn’t remember him, so I couldn’t miss him,” Aiden pointed out quietly. “You literally don’t know who you’re risking your life for.”
Cold as it was, Aiden’s statement hit true, but not for his intended purpose to discourage her. The despair that threatened beneath her resolve told her that her body remembered what her mind couldn’t. Whoever was on that train, she needed them. All of them.
“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”
Allison glanced between the two before taking Lydia’s hand. “I’ll help. Just tell me what we need to do.”
“We need to make an ice bath,” Lydia said. “The cryosis chamber is too powerful for anything that can’t heal quickly. We’ll need mistletoe–” Lydia paused.
“You keep stopping like that, and it’s starting to freak me out,” Aiden complained, shifting in the chair.
“If the cryosis chamber is too powerful for something that can’t heal quickly…” Lydia started.
“Then whoever used it with you last time wasn’t human,” Allison finished.
“And wasn’t a banshee,” Lydia pointed out. “Allison, do you have a notepad?” Allison got up and darted from the room. Lydia glared at Aiden. “You haven’t been much help so far.”
“I don’t plan on helping you kill yourself, even if you plan on coming back.”
Allison returned with a yellow legal pad and a pen, and handed them to Lydia. Lydia started jotting down bullet points about what she knew for certain; at least two additional people had been at the sacrifice, one of which was giving directions, and the other was someone Lydia was close to; and at least one other person who wasn’t human or banshee used the cryosis chamber to try and remember someone that had go missing, someone who they were also close to.
She grunted in frustration; this wasn’t exactly helpful. She flipped the page over, and started writing again.
Remember to keep your tone even and calm while you read.
“What’s that?” Allison asked, looking over the page.
Take a deep breath, and allow the cold to draw you in .
“An induction script for you to use when you walk me through the trance,” she explained without stopping.
Feel the muscles in your body begin to relax.
“My mother had a hypnotist who helped her quit smoking. She had me see the same one when I was ten. Once I go under, just read the script to me. You should be able to guide me to my memories.”
“You remember your mother?” Allison asked, but Lydia didn’t respond.
Your hands relaxing. Your eyelids relaxing.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She could hear a tenor voice, kind, familiar, calming, reciting the lines to her.
As you relax, imagine you're sitting in front of a TV…
“You smoked when you were ten?”
“No! I bit my fingernails,” Lydia said without looking up. Allison and Aiden exchanged a look of concern.
“Lydia, who are you…if this is too much–” Allison started, putting a hand on her shoulder, but Lydia didn’t respond; her eyes were no longer focused on the paper under her pen.
When you turn the TV on, it's going to play memories from your life. The remote gives you total control.
Her handwriting grew more erratic as she sped up.
You can play any memory you want. All you have to do is hit the button. Try to find a memory of Stiles. A memory where you felt a connection with him.
“Lydia, who’s Stiles?”
“Lydia, Lydia–who’s Stiles?”
Lydia dropped the pen, staring wide-eyed at the pad.
Stiles…
Her heart clenched.
“The first one,” she whispered. “He…he must be the first one who went missing. The one we were looking for. The voice…there was a guy who walked me through this before, and we were looking for S-Stiles.” Tears burned at the edges of her dried-out eyes. “I-I don’t know who this other guy is, but…”
“I’m not gonna lie, Lydia–sometimes your powers creep me out,” Aiden muttered.
“You and me both,” she responded as she wiped her eyes.
“Where do you want to start?” Allison asked. “You mentioned your mother and Stiles.”
Lydia paused, torn. “St-Stiles,” she answered. “It seems like I currently have more fractured memories around him, so let’s start there.”
“Aiden, go get as much ice as you can,” Allison instructed. “Lydia, there should be mistletoe in the basement on the second shelf over the workbench with the other herbs.”
“You mean poisons,” Aiden corrected. Allison shot him a look.
“I’ll go start the bathwater,” Allison said, and she headed for the bathroom off of her bedroom.
~
Lydia headed out of the apartment and took the elevator to the basement. It was possible–even likely–that the guy who had been reading the script was the same one who used the cryosis chamber, which meant he wasn’t human. If he was, he was also close to Stiles.
Stiles. Each time the name came to mind, her heart skipped. It made her ill to think she had lost him twice–what kind of person was she that she could forget the people dearest to her so easily? Even as the thought crossed her mind, she covered her mouth and stifled a sob. She didn’t understand. Why was she having such a guttural reaction to that name? Her body remembered how she needed him, but cognitively, if she kept forgetting him, did he really matter to her?
The elevator landed in the basement, and she wove her way to the area Argent had paid a premium to rent and keep the property owners hushed. She pulled out her keys and unlocked it; Argent had given them all keys when he left after–
Her brain froze again, holes in her memory.
Who else had gotten keys? Stiles? The guy in the cryosis chamber?
She fingered the key.
Why had Argent left? Why did he need to leave keys with them?
There were too many questions, too many missing parts and not enough time. She opened the door, and automated lights illuminated the stocked, utilitarian hall. At the other end, a massive, round, vault door took up most of the wall. She entered, passing black bins and shelves of weapons and tools on her way to the workbench, but she stopped when she passed the cryosis chamber.
“If we can bring Stiles back, we can bring everyone back!”
She whipped her head around, looking for the male voice.
“You have to try, Lydia.”
This voice was female, but also not there.
Brushing the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand, she answered the ghosts, “I will, I’ll try–I promise. Just–please don’t leave me.”
She rushed to the workbench and sorted through the vials and bottles of powdered and dried plants the Argents used to poison their weapons. She found the mistletoe leaves in a glass bottle and darted towards the door, but a candle and a blowtorch on the table caught her eye.
She had no idea what they meant, but all of these contextless signals her body was trying to send to her brain were starting to make her head throb and stomach turn.
~
Allison was waiting for her in the bathroom. “You don’t look good,” she said as Lydia handed her the mistletoe. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“I’ll be fine. I have to be, unless you want to do it instead.”
Allison shook her head, unscrewing the cap on the bottle and dumping the contents into the water. “It’s not that I’m scared–I mean, yes, I would actually be terrified–but I don’t know if I could. I doubt the Nemeton would take the same sacrifice twice.”
“I’ve had the same thought,” Lydia said, “and we’re only going to get one shot at this.”
She glanced at her watch–two hours since the train departed. It would take Aiden some time to get back with the ice. Though she wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, there was nothing else to do. “How was Mexico?”
“Mexico was…interesting,” Allison said, giving into Lydia’s attempt to make small talk. “Turns out it's hard to hunt a hunter turned werejaguar. Dad and the Calaveras are still on it.” She glanced at Lydia’s rain-drenched blouse and jeans. “Would you like something else to wear during your mistletoe bath?”
Lydia glanced down at herself. “I don’t know, I’m pretty soaked already.” She looked back up at Allison. “But it’s probably a good idea.”
Allison led Lydia into her bedroom, and rummaged through her drawers to pull out the same black slip Allison had worn at the last sacrifice. She handed it to Lydia, and the moment Lydia’s hand brushed the silk, she wasn’t standing in the bedroom.
~
She was standing in a medical room…clean, but for the faint scent of wet fur. Three galvanized tubs filled with water, mistletoe, and ice stood before her. Goosebumps ran down her neck and arms.
Someone was going to die.
More than one.
Allison sat up in the first tub, dressed in the black slip, already shivering, the ends of her dark hair wicking the water. The second and third tubs had static shapes, the black edges vague and shimmering.
Lydia moved to Allison, but a voice behind her said, “Lydia, you go with Stiles.”
“Are you sure?” Allison asks. “Scott and I both have to go under…” Her gaze fell behind Lydia and to her left, and Lydia turned to see Isaac’s eyes meeting Allison’s. A third blur stood behind Lydia to her right. Allison looked to the last tub.
“It’s ok,” a voice answered, static, but between the distortion Lydia knew that voice. She knew it. Allison had said their name, and just before it slipped from her mind, Lydia grabbed it–Scott. He was no more visibly solid now that she knew his name, but it was enough. Scott was the one in the cryosis chamber, the one who read the induction script. The one who led her to Stiles.
Lydia felt pulled to the middle tub. She knew who must be there, shrouded in darkness, waiting for her to kill him and bring him back. She stepped around the tub to the back, just as Isaac did to Allison, just as the black shape behind her did to Scott. She put her hands on either side of the shadow, and her hands sunk into the static, hitting something firm, lean–shoulders. Her heart rushed–she could feel his body shivering, fighting to regulate his breath under the strain of anxiety, his pulse racing under the fingertips closest to his neck.
In unison, Isaac, the shadow, and Lydia pushed down, submerging their charges. The chill seized her nerves, and icy water splashed her face as the shadow slipped beneath the surface.
~
“Lydia!” Aiden stood over her, his hands on either side of her head. She sat up abruptly; she had been laid out on Allison's bed, the black slip still in her hands. Allison sat next to her on the bed, and Aiden stood over her. She locked eyes with Allison.
“Scott,” she said. “Scott was in the cryosis chamber. He walked me through hypnosis. He did the ice bath with you and Stiles.”
“S-scott?” Allison stuttered, unsure. “Who’s Scott?”
“I don’t know, but I have to find out. He meant something to you–you were unsure about Isaac as your tether until Scott said it was ok.”
Allison shook her head, confused. “That doesn’t make any sense.” Lydia shook her head slowly, but didn’t argue.
“I think I’m going to have to remember both of them if we’re going to make a rift large enough to bring them back.” She sighed. “I just hope two is enough. I don’t know if we’ll have time for more.”
“Lydia, you have got to stop,” Aiden cut in. “I know I agreed to give you time, but this is ridiculous. You are already losing it.”
“And give up rescuing an entire town? My friends and family?”
“Aiden may be right,” Allison said hesitantly.
“I thought you were on my side.”
“I am on your side; but I’m concerned about what this is doing to you–what it will do to you. Aiden is right–it’s like you’re slipping. If you succeed with this sacrifice, your heart will be tainted by darkness, which will make your mental state worse. And if you don’t succeed–” Allison shook her head.
“I hate to break it to you, but I am a banshee. I am a harbinger of death. My heart has been tainted by darkness since the moment my powers awoke.”
“But this is diff–”
“You do not get to tell me if it’s different or not,” Lydia cut her off. “Now, you both made an agreement to help me, at least for 24 hours. By my watch I still have…” She grabbed Allison’s phone from beside her on the bed and checked the time. “Twenty-two hours and thirty-seven minutes.” She handed Allison the phone and stood up, stripping her clothes off to put on the slip. “Now, are you going to help me kill myself or not?”
Aiden growled and shook his head, but followed her into the bathroom. Allison sighed and joined them. Six bags of ice sat on the floor next to the tub, and Lydia started ripping them open and dumping the contents into the already drawn water and mistletoe. Allison and Aiden each grabbed a bag, too, and a moment later the bath was ready.
Lydia paused, tracing the edge of the porcelain with her finger. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and stepped into the tub. Every muscle in her body clenched involuntarily, and she forced herself to sit. Allison came around behind her.
“Aiden, go get the script,” Lydia instructed, willing her jaw to keep still. Aiden opened his mouth to protest, but Lydia just glared at him, and he sauntered off.
“Lydia, you do not have to do this,” Allison pleaded softly as she rested her hands on her friend’s shoulders. Aiden returned with the notepad.
“Just know that I love you. Both of you.” She closed her eyes, clenching her jaw so her teeth would chatter. “Now.”
Allison pushed her down, and Lydia refused to fight as the water engulfed her shoulders, neck, head, running up her nose and clogging her ears. One, two…instinct kicked in, and her body fought against Allison’s strong arms as the last of Lydia’s air escaped to the surface of the bath, so far above…so cold…it didn’t hurt…the end didn’t hurt…
~
Lydia sat up abruptly, breaking out of darkness and shock. She was still in the tub, but now the tub was in a white, sterile hall. She knew this hall; she had been there before, the reason on the tip of her tongue. She pulled herself out of the tub, water pooling around her feet. At the other end of the hall was a massive, hewn tree trunk, and a figure stood next to it. She knew that tree trunk; she had seen the Nemeton in person, though she couldn’t place how or why. And she knew the figure, too.
“What are you doing here?” Lydia whispered as she walked forward, her eyes breaking wide in disbelief.
“Waiting for you,” Allison replied and she left the side of the stump. She wore the same black slip as Lydia.
“But you can’t be here; you’re my tether, you’re waiting to bring me back.”
“Lydia,” she said softly, her eyes gentle.
She stopped. She backed away. “No. No no, if you’re here that means–”
“It’s not me.”
“And you’re–you’re–” Lydia covered her mouth, fighting back a sob.
Allison stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her dearest friend.
“Do you remember how?” Allison asked tenderly.
“No–maybe. Fragments,” Lydia whispered her admittance, now that she let herself face the doubt that had lingered in the back of her mind since she first saw Allison in the apartment hallway. She remembered writing a warning on her car window with her finger, and screaming her name as she felt Allison’s light flicker out. Why she was in the tunnel to begin with escaped her.
“Does this mean Aiden…too…?” Allison stroked Lydia’s head, running her fingers through her hair. “I-I can’t…I’m really alone…” Lydia fell to her knees and wept, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering.
“Lydia, you have to focus,” Allison said, pulling her chin up and locking eyes. “You have to focus if you are going to save Scott and Stiles and the others.”
“I can’t–if those things aren’t really you or Aiden, that means I summoned–”
She felt a hand fall on her shoulder from behind. She looked up to find Aiden standing over her.
“I…summoned both of you…”
“You are one freakishly powerful banshee,” Aiden said, affectionately grinning at her. “The Wild Hunt gives those left behind with a strong enough desire what they want, in the form of someone they have already lost.”
“Lenora wanted her son–she wanted someone to take care of, to love,” Lydia reasoned. “And I wanted someone to help me. Not that you’re being very helpful right now, Aiden.” Aiden shrugged.
“Who else?” Allison asked her. Lydia looked up, confused. “You had to tear down another imposter in order to remember Stiles the first time–who was it?”
“Claudia,” Lydia answered automatically. “But…if I can’t remember anyone else in town, why would I remember her specifically?”
“Probably because she wasn’t real,” Aiden answered. “She wasn’t taken by the Hunt; she was part of it.”
“But Claudia tried to stop me from remembering,” Lydia said. “Are the other versions of you going to, too?”
Allison and Aiden looked at each other. “Be on your guard,” Allison cautioned. “They want to please you, to keep you on their side, so Allison will likely go along with you to a point, but…she is still a member of the Wild Hunt. She doesn’t want to disappear any more than Claudia did.”
Lydia nodded. “And Aiden’s going to give me trouble.” Aiden snorted, and she gave him a quick, knowing smile. “He keeps pushing me to leave, but Lenora’s son Caleb couldn’t leave Canaan. Can the false Aiden and Allison leave Beacon Hills?”
“I’m not sure,” Allison admitted, “but from what you say, Aiden’s chief goal is self preservation, and if he thought he was going to die if he left, I doubt he would have suggested it.”
“You still have something you need to do before you go back,” Aiden said.
“My memories…but I can’t hear the induction script.”
“You’re dead, Lydia; you can’t hear anything,” Aiden mocked.
“I’m working under stress, here!” Lydia said as she furrowed her brow. “It was worth a shot.”
“Try again,” he said.
“I need to remember why I was here the last time,” Lydia replied slowly, closing her eyes as she tried to concentrate. “But I have no idea why.”
“It was the same reason you came this time,” Aiden offered.
“You can’t just tell me?” Lydia asked, perturbed.
“Oh, come on, too easy,” Aiden scoffed. “ You have to remember, not me.” Lydia rolled her eyes, but she focused.
“I’m here to find Scott and Stiles, so…the last time I was here to find them?”
Allison stood and stepped back, joining Aiden as Lydia glanced around the virtually empty room, searching for answers. She stood and walked towards the Nemeton, but she didn’t near it. She broke into a run, her wet feet slapping against the marble floor, but the distance never changed. She turned and looked at the others; they were right where she had left them, a few feet behind her. She grunted in frustration, but stopped at the sound of her own voice whispering.
“How do wolves signal their location to the rest of the pack?”
“They howl.”
Lydia stopped. She planted her feet, lifted her hands, and screamed, the sound shattering the fluorescent lighting overhead as the soundwaves passed over. As soon as the waves of her voice hit the Nemeton, scores of fireflies broke from every crack in the tree, lighting trails of neon in the dark room, and the sound of scattering stones echoed through the hall.
She glanced back at Allison, who smiled sadly before everything around Lydia faded to black.
~
Lydia woke to the water splashing out of the tub and the apartment shaking. Allison and Aiden crouched by the tub, now also soaked, unwilling to leave Lydia. The notepad lay face-down on the floor, sprayed with bathwater.
“Well, I think you lit the Nemeton,” Aidan yelled over the cacophony of cascading books, wall hangings, and dishes. Lydia clutched the sides to try and steady herself. The tremor lasted only a minute, but the mess it made was impressive.
Lydia pushed herself out of the tub, and Allison ran to grab her a dry towel, as the one on hand had been soaked from the quake. The water in the tub was temperate, and the light through the diffusing clouds suggested she had been out for some time. “How long was I out?” Lydia asked, rubbing her arms.
“About ten hours,” Allison answered.
“Shit.”
“Not as bad as when I went under,” Allison pointed out.
“You, Stiles, and Scott,” Lydia corrected.
“You remember?” Aiden asked, skeptically.
“A little.”
“So the script worked?” Allison asked.
“N-no. It was m-mostly deductive reasoning.” She looked down at her quivering hands; every ridge on her fingers swelled, and it was almost uncomfortable to touch anything.
“Did you remember anything else?”
“No,” Lydia admitted. “I’ll have to go under again. We need more ice.”
“You can’t go back under,” Aiden protested.
“I’m not going under to die, just to bring on hypnosis,” Lydia explained.
“You should take time to recover,” Allison agreed. She handed Lydia the towel, but Lydia shook her head as she wrapped herself.
“There’s no time. Aiden, get the rest of the ice, p-please.” She gazed up at him, begging. He clenched his jaw, and Lydia wondered if this would be his breaking point. “Aiden, I need you. I need your help. Please, get the ice.”
He sighed and dodged debris as he headed for the kitchen.
“Allison, could you–”
“Read the script this time?” Allison finished. She gave Lydia a patronizing look; Allison might be coming to the end of her alliance, too. Lyda put her hand on Allison’s arm; it practically burned under her frozen fingers.
“This is for us,” she insisted. “For both of us. Scott and Stiles–they meant something t-to you. Especially Sc-scott.”
Allison’s jaw twitched, but she leaned over and grabbed the wet script.
Aiden returned, and he handed Lydia a bag of ice to help fill the tub. As soon as her figures touched the bag, the cold accentuated the fatigue she already felt, and she trembled as she tore the top of the plastic bag open. Aiden grabbed the bag from her, and put his hand on her arm. She tried to jerk back from the scalding touch, but he held her firmly and gently, and after the initial shock, her body longed for the warmth radiating up her arm.
“No,” he said, shaking his head and putting the bag down. “You are not going in there again.”
Allison stepped back into the room just in time to catch his comment. Lydia’s shaking was getting worse. “I agree. No more ice.”
“I don’t have a choice!” Lydia protested.
“How did you do the hypnosis last time?” Allison asked.
“We used a candle,” Lydia admitted. Allison cocked her eyebrow at Lydia. “F-fine. We can use a candle.”
Allison led her into the living room again, and as Lydia sat on the couch, Allison grabbed a scented candle in a crystal-cut jar from one of the end tables and matches from the drawer under it. She lit it, and aromas of amber and cinnamon mixed with the flash of sulfur from the match. Aiden came in, grabbed the throw blanket from off the back of the chair, and wrapped it around Lydia before taking a seat in the chair across from them.
Lydia grabbed the transcript, ripped it and every wet page from the notebook, tossed them aside, and started writing again.
Take a deep breath and look at the candle. Count backwards from 10, allowing yourself to relax with each number, starting with your head. Feel your shoulders relaxing. You hands relaxing. Your eyelids relaxing. As you relax, imagine you're in an art gallery, and each painting is a memory. There is a label beneath each one. You can look at whatever memory you wish, and those memories cannot leave the frames. Try and find a memory of…
“Why are you changing it?” Allison asked.
“The first one was written for the ice bath, and…I kept hearing Scott’s voice reading it. I don’t want him to distract me while we do this.”
“Wouldn’t it help if you’re trying to remember him?”
“Possibly, but I don’t want to take that chance right now.”
She hovered over the last word, a name. Stiles had been the natural starting place, but at the moment, all she could remember of him was his name. Scott’s voice, his roar, on the other hand, was radiating through her mind like a lost echo in an empty cave. And she knew she had memories tying the two together–this could be a stronger starting place.
Try and find a memory of Scott where you felt a significant connection. Now try and find a memory of Stiles where you felt a significant connection.
She handed the script to Allison.
“How will we know if it worked?” Aiden asked.
“I…I don’t remember,” Lydia admitted. “I’m assuming there will be a hole or maybe a doorway, a portal or something.”
“And what do we do if it works?” Allison asked quietly.
She locked eyes with her. “Get ready to fight.”
“Then I guess I better grab my bow,” Allison said, a fraught smile tugging at her lip. “And you might want to change.”
“Right,” Lydia replied, and she followed Allison to the bedroom. Walking behind the mirage of her closest friend
Allison’s bow was in a large black bag at the foot of the bed. She threw the bag up on the bedspread, pulled it out, and set the string by using her leg as an anchor and bending the shafts into shape. Lydia watched as she pulled the quiver from the bag as well, clipped it around her waist, then she grabbed a long plastic box from inside the bag. Inside were an assortment of arrows, spaced by bits of foam to preserve the fletching. She drew a number and stuck them in the quiver, then pulled her arm, breast, and finger guards from the bag. When she realized Lydia hadn’t moved, she stopped and turned to her.
“You ok?”
“Yeah,” Lydia responded. “I just…you were always the strong one. I’ve always admired you for it.”
“You’re pretty badass yourself, saving a whole town and all that,” Allison said with a smile, showing off her dimples.
“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispered, and Allison lost her smile.
“About what?”
“Nothing. You go ahead; I’ll get dressed.”
Allison glanced at her, then took her equipment out of the room. Lydia closed the door behind her, and took a deep breath to steady herself. Aiden must have found Allison; she could just make out his hushed words to her, “How long are you going to let her do this?”
“It won’t work anyway,” Allison replied. “Let her have this; she’ll go quietly.”
Lydia clenched her jaw. She was alone.
If she couldn’t get Beacon Hills back, she knew she would never be able to accept a false Allison or a false Aiden. Her other scattered phone contacts might be real friends, but they may not believe her if she tried to tell them what happened; and if they didn’t, even those relationships might break.
She couldn’t fail.
She hurried into her clothes, dropping the wet slip on the floor, then rushed back to the couch.
Allison entered the living room, bow and arrows over her shoulder, chinese ring daggers across her chest, and finger guard on her right hand. Aiden followed close behind, and took his seat again. Allison picked up the script.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Allison asked.
“More than ready,” she replied as she focused on the flame.
“Take a deep breath and look at the candle…”
~
Perhaps it was Lydia’s banshee nature, but she slipped into the trance smoothly. She stood in a series of vast, dimly-lit rooms, reflective marble floors beneath, and walls trimmed in cherry wood paneling. Along the walls were frames of varying sizes, styles, intricacies, and colors, and next to each frame, a plaque with a title and short summary, though they were hard to read under the low lighting. Hairs on the back of Lydia’s back prickled; most of the frames were filled with the same, staticy darkness as her waking memories.
She walked to the first frame, labeled Mother , to find it void.
Try and find a memory of Scott where you felt a significant connection.
Lydia moved to the next painting, then the next. She turned and looked around the room; this hall probably held nothing but memories of her family. Her heels clicked on the marble as she rushed into the next hall.
She expected her memories to be organized either by age or by relationships, so she was surprised to find the lights on over a small, wood frame in the very next room with Scott’s name on it. Scott in Third Grade .
Lydia read the inscription out loud, “When my parents divorced, I had to transfer mid-semester from the private montessori school I had been attending to Beacon Hills Elementary, as their assets were being divided.” Bit by bit, the classroom in the picture became clear, hung with bright pictures of National Geographic animals, Harry Potter book covers, and inspirational Einstein quotes. The black static shrank to moving, human shapes, most of them small, sitting at desks or darting around the back of the room by the beanbags and bookshelves.
“The first time I spoke with Scott, he noticed I had bit a hangnail, and my finger was bleeding. He asked me if I was alright.”
The frame showed her looking at her own, small hand as she sat at her desk towards the back, the nails bit to the quick and blood beading on the right ring finger. It panned up, and she heard Scott’s voice; though it was younger, and an octave higher, it had the same gentle meter.
“Does it hurt?”
She shoved the hand under the desk where he couldn’t see it. “Does what hurt?”
He put a bandaid on the desk–his hand wasn’t a shadow, but the hand of a kid who spent his days building forts in the woods. There was a scab on one of the knuckles, and his own nails were short and lined with dirt.
“My mom’s a nurse, and she always makes me keep bandaids and alcohol wipes in my desk.” The hand went up to his face, cupped as if he was sharing a secret. As the hand touched his cheek, the shadows around his mouth and nose dissipated as well. “I don’t use them much. The wipes, I mean. But I can grab one for you if you want,” he added quickly.
Even if she stood outside the memory, Lydia felt the same emotions she did as a child. Tears teased at the corners of her eyes.
“He was the first person in class to talk to me.”
“I’ll take a wipe, thanks,” she replied. As Scott turned and ran to his desk, his crimson t-shirt and cargo shorts came into focus. He glanced to make sure the other students weren’t watching, as if to protect Lydia’s dignity.
“Here,” he said, handing the wipes to her. She took one out and cleaned the cut. “So what does your mom do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “She was a biology teacher, but she says that since I chose to live with her, and not my Dad, she’s going to get a new one. One that pays more.”
“Is that why you came here?” Scott asked; though his eyes were still clouded in shadow, his eyebrows came into focus as they furrowed in concern. Even as a child, he was remarkably empathetic. Lydia didn’t answer.
“My dad left two years ago…it’s almost been three, now,” Scott said, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s better this way,” Lydia said, straightening. “They were just fighting all the time.” She handed back the wipes and the bandaid. “Thanks…”
“I’m Scott.”
“Thanks, Scott.”
Lydia turned away from the picture, then realized many of the pictures in this hall featured him in some way, though he was usually older; some of him playing lacrosse, some of him with Allison, but the majority were of Scott with another shadow.
Lydia, did you find a memory of Scott?
She paused. One memory of Scott wouldn’t be enough to cause a rift; it wasn’t time yet to search for Stiles. Her pulse quickened; she was stuck in her own mindscape, and she could no longer trust the people–the Ghost Riders–on the other side, waiting for her.
Lydia, it’s not working. Maybe try that Stiles person.
“I found Scott, but I need more time!” she yelled to the domed ceiling.
“Are you going to keep listening to them?” said a meek voice behind her, echoing in the halls.
Lydia jerked around.
Meredeth.
“You’re here,” Lydia wondered out loud, a flux of frustrated emotions stilting any celebration at contact with a living human. “How are you–wait, never mind. Of course you’re here.”
The corner of Meredeth’s mouth turned up in her subtle defiance. “You don’t need them.”
“Are you going to help me create an interdimensional gateway and fight off a train of dead cowboys with magic guns to save a town full of people who have spent the better part of your life torturing you?”
“You sound like Stiles.”
Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. “You…you remember St-Stiles?”
“It’s hard for them to take memories when you’ve been living in them for the last six months. The sedatives still haven’t worn off.”
Lydia grabbed her arm.
“Will you help me?”
Lydia, who are you talking to?
We should just blow the candle out and put an end to this.
“It’s the act of remembering that opens the door. I can’t remember them for you. But my memories should be enough to help keep it open. Go ahead–find them. If you find Scott, you'll find Stiles.”
Lydia turned, and darted along the walls, looking for a portrait of Stiles. She paused at a massive piece labeled Glen Capri . A shiver ran down her spine as she examined it; while most of the pictures were black and gray, this one showed a bright, 1950s motel. She must already have enough context to flesh the story out.
“I-I think I found one, just give me a moment!” she called out. She read the inscription. “Allison and I followed the cross country team on their trip because Scott wasn’t healing. The trip was delayed, and the school secured rooms at the Glen Capri. Though we didn’t know the culprit at the time, the Darach had enchanted the werewolves, giving them hallucinations in an effort to force them to commit suicide. We found Scott outside by the buses.”
The frame showed two parked buses across the parking lot. Scott stood doused and stranded in the middle of a pool of gasoline, holding aloft a lit flare.
A pulsing shadow stood with Allison and Lydia on the walkway above the parking lot, and on spotting Scott, they cautiously descended the stairs. Allison walked around to face Scott, calling to him, but he wouldn’t respond. The shadow followed her, and Lydia followed the shadow.
“ There’s no hope ,” Scott finally replied, his voice cracking. His eyes, still dark from the last memory, finally came into focus as tears welled around walnut irises and ran mingled with fuel down his face.
“ What do you mean, Scott? ” Allison asked gently. “ There’s always hope. ”
“He blamed himself for the pain and danger we kept finding ourselves in,” Lydia continued.
“ Scott, listen to me, ok? ” the voice from the static cut in. “ This isn’t you, alright? This is someone inside your head, telling you to do this. ”
Lydia’s lips parted at the sound of his voice. In all of this, she had yet to hear Stiles speak, but she knew in her bones and her blood it was him.
“Scott couldn’t accept Stiles’ protests,” she read.
“ We weren’t important ,” Scott wept. “ We were no one. Maybe I should just be no one again. No one at all. ”
“ Scott, just listen to me, ok? ” the static said again, his tone tense and measured, but cracking at the edges. “ You’re not no one. You’re someone–Scott, you’re my best friend, and I need you. Scott, you’re my brother. Alright, so… ” the shadow moved into the pool of gasoline, “ ...if you’re going to do this, you’re just going to have to take me with you. ”
Lydia’s heart caught in the emotions of the memory. Already terrified and breaking at Scott’s despair, she swelled with respect for this person who would unflinchingly risk himself for those he loved. Her fear for Scott grew to envelope Stiles, too, and she found herself biting back a scream.
The shadow’s arm reached out, and as it took hold of the flare, the darkness broke into flesh, revealing a pale hand. It tossed the flare away, out of danger–for a moment. Lydia watched in horror as it rolled back into the gasoline.
“ No! ” her memory self cried as she ran forward and threw herself onto the shadow. As soon as she collided with the static, it dissipated into flesh and fabric, and as Stiles grabbed Scott, she knocked them both to the ground and out of the path of the flare behind them.
Despite the connection, the angle of her view prevented her from seeing Stiles’ face, and while there was more to the memory, Lydia knew she had gathered all she could from this one.
As she backed away from the frame, light after light in the gallery sparked on, illuminating memory after memory. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat.
What was that?
Pull her out. I’m blowing out the candle. You’ve humored her enough.
“Keep going,” Meredith encouraged her.
She stopped at the very next frame, her heart speeding up as she recognized the shadows of the unlit locker room. The plaque read Panic Attack . She didn’t bother to read the description; she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Stiles sat panting on the floor, and Lydia took his static face in her hands, trying to calm him. She watched her lips pierce the darkness, dispersing the static over his features and stilling his fears, leaving them both breathless. His eyes were bright and golden, the only light in the room.
“I remember,” Lydia whispered, touching the frame.
Thunder cracked overhead. The world around her quivered, the lights flickered, and Lydia stumbled, settling in a crouch to keep from falling over.
“Keep going!” Meredith yelled.
Lydia? Lydia, wake up!
Shit, I think she did it.
Lydia, you have to snap out of it!
She stood, reminding herself that this was her mind, her gallery. She was in control, and she had power to go or to stay. Despite the quaking grounds around her, she planted her heels and pressed on.
Lydia resisted the urge to look through every memory. A black frame held the image of Stiles, cruel and cold, dragging her through concrete tunnels, taunting her, feeding on her turmoil, but her gut screamed at his false nature. The next frame, identical and placed oddly close to the previous, was of her despair when the true Stiles found her, fragile though he was, and her grief when she was forced to choose between her two dying friends.
She passed frame after frame, moment after moment, searching for the one that would break the barrier.
Stiles, holding her as she wept over her best friend.
Stiles, bantering with her as they explored a small town in Mexico together.
Stiles, piecing together mysteries with her in his room till dawn.
Stiles, tied down with her to a support beam in the basement of a madhouse.
Stiles, trusting her abilities unquestioningly regardless of her own confidence.
Stiles, breaking through the double doors of a torture chamber to rescue her.
Stiles, driving her home late at night in his rusted jeep as she dozed next to him.
Stiles, calling her and taking her calls in the middle of the night.
Stiles, pouring over books with her long after the library was closed.
Stiles, grabbing her frantically as a storm brews around them, tears in his eyes.
Stiles, holding her hand, whispering he loved her before vanishing in the dark.
Stiles, rushing to kiss her in the locker room even when she hadn’t said it back.
Lydia stopped in front of the last frame, watching Stiles caress her face in the shadows. She reached up and dragged her fingers across the textured paint of his skin and whispered his name.
Thunder broke across the air and marble, wrenching trenches in the ground. Meredith stood on the far end of the room.
“Lydia, go–now!”
~
Lydia came to herself in a disoriented rush; the world was rocking, the living room bouncing away. Aiden had her thrown over his shoulder and was charging out of the apartment. She tried to move, but Aiden tightened his grip on her waist and let a growl as he kicked down the front door.
“Aiden, what are you–put me down!” Lydia yelled, pounding his back and kicking. She turned as much as she could to see Allison leading the way, arrow notched and ready on the string of her bow. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re going,” Aiden answered.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Lydia insisted, trying to kick him, pulling at his shirt, his hair–whatever she could grab. “Allison, help me!”
“I’m sorry, Lydia, but it’s not safe here for any of us,” she answered. Rather than taking the elevator, she led Aiden down the five flights of stairs to the lobby, Lydia battering the entire way down.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but as they stumbled into the lobby they could see green lightning shattered the sky through the windows. They slammed through the glass double doors, and horses cried and stomped as some twenty Ghost Riders surrounded them.
Allison met the gaze of one–if an eyeless monster could have a gaze–and said, “We will take her and leave.”
It shrieked back at her in some unnatural language, and Allison shook her head in fervent protest. “No, no–we have this under control–”
But Lydia was done. “Control this!” she yelled as she grabbed Aiden’s hair and sent the toe of her boot into his crotch. He dropped her, growling and cursing, and as she fell to the ground every Rider leveled their gun at her. She stood shakily, backing away from Allison and Aiden.
“Don’t shoot!” Allison bellowed, glancing wildly between Lydia and the Riders.
“I should have grabbed you the moment I saw you,” Aiden muttered as he turned towards Lydia, fully shifted and iced eyes blazing.
"No!” Lydia raised one hand, her high-pitched voice balanced between a command and a scream. Aiden fell to his knee, covering his ears, and everyone else froze. “You…can’t hurt me,” Lydia said, lingering on each word as she contemplated, piecing out their complex relationship. “You can’t take me into the Hunt, you can’t hurt me with your supernatural weapons and forms, and…you’re afraid of me.”
In the distance, a train engine called.
A cocky grin pulled at the corner of Lydia’s lip. “You two won’t survive without me,” she said as she looked at Allison, who shifted her weight tensely, “and I wonder about the rest of you. I’ve summoned you back here with the Nemeton, I’ve ripped a hole between our dimensions, and you still won’t attack me.” She chuckled, her eyes growing bright with frantic hope and power.
Four of the Riders holstered their guns and advanced.
“Lydia, just because they can’t–” Allison started.
“Stop!” Lydia shrieked, hands raised as she pushed the power of her voice against her assailants. Car and apartment windows shattered, glittering the air with glass. The Riders and imposters flew back, the horses screamed and scattered, and Lydia advanced. “You thought you could placate me, control me, silence me. You thought I would be subdued by despair and won over by lies wearing the faces of my friends.” She closed in on the foremost Rider as it tried to push itself up from the ground. “I am a banshee; I cannot be silenced. I am a harbinger of death–” her voice elevated to a scream again as she stopped before the kneeling cowboy, and raised her flattened, outurned hands across her chest, “–and you were dead wrong!”
Pumping her arms forward, she threw her scream across the parking lot, loosing a universal, unholy cry from the Ghost Riders as her voice split their heads and chests.
The parking lot fell silent but for the thunder overhead and a second call from a distant train. Even the fallen forms of Aiden and Allison didn’t whisper any final breaths.
Lydia almost wasted a moment of guilt over bringing them down, but despite the help they’d given her, they were not her friends, and had turned on her. She didn’t have the time or energy to spend on regretting their demise or her part in it.
The train sounded once again. Lydia ran to her car and jumped in, thankful she’d left her keys in her jeans pocket. She tore out of the lot, leaving the windows down to listen for the sound of the engine in hopes it would lead her to it, but she wasn’t blessed with werewolf senses, nor was she having any supernatural premonition as to where it would emerge. The best thing she could do is go where she’d last seen it–the school.
As she retraced her trail through Beacon Hills, the distant thunder and train horns waxed and waned, occasionally joined by the screams of horses and the rhythmic, mechanical grind of train wheels on tracks, though she never caught sight of either. The disembodied sounds, set against the unnaturally silent suburban streets made her question her sanity again.
The roads were more hazardous than they had been yesterday, with additional fallen trees, tossed trash cans and bikes, and pools of deep water joining the empty cars from the heavy rains overnight. Realizing the town had been gone an entire night added to her anxiety, and her frustration grew with each obstacle in her way.
“Come on, come on,” she growled to herself when she had to turn the car around a third time due to a snapping powerline across the road. The normally twelve minute drive turned into thirty, and Lydia shoved tears from her cheeks as the school and Preserve beyond it came into sight.
Green light flashed between the tree trunks; by the volume of the train’s wail, it wasn’t too far off. She slammed on the breaks, parked the car, and jumped out, not bothering to pull off the road or take the keys from the ignition. She dashed up the green slope and past the school building towards the hazy trees. When her heels sunk into the soft earth, tripping her, she wrenched off her chelsea boots and socks and carried on, her body thriving on the adrenaline spikes from cold water, broken twigs, and scattered pine needles.
The drumming of wheels on tracks grew as she broke the tree line. The unkept brush slowed her progress, and she practically fell onto the train tracks, so close they cut to the trees around her. The train thundered towards her from her left, flicking in and out of existence; it wasn’t coming from the direction it had departed Beacon Hills, but then again, it was a supernatural machine run by supernatural creatures and she couldn’t always expect regular logic to apply. She looked up the tracks to her right where some twenty yards off stood the switch plate in a small clearing. She couldn’t see which way the tracks were set, but if there was even a chance it was set to send the train away from Beacon Hills, she needed to change it if she was going to have any chance to stop the engine.
She took off towards the clearing, doing her best to keep off the tracks. The horn screamed as the machine gained on her. She tried to move back into the trees–there was nothing she could do to save them if she was hit by a train–but the uncleared brush prevented her from getting out of the way.
She whimpered as she tried to run faster, but her body was spent from ice baths, lack of sleep, and her recent death and resurrection. Something caught her bloodied foot, and she fell hard against the steel. She scrambled up, crying in frustration and panic, and pulled herself forward only to trip again. She closed her eyes and forced her will through her limbs and pushed up again, but she glanced behind. The train was less than a hundred yards off, flickering and wavering. She ran only another fifteen feet before tripping again. She wouldn’t make it to the switch.
She rolled onto her back; if she couldn’t run, all that was left was to fight, or die trying. Twenty yards. Ten. She raised her hands to scream, but before she could let loose the wheels screamed instead, and the train leaned hard left before falling hard onto its side and sliding, sparks and trees flying as the next three cars toppled after the engine and folded against each other like an accordion.
Lydia threw herself into the brush just in time, slamming into a trunk. Something inside cracked, but the adrenaline kept her from feeling anything. If all she broke was a rib by the time the night was over, she would be lucky.
She stood holding her side, and made her way back to the wreck. The train flickered in and out of reality in a blinding neon light that persisted even when the train wasn’t there.
As she watched, green and red flames erupted from the other side of the shifting light. Two sets of hands pushed through the light, then pried at the center, rending apart the pillar of flames and creating a tear in the air.
A wiry teen pushed shoulder first through the rift, panting, his brow dripping with sweat and a whip coiled in his hand. The sleeve of his plaid shirt was ripped above the elbow, a white bandage stained with some unnaturally green liquid mixed with blood. He righted himself, and his eyes fell on her.
Lydia froze.
Others followed, streaming out after him, but she saw no one. He held her gaze, and all the chaos muted.
Twice.
She had lost him twice–his very existence–in three months, and they had still found their ways back to each other.
She didn’t remember moving or seeing him move, but in the space between her breaths she found herself in his arms. She winced as his arms tightened around her, but the physical pain only gave tangibility to the emptiness she’d held without him.
“You didn’t think I was gonna leave you in Beacon Hills alone, did you?” he wheezed as she threw her arms around him. He stumbled against her, and as they looked into each other’s eyes, the same toxic green seeped into his honey scleras.
“Hey, I saved you, dumbass.”
He shrugged and gave a consenting nod. “Yeah, I guess we wouldn’t have made it back if you hadn’t–”
“Shut up, Stiles Stilinski,” she said. “I love you.”
She pulled his head down to hers, lips brushing and then drinking deep of each other. All the things she’d missed in Aiden’s kiss were there, waiting for her–every touch matched and echoed, each sweet breath caught and exchanged as they created their own atmosphere within the storm.
“Stop disappearing on me,” she whispered between each kiss.
“Yes ma’am,” he promised.