Lydia stands with her face pressed against the tile of Stiles's shower. She keeps her eyes closed under the steady stream of hot water and focuses on regulating her breathing. Something's happening. Changing inside her. She folds her arm over the building heaviness in her chest and crouches down to her knees. Lydia curls her nails against her palms before she rubs her hands over her neck where Stiles kissed her. She doesn't realize she's scratching her skin raw until the heat from the water stings the abrasion. She quickly folds her hands and clutches them to her chest as she leans her head forward against her knees. A soft knock on the bathroom door causes her head to rise.

"Hey," Stiles's voice sounds hesitant through the door, "I put a towel and a fresh set of clothes by the door. I'll be downstairs if you need anything else."

Lydia waits until to she hears his footsteps fade away from his room before she turns off the water. She dresses slowly in Stiles's room, and she has to pull the drawstring on his gym shorts tight around her hips to keep the garment in place. Her wet hair hangs like a shroud around her face, and fat drops of water drip onto her shoulders. She's not sure how to face him. She considers leaving through the bedroom window, but she's not a werewolf, so that probably wouldn't end well. She sits on the edge of his bed and brings her hands to cover her face. The banshee tries to keep her sobs silent, but a choked gasp escapes her mouth. What has she done? She collects herself by swiping her tears back into her wet hair and takes a final deep breath before she stands and opens the door. She finds Stiles sitting outside his bedroom door.

"I uh, I lied about being downstairs," he says without looking up at her. She sees the bandaid on his cheek and shame rushes to her face with hot blood. "Do you. . . do you want to talk about it?" he asks her gently as if sensing her urge to run.

It's too painful to watch him speak so she closes her eyes and curls her lips inward as she leans against the doorframe, desperately trying to wrangle her flailing emotions. No, she thinks, she doesn't want to talk about it, but she knows she owes him an explanation.

"Lydia," Stiles says as he angles his head to look up at her defeated form, "I'm not mad. I'm confused."

Lydia can feel herself cracking. He won't say it, but she hurt him. She hurt him bad.

"I didn't mean to scratch you," she says in a small voice.

"Honestly," he says as he rubs his mouth with his hand and faces the floor, "That's the only part that doesn't confuse me." He drop his hand into his lap and repeatedly taps his right hand onto his left. "It was the tunnels, right?" His voice barely carries over the sound of his tapping. "I mean, it got too similar. . ."

"I thought I could separate you," she says in a equally stunted tone, "I thought I had already."

He nods with a fast, jerking motion. Seemingly accepting the information but not willing to lingering on it. "So why now?" he asks in a wavering, cracking tone. He clears his throat after the question and continues in a stronger voice, "Why did you come here tonight?"

Why had she come to see Stiles? The banshee chews her bottom lip as she juggles the potential responses inside her head. Parrish had wanted to talk, but she couldn't talk. No one seems to understand that she can't talk. The cries inside her head drown out any conversation. She needs distractions. Physicality. Mind numbing, silencing, flesh on flesh. She needs Jordan, but he'd left her. She'd been unwanted. Alone. Stiles would never leave her alone. Stiles wants her.

Her silence must be telling because Stiles lets out a hoarse breath and shakes his head. "He broke up with you, huh?" he asks in a reserved sounding tone.

The banshee releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding and looks at her feet. She can't bring herself to meet his eyes. To see the disappoint and betrayal she knows is there. She never wanted to hurt him like this.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," she whispers, "I shouldn't have. . . I'm, so, so sorry."

He lets out a hollow sounding laugh and covers his face with his hands. "So I was revenge sex?" he asks from behind his palms.

"No!" she says quickly. She can feel the panic seeping into her voice. "No, Stiles, I'd never-"

"But you did. . ."

"I was hurt. I was confused. I - I needed you." She grimaces at the clumsy explanation. The words sound cliche even to her.

"No, you needed a warm body, but uh, thanks for thinking of me, I guess." His tone is caustic and Lydia's chagrin builds. He won't even look at her. He stares straight ahead at the blank wall. She doesn't deserve to cry in front of him - not now. Lydia presses her palms to her face and wills her tears to dry. For the first time in weeks, she hears only her own voice in her head asking the same question over and over.

What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?

"Stiles. . . please."

"What?"

"Don't. . ." she starts but swallows the rest of the words. How can she ask him not to leave her after what she did?

"Don't what?"

"Don't tell anyone," she says before she even registers she's speaking.

He lifts his head to meet her eyes. His stare seems to hold a mixture of awe and contempt as he curls his upper lip into a sneer. "Don't tell anyone?" he says, "Are you fucking serious?"

Hearing the request echoed back makes Lydia feel dizzy. Is that really what she said?

"Don't worry," Stiles continues, "I won't tell anyone how fucked up you are. You're reputation of pristine mental health will remain untouched."

She can tell he wants his words to hurt, and they do. The stale, almost uninterested, anger directed at her makes it difficult to breath. She's seen that look on his face before. When moldy concrete walls towered overhead and iron bars blocked her path. He doesn't know how perfectly he can recreate it. Lydia slides away from him using the wall to support her weight. Her vision flickers, but she pushes back against the wave of unconsciousness that threatens to engulf her. She feels the wall bend beneath her hand where it curves to meet the stairwell. Black spots twirl through her line of sight, and she almost doesn't notice Stiles replace his expression of anger with one of growing concern.

"Lydia?"

His voice sounds far away, distorted almost. She knows this feeling, but she can't faint. Not now. Stiles deserves better. She stumbles down the stairs two at time, forcing her body to keep moving despite the tremors that run up and down her legs. Lydia throws open the front door and runs to her car, the keys still dangling from the ignition. She can hear Stiles yelling after her as she speeds from the driveway.

At first, she doesn't know where she's driving to. Trees blur past her window in a green smear. It's not until she makes a sharp left that she recognizes where she is. The banshee parks her car with sigh and exits. The gravel of the parking lot bites into her bare feet, but she ignores the irritating sensation and walks towards the dewy grass. She follows the winding path back through the sparse array of trees until she reaches her destination. Lydia folds towards the earth and presses her cheek against the grass. She stretches her arms up, and out, and digs her fingernails into the soft ground. How many times has she felt this? Her fingers wiggling into grave dirt. Why can't she remember?

"Help," she says, her voice a low and torn sound. "I don't . . . I don't know what I've done. Everything feels. . . I make everything wrong." She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath. Her fingers curl and chunks of grass break in her grip. "Is this how you felt?" she whispers to the ground. "Is this the darkness?" She tries to remember every detail, every adjective Allison used to describe the scar in her heart. Heavy, sinking, consuming. Lydia bites her lip and pushes her face harder into the ground. "I don't feel heavy." Her words are swallowed by earth. "I'm scared. I'm so scared, Allison. It feels like I could blow away. Like nothing's holding me down."

She opens her eyes at the sound of footsteps to her left. A lone figure stands under the trees, avoiding the light of the moon.

"Allison," she whispers while slowly turning, as if afraid sudden movements will drive the vision away. The figure motions towards the banshee, beckoning her nearer. Lydia walks softly across the damp grass. Wind rustles the branches above, and light sweeps over the form, but all Lydia can make out in the brief illumination is dark hair and pale skin.

"Allison?"

The figure answers by beckoning the banshee once more and turning towards the forest. "Wait," Lydia calls out as she scrambles to her feet. She catches up in time to see the figure look over its shoulder as if waiting for Lydia.

Her feet begin moving towards the specter before she even realizes she's walking. She widens her eyes to track the movements of the shadowy figure. The forest grows thicker and the moon strains to reach the pine needled ground, but the girls are oblivious. One focused on leading, the other focused on following. All their surroundings fall into a muted existence. Cold is the only stimulus that Lydia registers, but the sensation never leaves her intellectual awareness long enough to become an actual feeling. She hears her teeth chattering and sees her hands shaking, but she feels nothing. A familiar emptiness envelops her the further they walk - a comfortable forgetting like in the Veil. Soon, the increasing cold, the dimming moon, and the splinters burrowing into her feet, fade from the banshee's awareness completely. Lydia feels nothing. The fog rolls heavier, hiding her legs and the dense undergrowth beneath her feet. She stumbles once, twice, over broken branches and has to run to catch up with Allison's unrelenting pace. The ghostly form stills and pulls a branch aside so Lydia can see past the pine needles. There's a clearing ahead. It reminds Lydia of somewhere she's been before, but she can't recall exactly. A shadow moves in the fog of the clearing, and she can just make out the lanky form of a body. Whoever it is appears to have to be waiting for them. Allison offers Lydia a small, encouraging smile before walking towards the figure. The banshee ignores the sharp pine in the soft skin of her feet and steps past a brush of thorns, letting her fingertips gently dance over the nettles. This scene is familiar. She finds herself looking around, searching for similarities with a moment she can't describe. She opens her mouth to call for Allison, but when she turns around, the girl is gone.

"Allison?" she whispers.

Lydia wraps her arms around herself and moves in a slow circle. She holds her breath and listens to the forest whine and groan with the wind. A soft shuffling in the dead leaves catches her attention, and the banshee moves as quietly as she can towards the source. It's dark, but she thinks she sees a huddled form maybe fifty yards off. The banshee creeps silently through the undergrowth, her eyes never leaving the shaking figure. It's all so familiar somehow; the crouching form, the groaning trees, the fading moon. All that's missing is the thunderstorm. Lydia stops. Thunderstorm? She has been here before. Fat drops of water splash onto her face and she blinks up at the sky right before a harrowing clap of thunder rips through the clouds. She switches her eyes back to the tree where the crouching figure hides just in time for a flash of lightening to illuminate the clearing. She sees strawberry blond hair hiding a face of wide eyes and lips pursed in fear. This can't be possible. Lydia watches herself press further against the tree, a phone shaking in her hands that she has pressed against her ear. She hears her double whisper.

"Shhhhh. . . There's something out here. Be quiet or I'll hang up."

Lydia stumbles back in horror. Her steps are loud and uncoordinated. She has to get away. This isn't right. It can't be real. She crosses the clearing backwards, never taking her eyes off where her other self hides. She feels sick. She has to get away from here. Lydia breaks into a run when she reaches the tree line. Her breath burns its way into the cold night air from her lungs, but she doesn't stop her forward course. She moves even faster, tearing through the woods, snapping branches as panic overtakes her every molecule. She doesn't see the massive stump before her, but she feels it. The impact crushes the breath in her lungs and she knows she injured her leg on the rotting wood. Lydia digs her fingers into the wet moss covering the nemeton and suppresses a shaking sob. Whispers build on the wind. Lydia covers her ears with a whine but the voices grow louder in the muffled silence. There are too many to pick any single one out, and each begs with obscene sincerity to be heard uniquely. She stands and stumbles away from the dead tree with her hands still over her ears.

"Shut up," she mummers as she limps. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up." She has to stop and close her eyes when the whispers swarm into a frantic scream. The banshee grinds the heels of her hands against her ears with a snarl. "What do you want?" she says through her teeth. "What do you want from me?"

"They'll be quiet if you scream, but you already know that, don't you, banshee?"

Lydia lowers her hands and turns to the sound of the voice behind her. She can't see the lanky form in the darkness but she can feel it. His nonchalant expression and lackadaisical posture. It oozes from his words. She digs her fingernails into her palms as dread boils under her freezing skin. She can barely draw a breathe in her petrified state.

"What's wrong?" he continues. "Not happy to see me?"

"You're not real," she says as her eyes struggle to pick his familiar shape from the surrounding trees.

"Wouldn't you rather me be real?" he questions and steps into the moonlight to show off a lewd grin and dark eyes. "I mean, isn't the alternative that you're, uh, you're losing it?"

"I'm not crazy," she says.

"Right, yeah," he chuckles as he circles her, "And you didn't just follow a dead friend into the woods or see yourself out here either." She turns away from his biting tone and wraps her arms around her shivering torso. "Face it, Lydia. You're off your rocker. Totally cuckoo." She can hear his footsteps crunch over the dead leaves. "Was it Stiles?" he asks, now much closer. "Did fucking him send you over the proverbial ledge? Or was it his rejection?"

"Fuck you," she hisses while keeping her eyes on his dirty converse.

"Been there, done that." He stills his movements and she can feel his eyes searching hers. "Did you think of me?" he asks softly. "I bet you did. I bet he did too. Realized how dirty you were. How broken."

"You're pathetic if you think you can hurt me with those words," she says as she shakes her head. "You're not him. You're not even real."

"And that makes me pathetic?" he asks with a hand to his chest before laughing. "What about you, huh? Having a conversation with something that doesn't exist. Something you imagined. . . made up. Which begs the question," he says while shaking a finger at her. "Why did you imagine me?" The boy reaches out and gently runs his thumb over her cheek. His dull eyes flash in the moon's brief light through the heavy clouds, and the shadows dancing over his pale skin make him appear more sickly than she remembers. "You know you don't deserve him. You see things, hear things, and do things that no one else can. That no one else should. You're a monster, Lydia, and you know that. . . deep down, you know it."

She pulls his hand from her face and steps back. "I'm not. . . no," she says, "I help people."

"Like how you helped Allison? And those poor girls losing their souls? Were you helping that night at the nemeton?"

"I don't. . . I can't," she trails off into silence, not sure what she's trying to communicate. She takes a step back from the hateful imitation and lets her eyes drift over the tree line, searching for an answer in her scattered mind.

"What?" he asks harshly, "Remember?" The void thing wearing Stiles's face steps closer to her. "You want to know why you imagined me, Lydia? Because I'm the only part of your fractured mind that can handle knowing what you've done. What you're capable of doing."

"I don't care," she says. "I'll find out what happened. You can't keep things from me. I thought you learned that lesson already."

"Oh Lydia," the void boy purrs, "God, I've missed you. You've changed, but you won't admit how, will you?" He bares his teeth in a malicious smile. "You're in over your head, banshee. Even I can see that. I'd help you, but. . . I'm not real as you love to point out," he finishes with a lazy shrug.

A falling tree limb draws the banshee's attention and she when turns back to the fox, she finds herself alone. Lydia runs her hands through her hair and slowly sinks to her knees. The ground is cold and the wet dirt sticks to her legs in freezing patches. She bites her lip to contain - a scream or a laugh, she can't tell. It's official. She's fucking crazy. Either that or the darkness has further blurred her line between this world and the next. She's doesn't know which she'd prefer. The rain and wind plaster her hair to her face and she swipes strands from her mouth with furious movements. It all comes back to the nemeton. What ever happened, it happened there. She pushes herself off the forest floor and limps towards the damned stump of tree. The moss feels slimy under her fingertips but the sensation doesn't deter her. Lydia lowers her head and presses her cheek against the nemeton's muddy surface. She breathes the damp residue of dead foliage deep inside her being. The patter of water beating down the leaves around her begins to fade, and her eyes stop registering the violent flashes of lightening. Soon, even the thunder's roar sinks slowly away from her consciousness. There is only the dirt and the moss and the wood. And Lydia. She hums and moves her fingers over the veins and gaps of the splitting stump. Even the voices and their insistent whispers become a comfort. A slithering weight creeps over her feet and travels up her legs to settle over her hunched form. It should disturb her, but the oppressive embrace brings a gentle and familiar calm with it. The Veil. Lydia feels the darkness trickle over her fingers and toes. She pulls the threads tight and drags the weight into her chest, curling the Veil around her like a shroud. The sensation feels similar to floating; the ebb and flow of the quicksand like substance gently rocking her. She can hear the whispers better now. Each it's own individual song that she can pluck from the void at will. One hums softly off key, and when she focuses on the notes, she finds herself humming along. She follows the song back to its creation and isn't surprised to see the nemeton standing alone in the infinite dark. The closer she walks to it, the more definition emerges within the scene. Grass sprouts under her feet and trees push and twist up from the nothing. She sees a shape beyond the raw stump, still as a dancer waiting for the orchestra to begin the music. Thunder rumbles through the recreation and spurs the form to life. The banshee watches through branches as a boy carries a girl over to the nemeton and places her limp body gently on the stump's surface. Lydia steps closer, a sinking feeling in her gut. She's seen this before. The boy leans over the girl and moves his fingers over her face and neck in slow, deliberate movements. A pattern. Fueled by the knowledge that she's witnessing a memory, Lydia walks into the open and approaches the nemeton. She can hear her own footsteps, but the boy pays her no mind. She watches him smooth dirt into symbols over the dead body before he stands and admires his work. Lydia circles him, trying to catch a hint of features in the unrelenting dark. She thinks he has black hair, but it's hard to tell for sure. She's positive he has blue eyes. He ignores her and steps back from the tree, unaware of her presence and prying eyes. The banshee watches him disappear into the forest before the sound of breathing brings her attention back to the stump. The air rushes from her lungs at what she sees, and yet, she should have expected it. Lydia stands still as she watches herself crouch next to the dead girl. Her doppelgänger retraces the patterned dirt then leans forward and kisses each unseeing eye.

"See me," her other self whispers, "See me."

The words are followed by a blinding blue flash that knocks Lydia completely out of the Veil. Her eyes hurt and she becomes aware of the biting cold and wetness soaking into every fiber of her body. Nearly a minute passes before she can see the forest again. She feels dazed and sluggish. Her limbs won't cooperate with the movements she needs to make. She shakes and trembles with every step, and she uses the low hanging branches to keep herself standing. Pine needles dig into the raw skin of her feet but the banshee forces herself to walk. She makes it fifteen steps before a lurch in her stomach drops her to the ground. She gags suddenly, barley moving her hands in time to avoid the splash of warm bile. There's a loud ringing in her ears and her head feels like it's incased in styrofoam. Even her vision gets fuzzy. Lydia heaves up another mouthful of bile before her arms give out beneath her. The banshee slips forward onto the dirt and vomit. She's unconscious before her face strikes the mess.

"Lydia," a fanged mouth pronounces her name harshly. Dazed, the banshee has trouble focusing her eyes on the face nearing hers. The male voice is familiar but she can't put together his features yet. She only sees red and teeth. "Lydia," he repeats loudly, "Can you hear me?"

"Scott?" she says, "You're Scott." Slowly, as if waking from a dream, she begins to feel the cold and wet ground underneath her. Her mouth tastes foul and something makes her hair stick to her face. And why does every muscle in her body ache?

"Yeah, I'm Scott," he answers in a tone laced with seemingly immense frustration, "Lydia, what happened?" He helps her sit up slowly, but leaves his arm under hers to continue supporting her weight. "Was someone here? Did someone do this to you?"

His question doesn't make sense to her. Do what? She looks around the woods, her brows drawn in confusion and her lips parted as if to speak. She turns back to face the werewolf, and says softly, "I saw someone."

"Who?" he asks, his tone still rough and jagged.

"I don't know," she says while pushing away from Scott.

"You don't know like you can't remember?" the werewolf presses, "Or you don't know cause you've never seen them before?"

"What?" she asks weakly. "I don't know. I don't remember," she continues, "I must have been half asleep." She runs her hands through her hair and fixes Scott with a weary side eye. She's exhausted. "Look, it was just a dream." She lets her head sink between her knees and closes her eyes.

"Lydia," the Alpha says, "Lydia, look at me." Scott grabs her shoulders and forces her to sit up straight. He cups her face in his hands and turns her head right then left as if checking for injuries. She lifts a hand to pull his fingers off her face, but she can only manage to weakly lay her hand over his. The movement makes her whole arm burn. "There's something wrong with you," Scott says, "I think you've been poisoned."

She realizes the frustration she thought she heard in the werewolf's earlier tone was fear. He picks her up without another word and starts heading back to the cemetery. Lydia drifts in and out as he makes the small journey, and it takes her awhile to realize she's in a car instead of Scott's arms. She can hear him on the phone.

"I don't know, Deaton," he says with a edge of hysteria to his voice. "I told you. I found her passed out surrounded by black goo. It was in her mouth too like she'd spit it up." He's quiet a moment, listening to the Druid speak through the other line. "It doesn't smell like anything, that's the thing," he continues heatedly. "It smells like nothing."

"The Veil," she mumbles and turns her head to face Scott.

"What?" he asks quickly, "Hold on, she's talking." He moves the phone to his other ear and looks at Lydia from the side of his panicked eyes. "What did you say?"

She clears her throat, and says "The Veil. I think I was in the Veil."

"She says she was in the Veil," he repeats. Then he nods and hands the phone to Lydia. "He wants to talk to you."

Lydia takes the offered call and sighs into the phone. "Hello," she says.

"Lydia," Deaton greets in a professionally calm tone as if he doesn't want to alarm her, "I've told Scott to take to you to the clinic. There are some herbs I think will help you there, but first, I need to ask you some questions. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," the banshee answers as she presses her palm against her pounding head.

"You said you were in the Veil, right?"

"Uh-huh," she says.

"And you were dreaming?"

"I guess," she says while leaning her head against the window and closing her eyes.

"Are you sure you? Do you remember falling asleep?"

"I. . ." She opens her eyes back up. "No," she says, "No, I was at the cemetery. And I followed-" She stops in the middle of her sentence quickly. She doesn't need to bring Allison into this. Not with Scott right there anyway. She might as well skip the part about losing her mind by talking to the Nogitsune too. "I had a feeling I needed to go to the nemeton so I did," Lydia finishes.

"And then you were in the Veil, is that correct?"

"Yeah, I just sorta. . . slipped into it or something."

"Okay," Deaton says, "You're going to be just fine, Lydia. Why don't you put me on speaker phone for Scott?"

She pulls the phone back to press the speaker button and holds the technology between her and Scott. "You're on it," she says.

"The Veil wasn't made for real, organic material," says Deaton, "It's for the dead. The environment is - in a sense - toxic to the living. If Lydia took her corporeal self into the Veil, her body would have suffered certain, understandable consequences. Think of it along lines of an allergic reaction. Harmless in the long run, but a pain nonetheless."

"So she's not dying?" The Alpha's words are more of a statement than a question. Lydia watches Scott's grip soften on the steering-wheel as if even saying the sentence aloud brings comfort.

"She's not dying, Scott," the Druid says as in a kindly tone. "A cup of dandelion tea mixed with a generous helping of burdock powder should get her back on her feet. Although I must say, I'm much more interested in how you managed to corporeally enter the Veil so easily, Lydia," he continues, his tone taking on a firmer quality. "From what I've read, it was an extremely difficult and dangerous practice for the even the most skilled banshees to accomplish. Perhaps we can talk when you're feeling better?"

"Sure," she agrees quickly, eager to escape the obvious suspicion in Deaton's voice. "Here's Scott," she says as she turns off the speaker phone and shoves the cell back to the werewolf. She can feel the Alpha's eyes studying her as he listens to the Druid talk. Probably about her. They're getting closer to the clinic, and Lydia wishes he'd drive faster. She wants far away from this conversation, whatever it's about.

She rests her head on Deaton's desk as Scott mixes the tea and burdock. The dandelion tastes bitter and the burdock powder feels slimy on her tongue but Lydia downs the concoction as fast as she can. The ringing in her ears starts to fade the moment she swallows.

"Did Deaton mention anything about the translation?" she asks.

"Um, no," Scott answers as he puts the herbs away. "Wasn't really the point of the call, you know?"

"Did you actually think I was dying?" she chuckles while swirling the left over dregs in the cup.

"It's not funny, Lydia," he says with a tight brow. "You were passed out in the woods covered in a black substance. It looked like mountain ash poisoning."

"But I'm not a werewolf," she corrects.

"So?" the Alpha questions loudly. "Something was wrong, okay? I don't know what affects banshees and what doesn't."

"Well, I guess I'm lucky you found me," she sighs. "It felt like the world's worst hang over."

"I didn't find you," he says, "I was looking for you. Speaking of, you need to call Stiles. He's worried."

Lydia almost drops the mug at the mention of the name. She puts the cup back on the desk and turns to look at Scott.

"You talked to Stiles? Tonight?"

"He called me," says the werewolf, "Said you were acting weird and then you ran off."

"Dammit," she mumbles as she bring her thumb nail up to her teeth.

"Want to talk about it?"

"About what?" she says, the defensiveness shining clear in her hostile tone.

Scott sighs and sits down opposite the desk. "Look, I know, okay?" he says. "I mean, most of the time, I concentrate on blocking out all the scents I can smell, you know? It's pretty hard to miss what you and Stiles were up to."

Lydia covers her face with her hands and groans. "I fucking hate werewolves," she says softly. "I don't want to talk about it. Not with you. Not with Stiles. I made a mistake, that's it."

"Lydia, I don't know what's going on with you, but-"

"There's nothing going on, so drop it!" she interrupts him with a fierce voice.

"Fine," the werewolf counters in an equal angered tone, "Then let's talk about the Veil. Who did you see?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Before you went into the Veil, you saw someone."

"No, I didn't," she says quickly.

"You're lying," says Scott, "I don't know why, but you're lying."

"Jesus! What does it even matter?" she asks as she runs her hands through her hair and stands to pace the office.

"Deaton said that for a corporeal form to enter the Veil, an incorporeal one has to be released. It's a trade, Lydia. Who did you trade with?"

"I didn't! There wasn't a trade," she says with building uncertainty, "I mean, I never agreed to anything. It's not possible." She speaks more to herself than to Scott.

"What's not possible?" the Alpha repeats in a frantic tone,"Lydia, talk to me, for fuck's sake!"

"I saw lots of people, okay?!" she snaps. "I don't. . . I don't know what's real anymore." She voice grows quiet at the confession. "I don't know what I want," she continues in a small, shaky tone, "I don't even know what I've done. All I know is that I'm sick of people looking at me like you are right now. I don't want to talk to you, Scott, and I don't need your pity."

Scott stares at her with stern features, his eyebrows pulled together and his lips pinched between his teeth. After a moment, he shakes his head. "How long are we going to do this?" he says. "When can we just be fucking honest with each other? What does it take?"

"For starters, you not trying to kill me, probably," she scoffs. The Alpha is silent and she knows she hurt his feelings. She doesn't care. Lydia pushes on in a detached tone. "Sorry, but I'm not really feeling like a heart to heart right now, Scotty." The nickname sounds harsh when she hears it, but the words are already said. And since when has she ever called him that?

The werewolf stands slowly and places the keys to her car on the desk. "I can't help you if you don't let me," he says softly as he removes his hand from the metal.

She doesn't look up until she hears the murmur of his bike fade into the still night.

She gets home late and calls out an apology to her father before she remembers that he's out of town. She trudges to her bedroom and stops to catalogue her appearance in the mirror. Exhausted doesn't begin to describe how she looks. Half dead might be more appropriate. Shame rushes her face when she realizes she's still wearing Stiles's clothes, and she turns from her reflection with a grunt while tugging his shirt over her head. She can't think about tonight. Her mind spins trying to process everything that happened. One thing's certain, she burned every bridge she had. Jordan. Stiles. Scott. Malia will probably never talk to her again when she finds out what Lydia did.

When did she become this pathetic thing?

Focus on what you know, she reminds herself. There's a defixione in Allison's grave but no one knows what it says. Someone stole the hunter's grave dirt and is making astral zombies to control the leftover bodies. It all points to resurrection. Lydia flings herself onto the bed and curls into a cramped ball of frustration. She can't keep following all these different leads. She has to pick up one trail and follow it. Think like a cop. Or a Stiles. Two out of four missing girls are found; one dead, the other in a coma.

"Someone's practicing," she says aloud, "Lilly was a failure, but Rachel wasn't." She scrambles from the bed and grabs her purse before turning it over and shaking all its contents out. She shuffles through the pens, make up, and receipts until she finds the crumpled piece of paper she's looking for - Blake's number. The banshee dials the number as she chews her bottom lip.

"Hello?" a groggy voice answers.

"Hey, it's Lydia. . . from school," she says before she looks at the clock opposite her bed. It's almost three in the morning. "Did I wake you?"

"Um yeah, yeah, I was asleep," he says, sounding like he still hasn't woken up yet. "Sorry, I'm mostly shocked you actually called. I thought you'd throw my number away."

"I almost did," she says with a shrug. "Listen, you said you knew all the missing girls, right?"

"Yeah, that's right," he answers in a less sleep-addled tone.

"What are their names?"

"Um, lemma think. . . It was Lily, Justine, Heather, and Rachel."

"Rachel and Lily have been found though," Lydia adds, "So the focus should be Justine and Heather."

"Yeah, probab- wait, hold on," Blake says. She can hear the sound of sheets like he's getting out of bed. "Have you watched the news today?"

"No."

"They found Justine this morning."

"Where?" she asks.

"Uh, I don't know," he answers, "She's at Glendale Medical Center right now though. In some sort of coma, I think. My friend volunteers at the hospital. We can talk to him tomorrow, if you want. He might know more."

"Yeah, that sounds good," she says as she closes her eyes and leans back onto the bed. "Talk to you tomorrow." She hangs up before he can say bye. She rolls onto her side with a deep sigh and presses her hands over her eyes.

"Guess you're not alone, after all, huh?" a mocking voice asks. "There's always some poor sap willing to be dragged into your mess."

Lydia opens her eyes and sits up to face the intruder. Her hands ball into fists, ready to fight at a moments notice. She breathes heavily though her nose, and it takes all her effort not to scream.

"What are you doing here?" she asks quietly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Was I supposed to stay in the woods?" the Nogitsune says while looking over his shoulder as if the forest might emerge behind him. He still wears Stiles's form. "See, I'm not entirely clear on when it's convenient for you to be crazy and when it's not. Is now a bad time?" He cracks a grin with his words and pushes off the doorframe to walk into her room. "It's funny cause I don't really care, you know?"

Lydia stands quickly and moves to keep the bed between the void boy and herself. "I said what are you doing here?" she repeats in a firmer voice, anger taking precedence over her fear.

The fox licks his lips and bows his head down to his chest to watch her with slanted eyes as he puts his arms out wide to either side. "You wanted help," he says, "Well, here I am."

"I never asked for your help," she says with narrowed eyes. "I would never ask your for help."

"Ah, ah!" he scolds while wagging a finger at her. "No more lies, banshee. Not with me."

"I'm not lying," she spits.

"So you never put out a 'calling all gods' SOS?" It's awful watching a void Stiles shake his hands as he says the words. "Oh, but that's right, you call it a defixione, don't you?"

"I. . . I don't," she stumbles over the words in mouth before she settles on saying, "But you're not a god." Her eyes are wide and her mouth purses after the sentence.

"I'm not a god," he chuckles while looking around her room before his eyes settle back on Lydia. When she meets his gaze, there's no humor in his stare - only impassive and slight distaste. "I'm a deity, you fucking idiot. A being of divine status and nature." He cocks his head to the side. "You talk to the gods, you talk to me!" He booms the words. "What? You think I'd ignore a message from you? And here I thought we had a special connection."

"You're not real," she says, the air struggling to reach her lungs.

"Are you sure though?" he asks. "I know you've been using this form to give yourself little masochistic pep talks in la la land, and honestly, I'm flattered. But uh, your curse thingie. . . sorta changed the game. Well, that and the darkness." He walks around the edge of the bed as he speaks, effectively corning Lydia by her bedside. "Oh, that's right! You haven't talked to anyone about that, have you?" he asks with unhidden glee. "You've gone through cosmic changes and you haven't told a soul. You don't even know what the defixione says, do you? Oh, this is priceless," he says as he puts his hand over his heart, "You should see your face, banshee."

"I would never call on you," she says as she squeezes her arms around herself.

"See, its a common misconception that defixiones call on a specific god. I mean, they can, but you left out a name. Open roll call," he shrugs. "I've been watching you. And I'm impressed, really, I am. I thought I'd stay tuned in until you made up your mind, but tonight? Crossing into the Veil? I gotta hand it to you, Lydia. That was big."

"You're not real," she repeats while pressing against her nightstand. The corner digs into her thigh.

"How many time are you gonna say that? So I'm not real," he sneers, "Call me biased, but I don't think it makes much of a difference. People are dying, and you've got a chance to stop it. Isn't that sorta your thing?"