mint-dunbar[1]

Seven

"This is good!" Deaton exclaimed. "We need to keep going! Scott, do what we discussed." At the older man's words, the alpha crossed the room to Liam, grasping his arm, and swiftly snapping it. 

Both Clarke and the beta yelled in pain, as she had felt it too, thanks to their bond. She felt like there suddenly wasn't enough space in her mouth; there were large fangs coming from her gums. Another shooting pain ran down her neck and back. It felt like things were sprouting along her spine, only to get caught in her shirt, causing more ache. She frantically motioned to her back, hoping someone would get the message to cut her freaking shirt open. Thankfully, Scott did, ripping the back of the fabric like it was tissue paper.

The pain was finally disappearing, and everyone in the exam room gaped at her like she was an alien. She searched for a mirror, settling for the warped, reflective surface of the exam table. In it, she saw herself, except with glowing green eyes, fangs, and feathers sticking out of her neck. She looked like a horrific chicken.

Turning to the others, she whispered, "What am I?"

-

Liam unzipped the hoodie he wore, handing it to Clarke in exchange for her ruined shirt as Deaton rifled through the Beastiary. Every few minutes, he would pause, reading a page, then continue flipping through. It had been a few minutes since she'd shifted back, and Liam's arm had healed.

Finally, the Druid and Scott found the right page. They turned to the two freshmen, book in hand. Deaton read from it:

"The Hibou Mort, whose name roughly translates to 'owl death prophet' was found for the first time in France, during the years 1170 AD to 1397 AD. Thought to be the cousin of both the banshee and the harpy, this creature has glowing green eyes, fangs similar to a werewolf, talons like a harpy or siren, and feathers on its back. The trait of this creature is passed down from mother to daughter, and it is never present in males; the family that was found to be Hibou Morts was the Stones, whose matriarch was Clara Stone. This creature is as closely related to an owl as a werewolf is to a wolf, and was thought to be a protector of a pack, although the packs they protect are never made completely of just werewolves, and they are at times referred to as a messenger of death."

Truth be told, it was a lot to take in. Clarke sat on the table, hand interlocked with Liam's, and listened to Deaton. 

"Everything adds up except for the healing. It says nothing here about it. According to this passages you should be as vulnerable as I am. Tell me, Clarke, were you ever bitten? Because I can't think of any other explanation." 

She shook her head. "The only thing I've ever been bitten by was a llama at a petting zoo when I was eight." Liam laughed loudly. "Yeah, I remember that day. Your dad took us to..." He trailed off, thinking. "Wait. What if your dad was something supernatural?" He asked. She frowned.

"I mean, I could check. You know, dig up some family history."

-

An hour later, she and Liam sat in her attic, surrounded by photo albums. Mr. Stone never liked to be in pictures; he always had preferred to be the one to take them.

The pair had been quiet for a while, each going through an album, when she chuckled. He stopped what he was doing, crawling over to where she was. Clarke was looking at a rare picture of her and her father from the day they moved into the house; she sat in his lap in their backyard, and his hand was shielding his eyes from the flash of the camera. But what she had laughed about hadn't been the focal point of the picture. It was the background: a young Liam ran stark naked around his respective backyard, behind her and her father.