Season 4 (Book 2)
Chelsea Argent has been through it all. Ever since her dad left, she has been living with Scott and Melissa McCall. The death of her sister, Allison, and boyfriend, Aiden, brought her down. With the help of her friends, she slowly...
This story will basically follow the show's story line mixed up with my own ideas. I do not own anything from Teen Wolf just my own characters.
Hope you enjoy my story!
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Stiles' P.O.V
"This doesn't seem so bad." I rub my hands together as I glance the town.
"It's not the town, it's the plan" Lydia nervously tells me.
"What's wrong with the plan?" I question still glancing the town.
"Stiles, this could be the stupidest plan we ever come up with." Lydia turns to me. "You're aware of that, right?"
"I'm aware it's not our best." I nod in agreement.
"We are going to die." Lydia worriedly says.
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I begin to walk away from where we were standing, "Are you saying that as a banshee or you're just being pessimistic?"
"I'm saying it as a person who doesn't want to die." She follows.
"Okay. Would you just mind restricting any talk of death to actual banshee predictions?" I ask nicely.
"This plan is stupid and we're going to die." She replies.
"Oh, thank you." I smile at her as I rub the back of my neck nervously.
She's probably right, I thought.
We waited for night fall and walked to the place. I saw two guys standing at the entrance.
"Estamos aqui para la fiesta." Lydia said
The guy shook his head no so I reach into my pocket and take out a card with a skull on it. I show it to the guy and he motions me to show it to the camera in the far left corner of the door. I did so and the door opens. The two guys step aside and we both walked in.
The hall way was really creepy and the lights on the wall were shaking. We stood in front of another door. I look at Lydia and she nods.
I open the door to reveal people dancing. The music was unbelievably loud that I bet you couldn't hear anyone's conversation.
"Let's head to the bar." I tell Lydia.
We walked through the crowd of people and sat down on the stools a the bar. The bartender hands us shots and I looked at him then back at the shot.
I went into my pocket to grab my wallet and pay when someone put a hand on my shoulder. "No. On the house."
I took my hand out of my pocket and leaned forward on the table.
"Most American teenagers don't cross the border to refuse a drink." The guy continues.
