xxii. WHEN WE COLLIDE
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BEACON TRIBE VILLAGE, 1458
"But last time you used fire," Rae said in their native tongue.
"That was because we were looking for Daniel, for a specific person," Atohi replied. "This time we're trying to predict the future of our families—our pack. If it was just your personal future I was trying to predict, I'd look in your palm."
Rae nodded silently, knowing not to question Atohi. She was a shaman after all—well, practicing to be a shaman—a witch. And their words and ways were to never be questioned by anyone; not even those descended from the First Men—the founders and old leaders of their tribe.
Jolon then entered the tent, carefully balancing a large clay bowl full to the brim with water from the creek. In his other hand, he held a blood red candle. "I've got all of the things you asked for, Atohi."
"Water was sacred to the Druids," Atohi explained, as Jolon placed the dish on the floor and the three of them sat around it.
"Apparently, everything was sacred to the Druids," said Rae.
"Hush, Rae. Now, put the candle in the holder and light it. Then I'm going to pour the melted wax into the water, and the shape it makes will tell me the answers to your questions. My Elisi used many different melted materials, but wax will do fine." When Jolon had lit the candle, Atohi glanced at it sideways and took a deep breath. "I'm getting scared to do this."
"You don't have to, Atohi." Rae said softly. "I know that you've only started practicing with your abilities."
"I know. But I want to—I have to. And it's not these kind of rituals that scare me; it's calling out to the Spirits and getting taken over that's so awful. My Elisi says that I'll grow use to the sensation but I hate it. It's like somebody else getting into my body." She paused, taking another breath. "Anyway, here goes. Put out the fire, Jolon. Give me a moment to get attuned and then ask your questions."
In the silence of the dim tent, Rae watched the candlelight flickering over Atohi's lowered eyelashes and Jolon's somber face. She looked down at her own hands in her lap, pale against the blackness of the animal skin clothes. Then she looked at the dancing flame.
"Okay," Atohi said softly and took the candle.
Rae's fingers twined together, clenching hard, but she spoke in a low voice so as not to break the atmosphere. "Will there be an uprising from the neighboring packs?"
Atohi tilted the candles so that the flame licked up its sides. Hot crimson wax streamed down like water into the bowl and formed round globules there. "I was afraid of that." Atohi murmured. "That's not an answer—nothing. Try a different question."
Disappointed, Rae sat back, fingernails biting into her palms.
"Can we find the man that's been slaughtering our people? And can we defeat him?"
Atohi muttered something under her breath as she tilted the candle again. This time the wax formed a circle, a lumpy blood red ring. "Unity—the symbol of people joining together. It means we can find and defeat this man if we join with other packs."
Realizing that she was still pouring, Atohi quickly righted the candle, looking into the bowl again. The last spill of wax had formed a thin, straight line. "That's a sword—sacrifice. We can do it if we join together, but one of us will have to make a great sacrifice."
"What kind of sacrifice?" Rae asked. "A blood sacrifice, to the Gods?"
"I'm not sure," Atohi said, her face troubled. "That's all I can tell you at this time." She stuck the candle back into its holder.
"Whew," Jolon released a breath as he got up to rebuild the fire. Rae stood, too.
She was in a strange mood tonight, after spending the day alone in her recently deceased brother's room. "Atohi, before I go, would you look into my palm? I want you to tell me my future, my personal future."
"All right, I'll try," Atohi relented. "There'd just better be no more dark forces on the way, that's all. You've already got all you can handle." She said as she took Rae's outstretched hand. "Don't act so surprised. I can hear the pained screams you try to muffle—the cries from wounds that aren't your own."
Rae swallowed thickly. "Just...read my palm, will you?"
"Fine, this is your life-line—" Atohi's stream of patter broke off almost before it was started. She stared at Rae's hand, fear and apprehension in her face. "It should go all the way down to here," she said. "But it's cut off so short..."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that your life will not be a long one," Atohi murmured. She let go of Rae's hand and Rae slowly drew back. "You will die young and healthy." She continued, leaning forward to look deep into her eyes. "I see a darkness in you, Rae Echo Hale. And in that darkness, eyes staring back at me. Brown eyes, blue eyes...eyes you'll shut forever."
→
Dear Dairy...or whatever,
It is now April—I don't know what day, or time, probably afternoon.
It's been almost a month since my car went off Dead Man's Bridge.
Almost a month since I died.
Malakai got me out of the attic I had woken up in. He said he didn't want me going there again. This is Malakai's pen I'm using. I don't own anything anymore. I'm sitting right now in an abandoned building behind the house we're staying in. I can't go where people know my face, you know, because I'm still technically dead. I'm just glad that the animals around me don't know my face or my name.
I'm trying very hard not to have hysterics.
I thought writing might help. Something normal—except that nothing in my life is normal anymore.
Malakai says I'll get used to it faster if I throw my old life away and embrace the new one. He has been itching to get out of Beacon Hills since the moment he pulled my body out of the water. He keeps telling me that it's not safe here anymore, not safe being so close to my friends when the Dread Doctors are lurking around.
But, I hunted a deer last night. A stag, because it was making the most noise, clashing its antlers against tree branches, challenging other males. I snapped its neck and left its body for the other predators. And I know what you're thinking: why didn't I drink its blood? Well, that's because I'm not like Raeven, at least...not yet.
When I look over this journal—the same one I found lying in the attic when I came back to life—all I can see is what I was searching for something, for someplace to belong. But this isn't it. This new life isn't it. I'm afraid of what I'll become if I do start to belong.
Oh, God, I'm frightened.
I could hear an owl hooting above me. It is almost pure white, especially when it spreads it wings so you can see its underbelly. But from the back it looks more gold and it has just a little gold around the face. It's staring at me now because I'm making noise, trying not to cry.
The creature gives me the chills. Raeven told me that her people—back in her day—believed that owls had a very important place in the witch craft of those days. An owl was considered a symbol of bad luck. And if one was sent by a witch, it could not be killed.
You can see why it's making me uncomfortable.
Carter shook her head, reading over her words from five months ago. She tucked the little book close to her body when she heard Malakai enter the house. Other than his encroaching footsteps, the house was utterly silent. Outside the sun shone down brightly, lighting the world with its brilliance. Carter ached to look at it as she sat in a dark corner, but could only glance at it periodically.
"I talked with some of the cops, and they said that Sheriff Stilinski has ruled it as an unsolved case." Malakai said, stepping into the room. "And I dug around about this Theo Raeken character..."
Carter looked up at him when his voice trailered off. She knew exactly what he was doing; he was trying to get her to speak. "And? What did you find out?"
"Nothing," Malakai replied and she rolled her eyes. "As far as I can tell, he is who he says he is. I can't find anything that would lead us to believe that he's working with them. And from what I gathered last night, Scott and Malia seem to believe him. They think he's nice. But, you know better than anyone, that we can't be too sure."
Carter nodded. She'd had second thoughts about her suspicions of Theo, herself. Not because Scott thought he was nice, but because they had no evidence against him. In the back of her mind, she had a nagging feeling that Stiles already pulling his hair out over Theo's suddenly return to Beacon Hills.
"Well, we won't cross him off the list just yet," she said. "We've got to be careful, Mal. What about Raeven? Did you find anything else about her?"
"No dice," Malakai replied. "I went to her apartment downtown, but she didn't answer the door."
"If somebody would only allow me to leave this house unsupervised, I could watch her, too," Carter scowled at him, narrowing her eyes in accusation. "I know her better than anyone and I feel like I'm the only one not doing anything. I think..." She paused for a moment, considering, and then said, "I think I'll go by Stiles' house. Maybe I can listen in—try to find out what Stilinski knows and what Stiles thinks he knows or something."
"I'll go with you."
"No, I can do this, Malakai." Carter insisted, firm. She was tired of him treating her like a useless child that was unable to handle themselves. "And it's better for me to do it alone. Really, I'll be fine. Believe it or not, death has made me very inconspicuous these days."
"Then take your own advice and be careful. The last thing we need is for someone to see you."
Carter nodded and stood, pulling herself out of her dark corner. She winced, shielding her sensitive eyes from the sunlight as she passed by the window. She inwardly groaned.
I'll have to wait until the sun goes down, she thought.
When the sky outside was uniformly black, she ventured out of the house. It was empty and echoing. She hadn't thought about how she would get through town, but evidently stuck to side streets and dark alleys. As she approached Stiles' house, she saw that a car was just pulling out of the driveway. She melted into the shadows and watched.
As the car roared past, Carter recognized it. Jordan's deputy vehicle.
Now, that was interesting. She had an urge to follow him, but a stronger urge to check the house, make sure everything was all right. She circled it stealthily, examining the windows. The yellow chintz curtains at the kitchen window above the sink were looped back, revealing a bright section of kitchen inside. Sheriff Stilinski was closing a manila evidence folder. Had Jordan come to talk about my case? Carter wondered.
It gave Carter a strange feeling to look at this room, knowing that she could only look and not go in. For all they knew, she was still dead. Body buried. How long had it been since she realized what a nice room it was? All the tiny details seemed strangely precious to her now. Standing outside, feeling the feathery caress of the wind on the back of her neck, she wished she could go in just for a moment, just for a little while.
Stilinski's head was tilting back, his eyes shutting. Carter leaned her forehead against the window, then slowly turned away. She climbed the fragile and hard to climb maple tree outside Stiles' bedroom, but once she got up she had a good view; the dark curtains were wide open just like in the kitchen. Stiles was asleep on top of the bedcovers, his mouth open, his dark hair splayed out in all directions.
Hello, baby, she thought and swallowed back the tears. It was such a sweetly innocence scene. That was until she saw the clear glass dry-erase board set up in the center of his bedroom—until she saw what was written on it.
Something tingled at the roots of Carter's hair.
Who is the Desert Wolf?
Theo Raeken
Carter's body stolen from morgue
— possibly taken by murderer
— possibly walked out
Oh, God, Stiles was getting suspicious—or he already knew. Carter's mind was working at top speed, but it wasn't helping her. It was only flashing pictures of what Stiles could do with that knowledge, of what danger he could put all of them in. And Stiles just lay there breathing softly, oblivious to any possible danger.
The wind suddenly got stronger. It moaned through the branches of the maple tree, almost knocking her off. The sound was rising steadily now, not just a moan but a howl. And there was something else. Something that came not just from the wind, but from the air itself, or the space around the air. A feeling of pressure, of menace, of some unimaginable force. She knew that feeling all too well.
Her eyes slowly drifted to the far corner of Stiles' bedroom—the light from the lamp on his desk unable to reach the dark corner. She could see them, feel them as they materialized from within the darkness. Like the Oni. The wind was screaming, shrieking, tearing at the fragile tree. It roared with a thousand voices; she heard the clicking of their masks over the wind as they moved out of the dark and toward Stiles.
Oh, no.
"Stiles, wake up!" Carter shouted. Then, just as the Doctors' shadows loomed over him, she threw herself at the window. She never knew, later, how she managed to hang on. There was no room to kneel on the sill, but her fingernails sank into the soft old wood of the casing, and the toe of one boot jammed into a foothold below. She banged against the window with her body weight—careful not to break it, not wanting to alert the whole neighborhood.
"Get away from him! Wake up, Stiles!"
Stiles' eyes flew open and he sat up. The Dread Doctors vanished back into the confines of the darkness. Carter shouted again. "Stiles, open the window!"
Stiles, panting, looked around the room as if he expected someone to appear and help him. When no one did, he approached the window as if it were a dangerous animal. But he didn't open it. Just the sight of the girl outside his window had been enough for tears to come to his eyes. And even through the window he could see that her skin was pale, had a strange wintry luster to it, and her brown hair seemed overlaid with a silvery sheen. She was eerily beautiful. How could someone die beautiful and come back to life even more so? he thought.
"Let me in, Stiles." Carter said. "It's really me, I swear."
Slowly, with clumsy fingers, Stiles opened the window and stood back. Carter, wincing, had boosted herself over the sill and was flexing her fingers. Stiles' hand reached out toward her, his expression anxious. His face was the most important thing. For the first time, with the dimming shadows and limiting weakness of humanity taken off her eyes, she saw his face. She then struggled with her vocabulary, unable to find the right words. She needed better words.
"Stiles?" she asked in a low, calming tone.
He stared at her for a moment longer in silence. He reached out tentatively and stroked his fingertips across her cheek. Smooth as satin, soft as a feather. His touch seemed to sweep beneath the surface of her skin, right through the bones of her face. The feeling was tingly, electric—it jolted through her bones, down her spine, and trembling in her stomach.
Wait, she thought as the trembling blossomed into a warmth, a yearning. Wasn't she supposed to lose this? Didn't dying and coming back to life meant giving up apart of herself? She'd already acknowledged that her emotions and longings had changed over the past six months, but she'd accepted that. But as Stiles' hand curled to the shape of her face like satin, desire raced through her dead veins, singing from her scalp to her toes.
As Stiles continued to stroke her cheek, the warmth his touch had spread through her had gotten more and more real, warmer and warmer. Hotter. Uncomfortable now. Too hot. Much, much too hot. It had been so long since she'd felt anything that gave sign that the fiery beast inside her still lived on. It had been so long that she thought it was dead—that the creature was gone and she was just an undead girl stuck in the land of the living. But she was wrong.
The Pheanix lived on.
The heat cooled into a soothing warmth—that was her perception. With the sweet, delicious scent that she'd never been able to really take in with dull human senses, but that was one hundred percent Stiles. She threw her arms around him, pressed her face into his chest. Another wave of desire rippled through her body.
These emotions were so much stronger than she was used to that it was hard to stick to one train of thought. Each new sensation Stiles ignited overwhelmed her. She made a concerted effort to focus. There was something she needed to say. The most important thing.
"Stiles, I—" Carter began, and then froze. Sheriff Stilinski's voice sounded from the top of the stairs.
"Stiles, are you awake? What's going on in there?"
Carter had only an instant to make her decision. "Don't tell him I'm here," she whispered. "You, Lydia, and Logan are the only ones that know I'm alive and I need it to stay that way." There wasn't time for any more; Carter dived under the bed and prayed.
From under the dust ruffle, she watched Stilinski's sock-clad feet come into the room. Carter pressed her face into the floorboards, not breathing.
"Stiles, what are you doing up here? What was that noise?" Stilinski's voice said and the bed creaked with Stiles' weight as he sat on the edge of it. "God! It's freezing in here. What on earth is the window doing open? You know what? I don't want to know."
The sock-clad feet went out again. The door shut.
Carter squirmed out.
"I missed you."
Very carefully, so carefully that the movement was actually discernible, she raised her hand to touch his cheek. She stared into his eyes. "I love you."
His answering smile dazzled her more than it ever had when she was alive.
"I love you, too."
He took her face between his hands and leaned his face to hers. He kissed her, soft as a whisper at first, and then suddenly stronger, fiercer. She tried to remember that she needed to have a serious conversation with him after, but it was hard to remember anything in the onslaught of sensation, hard to hold on to any coherent thoughts.
The air whistled down her throat. The action felt wrong. She didn't need the air. Her lungs weren't waiting for it—she knew that. They inflated and deflated as if she were alive, but no relief came with the action of breathing. And though she didn't need oxygen, her breathing sped, raced as fast as it had when she was being consumed by the fire inside her. This was a different kind of fire.
It was then that she realized that Stiles did need air. Surprisingly embarrassed, she half-stepped away to allow him to breath.
"God, I missed you more than you could possibly know, Carter."
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not edited
I UPDATED HOLY CRAP!!! im sorry this story has been progressing so slow but let me tell you that i have been struggling with this story, okay? i have struggled so hard the past few weeks trying to figure out how i wanted carter to come back into the main storyline and how i want her new dynamic to work with the other characters and then there's the whole malakai thing. also STARTER IS BACK!!! (for the time being) i know their interaction, i think, is a little premature but i wanted to show that even though her emotions toward everything are a little whacky but her feelings toward stiles still dominate because he's her ideals altro.
anyway, i hope you all enjoyed this!! i hope the first interaction between stiles and carter lived up to your expectations! xx