Kira stood near the entrance to the plane, along with a few of the other guardians. Scott ran off to talk to her, and Stiles went for Malia.
"How was it?" she asked him. "I heard you and Scott went for a day of... fun."
"It was fun, actually," Stiles said, shrugging. "We pranked some people, clogged a toilet or two, we locked a messenger in the main elevator, and Scott found this gypsy woman who read our fortunes."
Malia seemed interested. "Really? What did she say?"
"Mm, she said Scott was on the verge of a new beginning, a 'rebirth of great power and emotion'. That his life will change in a direction that will... ultimately illuminate the world, I think that's what she said. It was beautiful really."
Malia made a face. "I meant about you."
"Oh, right. Well, mine wasn't so cheery."
"What did she say?" Malia insisted, giving him a playful push.
"God, you're aggressive," he laughed, dodging. "Uh, she said that I will destroy that which is undead. Whatever that means." Malia turned serious. "Don't worry. That woman's a total scam."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because she didn't tell us anything! It was, like, one sentence stating the obvious. I'm screwed and Scott will be a great leader. Who doesn't know that?"
Malia smiled. "Would you be a believer if she'd given you a more interesting reading?"
"Maybe if it was good." When she just laughed, he asked, "But you're taking it seriously. Why? You really believe in that kind of stuff?"
"I..." she bit her lip. "I think people like her have access to knowledge other people don't."
"She's not a half-breed, though, so I'm not really sure where she's getting this knowledge. I still think she's a con artist."
"They're called vrăjitoare."
"Vr—what? Is that Turkish?"
"Romanian. It means... well, there's no real translation. 'Witch' is close, but that's not right. Their idea of a witch isn't the same as ours."
Stiles had never expected to have a conversation like this with her. Yes, Malia had given him the Nazar which was very superstitious of her part, but he didn't think it went that far. Maybe it was a Turkish thing? Where was she from again? For half a moment, he thought that if she could believe in something like witches and fortune-tellers, maybe she could handle him seeing ghosts.
"My grandmother's like that," she explained. "That is, she practiced the same kind of arts."
"Your grandmother was a... vr—whatever?"
"It's called something else in Turkish, but yes, same meaning. She used to read cards and give advice, too. It was how she made her living. And it was a good living."
"Was she right? In her predictions?"
"Sometimes. Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you think I'm delusional, but you're too chicken to say anything."
"Delusional isn't the word I had in mind," he teased.
Malia put her hands on her waist. "What about cynical? It's not my fault. I grew up with it, so it doesn't seem that strange to me. And anyway... I'm not sure I buy into it 100 percent."
Stiles watched as Lydia joined the group by the plane, protesting loudly about them not being able to board yet.
"I never thought of you as having a grandmother," Stiles told Malia. "I mean, obviously, you'd have to. But still..." he babbled. "It's just weird for me, thinking about guardians growing up with a... family. Was it weird having a witch grandma? Was she always, like, threatening to cast spells if you were bad?"
"She threatens everyone, yes."
"And she's still alive?"
Malia nodded. "Yeah. It'll take more than old age to kill her off. She's tough. She was actually a guardian for a while."
"Really? So she gave it up to—uh, to stay with her kids?"
"She has very strong ideas about family—ideas that honestly sound kind of sexist to me. She believes we should train and put in time as guardians, but women should eventually return home to raise their children."
"Not the men?"
"No," Malia said wryly. "Real men die in battle."
"Oh man. I'll have to remember that."
Malia made a sound almost like 'don't.'
During the trip back, Scott could hardly wait to tell everyone about the news. He started off with how Stiles had been called in to see the queen, excited that the queen had wanted to 'praise' him. Everyone seemed impressed except Lydia. The look on her face told Stiles that she was sure her mom most definitely hadn't called him in for that.
Scott then told them about the offer to live at Court and go to college at Lehigh. "I still can't believe it," he mused. "It sounds too good to be true."
Lydia knocked back a glass of champagne. "Coming from dear mama? It is too good to be true."
"What do you mean?" Stiles asked. "Is he in trouble?"
"What, bodily? Nah. Relax, little guardian. Just keep in mind that Mom doesn't do things out of the kindness of her heart. Well," Lydia amended, "she's not a total bitch. I think she means it about worrying about the McCalls. She liked your parents. However... You've got radical ideas. She might want to hear different opinions, or she might want to keep an eye on you, keep you from causing trouble."
Or maybe she wants you two to get married, Stiles silently added.
Kira didn't like any of this. "Lydia's right," she said. "They could be trying to rein you in. You should go live with Uncle Derek. You don't have to go to a half-breed school."
"But he'll be safer if he does," Stiles admitted. He started to add more, but just then, that headache from yesterday returned. It was like all the air around them was pressing on his skull. He put his hand on his forehead.
"You're sick again?" Scott asked, worried.
"Have you always had trouble flying?" Lydia asked him.
Stiles gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the pain. He had had an entire day without the trickster—and what a good day it had been—so much he was almost feeling normal again. But now, there he was, trashing inside his head, making everything—
EXPLODE.
The headache was unbelievable, in a way Stiles hadn't thought that was possible. It felt like the trickster was trying to rip open his skull to get out.
But that was just the beginning.
Because suddenly all around him were faces. Ghostly, translucent faces and bodies—just like Erica's. And oh God, they were everywhere! Stiles couldn't even see the seats or his friends. Just those faces—and their hands. Pale, shining hands reached out for him. Mouths opened like they would speak, and all of those faces looked as though they wanted something from him.
Thicker and thicker the faces grew. While none of them actually spoke, there seemed to be a buzzing in Stiles's ears that grew louder as more and more of them came. Two new figures joined the crowd. They should have blended into the rest, but they stood out: Scott's parents.
They looked exactly as they had the last time Stiles had seen them, just before the car accident. They wore no marks of their deaths, even though Stiles knew the crash had done horrible things to them. And unlike Erica, they actually spoke to him.
Don't let anyone else in, Stiles. Don't let them in. They all want another chance at life, but you mustn't let them in. Get rid of them. All of them!
The ghosts started marching toward Stiles, their hands outstretched, their eyes crazed.
Stiles started screaming. He removed his seat belt and stood up trying to push the ghosts away from him. Someone on the plane was talking to him but Stiles couldn't tell who was dead or alive, not when he couldn't see anything but those faces, hands, eyes.
Then Erica was there, solemn and sad. Stiles appealed to her for help.
"Make them go away!" he yelled. "Make them go away!" Stiles waved his arms to fend them off, screaming for someone to help him and make it all stop.
Erica couldn't help him, it was obvious. There was no help. Not from those hands and hollow eyes or the pain that consumed his head. It grew so bad that glittering black spots began to dance across his field of vision. He had a feeling he was going to pass out, and he hoped for it. It would make the pain go away and save him from the faces.
You have to save yourself, Erica's voice echoed in his ears.
The spots grew bigger and bigger, and soon Stiles could no longer see anything. The faces disappeared, and so did the pain as Stiles fell on the ground.
Eventually, Stiles woke up in the school's infirmary and found Dr. Deaton looking down at him. "How's my number one patient feeling?" he asked.
The details of what had happened came back. The faces. Erica. Rafael and Melissa. The other ghosts. The terrible pain in his head. All of it was gone.
For a moment, Stiles wondered if maybe it had all been a dream. Then he looked beyond Deaton and saw Malia and Chris looming nearby. The looks on their faces saying the events on the plane had indeed been real.
Chris cleared his throat, and Deaton glanced back. "May we...?" Chris asked. The doctor nodded, and they stepped forward. "Stiles..." began Chris with uncertainty. He had no clue how to go about this. What had happened was beyond his realm of experience.
Malia took over. "Stiles, what happened?" Before he could utter a word, she cut him off. "And I swear to God, if you say you're fine, I will strangle you." Chris either didn't care about the emotion in her voice or didn't notice.
"We only want to help you," Deaton added in a soothing voice.
"I don't need any help," Stiles said hoarsely. "And I'm fi—I feel better now."
Chris finally regained himself. "No. Why the screaming? What did you mean when you said we needed to make 'them' go away? Who are they?"
Stiles felt cold in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know how to answer.
What lies are you going to tell them now?
He was starting to sweat. He was terrified of their reaction.
"Stiles," Malia said softly. "Please."
Something in that cracked him. He stared at her. "Ghosts," he whispered. "I saw ghosts."
Heavy silence fell.
"W—What do you mean?" Deaton asked.
Stiles swallowed hard and tried to hold back the tears. "She's been following me for the last couple of weeks. She won't leave me alone, but I don't know what she wants. I don't know how to help her."
"Who?" Chris asked.
Stiles almost choked. "E—Erica," he whispered. "That's what happened with Harris. She was there, and I didn't know what to do. On the plane... she was there, too... but there were others. Too many of them. And the p—pain." He waited for the others to react.
"Did you know all of them?" Malia asked.
Stiles met her eyes. They were still serious and concerned. "Some. Scott's—Scott's parents were there."
Nobody said anything after that. They all just sort of exchanged glances, hoping perhaps that one of the others might shed light on all of this.
Deaton sighed. "Could I speak with the two of you privately?" he said.
The three of them stepped out of the examining room, shutting the door behind them. Only it didn't quite catch. Scrambling off the bed, Stiles crossed the room and stood by the door.
"—obvious what's going on," Deaton hissed. "That poor boy. He's undergoing post-traumatic stress disorder, and it's no wonder after everything that's happened."
"Are you sure?" Chris said. "Maybe it's something else..."
"Look at the facts: a teenage boy who witnessed one of his friends getting killed and then had to kill her killer. You don't think that's traumatic? You don't think that might have had the tiniest effect on him?"
"Tragedy is something all guardians have to deal with," Chris said.
"Maybe there's not much to be done for guardians in the field, but Stiles is still a student here," Deaton said. "There are resources that can help him."
"Like what?"
"Counseling. Talking to someone about what happened can do worlds of good. You should have done that as soon as he got back. You should do it for the others who were with him while you're at it. Why doesn't anyone think of these things?"
"He won't do it," Malia spoke.
"You should pull him from this entire field experience. Fake vampire attacks are not the way to recover from a real one," Deaton said.
"No!" Stiles had pushed open the door before he realized it. They all stared at him.
"Stiles," Deaton said. "You should go lie down."
"You can't make me quit the field experience," he said. "I won't graduate if you do."
"You aren't well, Stiles, and there's nothing to be ashamed of after what's happened to you. Thinking you're seeing the ghost—"
"I'm not ashamed and I don't think I saw anything. I know I did. Unless you're going to put me in counseling 24/7, you're just going to make it worse. I need something to do. Most of my classes are on hold right now. What would I do? Sit around? Think more and more about what happened? I'll go crazy—for real."
This threw them into an argument about what to do with him. Finally, with some grumbling from the doctor, they decided Stiles would go on half-time for the field experience. He would do three days of field experience a week, with no night duties. During the other days, he would have to see a counselor.
How was he going to explain to someone else that there were already too many people inside his head?