Lydia's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Lydia waited on the floor of her cottage. Her phone stayed quiet. The boys should have reached the shed by now. She wanted a message that said the wolves were safe. Nothing came. Her stomach cramped again. She pressed her cheek to the cool floorboards and tried to breathe through it. Then tires crunched outside. One car door slammed. Only one. Lydia's heart dropped. Two boys had gone. One had come back. She dragged herself up and reached the door as it opened. Stiles stepped in. He was the human one, the boy who ran with the pack but never turned. He looked winded but clear-eyed. No car sickness. No moon fever. He took in the mess on the floor, Malia curled on the couch, Lydia gray in the doorway. "Where's Scott?" Lydia asked. "Sick." Stiles helped her sit against the wall. "He started throwing up the second you called. Couldn't even stand. So it was just me." He said it plainly, like it was no big deal. But Lydia knew what it meant. He had faced a shed full of hunters' territory alone. Her chest tightened. "The wolves. Did the hunters—" "They're fine." Stiles crouched to her level. "I got there before anyone was walking. All four were human again. Shaky, sick, but human. I moved them out before daylight." Lydia searched his face. "Where are they now?" "That's the thing." He rubbed the back of his neck. "They can't be out in the open like this. They're too weak to run if a hunter shows. So I brought them here." He went back to the car. One by one he walked them in — four young people, pale and unsteady, still fighting the moon sickness. They dropped onto the floor, the couch, wherever they could. The little cottage filled with the sound of ragged breathing. Lydia counted them. Four here. Malia. That was five of six. "Erica's two?" she asked. "Still in her shed," Stiles said. "She's home, sick, right next to them. They're safest where they are for now." He grabbed a bowl from the kitchen and set it by the sickest boy. He wet a cloth and pressed it to another's forehead. He worked without being asked, the way pack did. Lydia let out a long breath. For the first time all morning, the fear loosened. Her wolves were off the streets. The hunters had found nothing. Stiles had done alone what she could not do at all. But she looked around her tiny cottage. Five sick people. One bathroom. Little food. Barely room to lie down. She could not stand, let alone care for them. "Stiles," she said. "They're all going to get worse before they get better. And I can't move." He nodded slowly. "Then we need help. Real help." He pulled out his phone. "Someone who knows how to treat this."