☾

"Mary Anne!" Stiles came to a skidding stop at the doorframe of the examination room, eyes wide and chest heaving. Scott and Derek had left fifteen minutes earlier and Mary Anne had called Stiles, letting him know she was at the clinic. He had rambled and stammered about coming to get her, which she didn't protest to. She needed to see him, needed him. This was one of her many flirtations with death but this was her third very close-call. "Oh, God," he muttered, rushing over to her.

She was sitting upright on the metal table so it made it easier for them to hug, and she mustered a little smile as he pulled her against him. His arms snaked around her waist, standing between her open legs, head burrowing in the crook of her neck, squeezing her. She squeezed her eyes shut as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, reciprocating his hug just as fiercely.

"When Derek told me Scott was dying at the rave, I didn't know you were also with him," Stiles muttered. "I—I didn't know what to do, and you were just unconscious in his arms. I drove you here and Deaton told me to go home, that you'd be fine and awake soon."

"Sshh, it's okay," Mary Anne murmured, kissing the side of his head lightly. The guilt of their last real conversation being an argument was still fresh in her, so she was immensely grateful for being alive so she could make amends. However, he'd beat her to it.

"I'm so sorry, Mare," he muttered against the skin of her neck. "I didn't mean it when I told you weren't a real werewolf. I was just scared that you were going to get hurt and you did and now I—"

She cut him off gently, arms falling to slip under his jacket and wrap around his waist. "I'm alright. I'm here, I'm here with you."

His arms tightened a bit around her, as if he was making sure of it. "I know. But it doesn't make me any less guilty for what I said."

"I forgive you, Stiles. You were only concerned about me."

He didn't respond, at least not verbally. He just pressed even closer to her, if that was possible, lips pressing a soft kiss to the juncture of her neck where it met her shoulder. The silence wasn't broken until he spoke up. "I'll give you a ride home," he offered, moving his head from her neck to look at her.

Mary Anne shook her head, and went to say something when a voice interrupted them.

"Stiles, I would suggest you stay with her for the night. Having her memories back may cause her some disorientation when she wakes up." Stiles completely backed away as Deaton stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a gentle smile on his kind face. "Your memories will come back to you in sleep."

"Really?" She asked, skeptical. "It's that easy?" She knew her mother said the same thing in her letter, but she had doubted that it could be that easy. Experience had taught her that there was almost always a catch.

He nodded and walked in. "Yes, since they weren't erased, but rather repressed. And, when you wake up, you will wake up with two permanent marks on your body."

"Permanent marks?" Stiles repeated. "Like tattoos?"

"Yes. Your name on the inside of her left wrist, Scott's on her right."

"I'm more concerned about my powers triggering tomorrow," Mary Anne cut in, but not harshly.

"So you know that your powers will fully manifest tomorrow, on your sixteenth birthday," Deaton stated. "That's good. It won't be painful, you'll be asleep for most of it. However, try to remain calm for a while afterward. Your powers are tied to your emotions, and even a spike of great joy can cause a short circuit in any lightbulbs near you, or worse."

"Uh, I kind of got into a fight with my sister earlier and the lights were flickering and a bulb exploded. How come that happened before my sixteenth birthday?"

"Because of your unique DNA, some of your powers would manifest quite early, such as that. The earlier, the stronger you will be. Have there been any other signs that you know of, other than the obvious?"

"Elenchus," Mary Anne said after a few moments of thinking. "The ability to distinguish lie from truth."

Stiles interjected, "Also known as truth-seeking." The tiny blonde looked at him, surprised, thick eyebrows raised and the corners of her lips turned up slightly. He shrugged at her. "What? I told you, my detective skills are good. I thought that your little thing with lies was a clue."

"Your mother had the same ability," Deaton divulged with a nostalgic smile. "Came quite handy during interrogations."

Mary Anne blinked rapidly, registering what he had said. "You knew my mom?"

"Indeed. She was one of the most powerful of your kind in your family until you were born. Most of her powers were transferred to you because your father was a werewolf, while some of it before you went to your brother. And like all polláwolves, you are bound to grow to be very powerful. You already are, despite your age and how recently most of your powers were triggered."

"Polláwolf?" The couple repeated in unison.

"One of the first of your kind came up with the name almost five hundred years ago."

Stiles shifted and gave Deaton a confused look, hands going to his hips. "They've been around for half a millennium and yet they're so rare that there's next to nothing about them documented? How's that possible?"

The vet corrected him, "Documented online. In writing, it's quite the opposite. And her kind, the pollá side of her, has been around for almost as long as witches."

"But within the past six hundred there have only been about one hundred and fifty of my kind, and fewer pollás are being born. Right now, I'm the seventh confirmed of my kind that's alive today. Nik told me a bit about it."

"That's because many of your kind were put to death in the beginning. A pollá is a mutation of a witch and was long thought to be an abomination. But one mixed with a werewolf was seen as a crime against nature itself, so many leaders of covens stole these babies at birth and slaughtered them, if not the mother before birth."

Mary Anne's eyes widened and she felt sick to her stomach. Beside her, Stiles had a similar reaction, jaw dropping slightly and brow knitting. Both wondered how anyone could take the life of an innocent baby. "What made them stop?" He asked, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

"When they came close to the brink of war. Nobody wanted to see that, two powerful races go against each other, so they settled it and made an agreement to let each other live in peace."

Stiles looked at Deaton and then at his girlfriend, seeing the tired but contemplative look on her face. Her normally pale skin was almost ghostly, faint purple discoloration beneath her eyes giving away her lack of sleep. "Hey, Doc, I should probably get her home or to my place. She looks ready to pass out."

Mary Anne started to protest, naturally, ever the stubborn girl, until Deaton agreed. "After what you went through tonight, Mary Anne, it's best that you get some rest."

She looked ready to argue about it until she felt her eyelids drooping a bit and just gave up. No use in arguing with them, she supposed. Nodding, she slipped down the table and onto her feet.

"Thanks, Doc," Mary Anne said, sincerely. "For everything."

"It's no problem, Mary Anne."

He gave them one last smile before stepping out the way as the couple walked past them, Stiles leading her out of the clinic and out into the cool night air, but she felt oddly warm. "My place or your place?" Stiles asked as she pressed her back against the passenger side of the jeep, him angling his head a bit down to look at her.

She twisted her lips and thought about it; Nessa would just be at home to lecture her, which she did not want to go through again. And sleeping over at his house meant she could wake up on her sixteenth birthday in the arms of the guy she loved. "Your place," she decided. "I don't want to face Nessa so soon."

Stiles nodded in understanding and he pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "Good. I've got an early birthday gift for my girl anyway," he winked before backing off and rounding the jeep to the driver's side.

"Stiles, I already told you before, I don't want any gifts," Mary Anne groaned but she was touched, smiling as she climbed into the passenger seat. She registered that he called her 'my girl' with a flutter of her heart and she had to suppress a girly giggle. "Being with you and everyone is a gift itself."

"You know I almost never listen, right?" He asked rhetorically, nose scrunching up slightly.

"You're impossible."

"And you love me for it."

Mary Anne nodded, even if his eyes were ahead after putting the keys in. "I do. I really do."

☾

The last time she slept with Stiles in his bed, they were cuddled together closely, face-to-face and limbs entwined. Now, he laid on his back, one arm around her, the other slung over his stomach. Her head was on his shoulder, hand on his chest, their legs tangled together. She laid awake as the sun was already out, staring off into nothing. Deaton was right, her memories came to her in sleep, playing out like a dream. A dream she remembered every second of, and only left a dull ache in her head when she woke up.

Mary Anne remembered that she first met Stiles in nursery school, all shy smiles and tentative greetings. Then they met Scott in kindergarten and they became the Three Musketeers. They spent every Halloween together after that, the last one being before the accident. They, and her family, dressed up as pirates and they went out about town together. Their birthdays, Christmases, every holiday; every event, every moment, everything. She finally remembered two of three best friends, the third being Lydia. Even then, the strawberry blonde didn't bother meeting them, wasn't interested.

She remembered the Hales, who her family were very close with. How Derek and Peter would watch over her, along with Derek's little sister, Cora. She remembered when Derek would put her on his shoulders and run through the woods when it was safe, and how both she and Cora would cuddle up with Peter when they tuckered out. That particular memory conflicted with her present feelings towards the deceased werewolf, leaving her with mixed feelings. She remembered Laura, how badass she was, and that she had rare moments where she was soft and gentle. And she remembered Talia Hale, the woman whose name was given to her as a middle name.

And she remembered how Nessa was around Mary Anne, Stiles and Scott.

She absolutely adored the trio, always looking after them, unlike a lot of teenage siblings. And Mary Anne remembered the moment Nessa used a spell given to her by their Grandmother, and temporary magic provided by the coven their family belonged to. She was crying, saying she was sorry over and over. All this time, she thought her sister didn't care about it, but in reality, it was one of the most difficult things she did.

Mary Anne could have died not only with an unresolved argument between her and Stiles, but between her and Nessa.

She regretted every word she said to her, all the hurtful stuff she had said in rage and resentment. She hated that she let her anger get the best of her, yet again, something that was becoming increasingly difficult to control with her awakened abilities.

However, she was still a bit miffed about it.

The reminder of her abilities gave her a reprieve of her sister, something other than her own self-pity to focus on. Deaton never mentioned it, but it was like the magic was literally coursing through her veins. Beneath her skin, deep within her bones, at her fingertips. It was incredible. However, she knew that with that power, it would probably be difficult to control. How could she control power that great, added to her wolf?

Well, the answer shifted under her, catching her attention. She moved her head, looking at his peaceful, sleeping face, plump lips parted, delicate snores escaping him. It was endearing, really. Her ice blue eyes traced the constellation of moles along his face, wanting nothing more than to trace them with her fingers, but at the same time, she didn't want to wake him. The hand on his chest absentmindedly drifted to her chest, where her necklace was, and twirled the new charm that was added. It was a cursive M hanging on a small little hoop, which she had originally thought had to do with her name. He sheepishly admitted it was both their names, saying that his real name started with M. He wouldn't reveal what it was, but she remembered. Mieczyslaw. She wouldn't be cruel and use it in public, but on occasions when they were together, she would use it.

Her eyes flickered down to the hand fiddling with her necklace, lifting it up to her eyes so she could see the black ink embellishing her pale skin. It was his given name, written in her second language, covering the entirety of the inside of her wrist, horizontally, and right beneath that was his nickname. She guessed that he used it so much that it was like a second name. The edges of the marks were red, still tender and sore, like how she imagined real tattoos felt and looked like after the procedure. She noticed it after she woke up, checking her other wrist to see Scott's name in Cyrillic as well.

Realizing that the sheriff could come in at any time, Mary Anne evaluated her situation. He was holding her against him tightly, but not tight enough that she couldn't slither out of his embrace and go to the bathroom to change into her spare outfit. Slowly sitting up, his arm fell limp around her, making it easier for her to move out of the bed, trying her best not to jostle him or the bed too much. He curled the arm that was around her closer to his chest, like it was instinct to hold her, even if she wasn't in his arms.

Her eyes roamed over his bare chest, adoring the moles and freckles that adorned his pale skin. Some people at school would disagree with her, but she thought he looked extremely hot bare-chested.

Resisting the urge to crawl back into the bed and his embrace, she went over to his desk and grabbed her backpack, using her free hand to quietly open the door, only to leave it ajar, and tip-toed down the hall to get to the bathroom. She was quiet as a mouse the entire time, quickly stripping off her purple shirt and black sleep shorts. Pausing for a few moments, she ran a hand down her face in frustration as the cool air of the bathroom touched her heated skin. She marveled at how a tiny body like hers could hold so much frustration—sexual frustration—that'd developed over the course of their relationship. So much for wanting to take things slow, it was as if her body and instincts disagreed with her original decision.

She shook it off and continued getting dressed, pulling on a pair of black denim shorts and a gray tank top that she tucked into the waistband of the shorts, adding a button down that had a blue and white floral pattern, leaving it undone. Slipping on her old Chucks, she stuffed the clothes she slept in the bag. Wanting to get out of there quickly, she used the toothbrush and toothpaste she brought and then brushed through her blonde mane with her fingers before grabbing her bag again to make her way back to his room.

She expected him to still be asleep, only to find him wide-awake and dressed in jeans and a gray t-shirt underneath a gray and blue hoodie.

"Oh," she gaped, blinking. He looked up from his spot at his desk, a book open in front of him, a fond smile stretching across his lips.

"I thought you left," he breathed out, his left hand coming up to the small of her back as she ventured in further in his room, dropping her bag to where it was before as she came around to his left side. Only then did she see that it was a yearbook in front of him, the 2006 Beacon Hills High School yearbook.

Putting the book aside in her mind, she smiled softly at him, her own hand reaching to curl around the nape of his neck lightly. "You really think that I would leave without a kiss?" She teased him, leaning down to act on her answer. He responded with a sigh, breaking off after a few seconds.

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet," he sighed, but left his forehead and nose pressed against hers.

Standing up straighter and raising a brow, she repeated what she had said the last time he said that to her. "I don't care." He snorted and shook his head, gaze returning to the yearbook for a moment before looking back up at her.

"Also, happy birthday."

Mary Anne smiled and blushed, ducking her head and clearing her throat. "Thanks." Her gaze went back to the yearbook as Stiles continued flipping through the pages. There were red X marks on some of the pictures, most likely the murder victims.

Before she could ask anything, Stilinski passed by the door and stopped, looking at the pair. If he was surprised by her being there so early, he didn't let it show as he asked, "Hey, whatcha doing?"

"Homework," Stiles lied without missing a beat, continuing to look at the pages.

Stilinski nodded once and continued walking down the hall, only to pop his head back in a moment later. "It's spring break. What do you think you're doing?" He asked as he walked in to inspect what they were up to.

"Oh, I'm just satisfying my own curiosity."

His dad reached over and shut the book, sighing, "We brought Harris in this morning for questioning. They brought him in."

"And?" The couple asked in sync.

"And they're working on a warrant to arrest him for the murders," he answered.

Mary Anne furrowed her thick eyebrows in confusion. "For all of them?"

"Enough of them."

Stiles joined in on the questioning. "With what proof?"

"You remember the couple at the trailer? Tire tracks nearby match Harris's car," Stilinski said.

Mary Anne detested Harris with every fiber of her being, but she could comprehend that even he couldn't have committed all of the murders. He was not the Master controlling a powerful mutant lizard, it just didn't add up. Oh, and there was no motive!

"Wh—that's not enough," Stiles protested, seemingly hearing her thoughts, flipping the book back open to search for more answers.

Stilinski shut the book again. "The same car was also seen outside the hospital where the pregnant wife was killed. It's got some bumper sticker on it, a quote from Einstein.

"Wait, what quote?" He asked quickly, the wheels practically visibly turning in his head. Mary Anne could tell by the look on his face, and by his voice. It was something she long ago picked up on.

"Something about imagination and knowledge," Stilinski shrugged.

Stiles nodded. "Imagination is more important than knowledge, yeah. I saw the same car parked outside the rave."

"That means you're a witness. You're gonna have to give a statement," Stilinski told his son.

Mary Anne interjected, "But, what about the concert promoter, Kara? She wasn't in Harris's class, right? I mean, what does Mr. Lahey have to do with Harris?" There was no patterns, only coincidences that didn't add up, no matter how hard Mary Anne tried to understand it.

"It doesn't matter," Stilinski instantly objected. "The tire tracks put Harris at the site of three murders. That's damning evidence."

"No, it's not enough," Stiles said stubbornly, agreeing with her, opening the book once more.

Stilinski sighed, "I—I thought you two hated this guy."

"I don't hate him, alright? He hates me," Stiles responded, which was partially true, continuing to rifle through the pages. "And, you know, if he'd killed them all, then yeah, lock the psycho up. But there's something missing. There's gotta be something missing."

Mary Anne frowned; she knew he wanted to solve the case, but not this bad. It was his obsessive streak, something she long ago learned about when Scott revealed to her that the mole-speckled boy's crush on her was pretty obsessive.

"Hey. Hey," Stilinski caught his son's attention. "You don't have to solve this for me."

"No, I have to do something." Mary Anne's eyes flickered to Stiles and she placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping he would be able to figure out what she was trying to do, to show that he didn't have to do it alone. However, his question caught her attention. "What?"

"Look at the swim team," was all that Stilinski said.

Both teen's moved their eyes to the page and Mary Anne's widened, taking in the black and white picture of the swim team. Most of them were the murder victims, all of the victims. And right below, was a picture of Mr. Lahey, the swim coach. Suddenly, things became a bit clearer; the connections to all the victims, including Lahey. Whoever the Master was, he or she was going after the 2006 swim team. "Dad, the coach," Stiles started.

After a moment, Mary Anne finished for him, voice solemn, "It's Isaac's dad."