"SO," ISAAC LEANED AGAINST THE DOORWAY OF REMINGTON'S BEDROOM. "Should I expect every morning to be like this from now on? Minus Stiles, of course. Why are you still here, by the way?"

Stiles rolled his eyes at the jab, groaning with disgust as the werewolf sauntered towards Remington's bed, laying down without hesitation.

"I better not see you sniffing around her pillows," Stiles warned. "I will make you see God early, Lahey."

He received a teddy bear to the face. Stiles wish it had been a handful of claws instead—that would've taken him out of his misery, but atlas, he is still suffering. Alive . Breakfast with the Sinclair family is always nerve-racking. He didn't talk much, too focused on surviving after his little chat with Eva earlier; the older witch played with her butter knife, eyeing him enough that Stiles recognized the threat.

Isaac looked too overwhelmed at the sight of a warm, homemade meal to even consider moving his mouth for anything besides eating. Then there was Remington, unaware of it all.

Remington chattered like it was the end of the world, jumping from topic to topic to topic like she had so many words yet so little time to free them into the world. She grinned and laughed and passed enough food from her plate to Isaac's overfilling one that Eva had to tell her to calm down. Although that didn't stop her from refilling Stiles's glass of juice every time he took a sip.

She pulled Isaac aside after the blonde-haired teenager finished his meal, asking Stiles—ordering him—to help Remington wash the dishes so he wouldn't overhear them. Stiles didn't want to know whatever they talked about anyways, mainly because Isaac returned with red-rimmed eyes, lashes crumpled together with tears.

It was too early, Stiles groaned internally. Remington picked up the teddy bear from the ground as she returned, frowning with enough sadness that Isaac muttered a guilt-ridden 'I'm sorry.'

"Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski are always welcomed here, Isaac." Remington reprimand him. "Since you'll be staying with us, your friends can also come by! Mom and I don't mind. Actually, I want to make a bouquet for the group home that allowed you to stay with them!"

Stiles muttered under his breath. "What friends?"

Isaac glared at him; Remington didn't hear it, too busy mumbling about carnations and orange Asiatic lilies. Her head snapped towards the open window abruptly.

"It's a full moon," she gasped. "Oh, oh, oh—!" She has flailed a little as she ran towards her walk-in closet.

At the reminder of the date, Stiles recalled Allison's text from earlier. "Oh, right. Lydia's party is tonight. I forgot to buy her a present..."

"And we care about the nut-job why?" Isaac railed off.

Before Stiles gagged at the use of we, or maybe shout at him that Lydia is a nutjob because of them—although its less Isaac-Remington and more Stiles-Scott—the witch returned carrying a wooden tray. Stiles moved closer to look at items, the girl settling on the floor to lay them out. The items ranged from herbs and yarn to a selection of sheer and leather string bags, a wooden lacquer box labelled 'crystals' underneath jars of mysterious oils. Along the edge of the tray, six candles burned away deprived of any scent.

While Remington began organizing two little jars filled with herbs, Stiles gawked at the burning candles in the tray with dismay. "You, uh, keep burning candles in your closet?" Stiles tried not to freak out. "Teddy, that's such a massive a fire hazard. Screw that—It's not even a hazard, that's like manifesting a fire. Like, genuinely considering calling my dad to arrest you for arson."

Remington frowned, stopping her careful measurement. "They don't actually burn," she told him, and like she was hoping to send Stiles straight into a cardiac arrest, shoved her finger into the fire. And sure, it's just a small flame from a candle, but a burn is still a burn. Even Isaac reached forward to pull the girl away, so Stiles isn't insanely overprotective for freak out, okay? Remington is just—

She raised her hand with a smile, the tip of her finger unharmed. "The fire isn't a fire," she told them, struggling to explain. "It's... Representational."

Stiles repeated her words, covering his mouth with his hand. "The fire isn't a fire. Do you hear yourself, Teddy? You sound insane."

Isaac snorted. "I told you she belongs in Eichen House. Should've listened when I told you to stop talking to her."

"Yeah, in like, sixth grade after you broke my nose. I wasn't going to listen to you." Stiles complained. "It's too late now, don't you think? Actually, why are you even talking to me right now—"

"The candles are tied to someone's life force." Remington interrupted. "As long as they are burning, I know everyone is alive. Here is yours, Stiles, this one is for the Sheriff, and that one is Scott's, and this one is yours, Isaac! The other one is for my mom,"

"And this one?" Isaac asked, pointing to the last candle that wasn't quite burning, the flame flickering weakly and irregularly, but nevertheless lit; the smoke was black, the edges of the holder covered with soot. Remington's expression fell. "I... It doesn't matter, I guess."

Isaac and Stiles locked eyes for some reason; Isaac looked away with an awkward cough. "So, uh, full moon."

"Full moon!" Remington perked up. "Lycans are so fascinating! Give me a minute, I'll make something to help you remain in control."

"So, there's werewolves then there's Lycans?" Isaac asked, intrigued. Remington nodded, raising the index fingers from each head. She explained. "Werewolves are humans who turn fully into wolves whereas Lycans are humanoid wolves. Lycans retain their human intellect and human physiology like you! But in turn are more vulnerable than werewolves." She pressed her fingers together. "At the end, they are still animalistic creatures. Instincts can override anything."

Isaac nodded, getting the gist of it; he looked at Stiles then, a nasty smirk emerging on his face as an idea struck. "So," Isaac began, turning to Remington with big blue eyes and that damned dimple showing. "Even if I don't turn into a full wolf, I'm still your puppy, right?"

Stiles jerked back in his spot. Remington let out a flustered laugh, shyly rubbing the baby hairs at her temple with a knuckle. She stuttered a bit, managing out a small, "If you want, Isa."

Stiles stared at her rosy-pink cheeks in horror. He glared at Isaac, who stared back at him with triumph. "I'll kill you," Stiles mouthed at him aggressively, making some impolite hand signs when he was sure Remington wouldn't see. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you!"

Isaac grinned back, raising his thumb and index into an OK sign.

"Look!" Remington beamed, both boys straightening up immediately. She beckoned them over: "Nature is the invisible force behind all life that governs the universe. Everything in Nature has energy," she told them, pointing at the ingredients in front of them. "And we can utilize that energy! Isn't it neat?"

She began pouring things into the glass jars. "Different things have different purposes. Basil promotes peace while Bay leaf fosters protection and healing. Orange shavings for harmony, peace, and stability. Apple for healing, happiness, and peace of mind. Cardamom for calmness and tranquility"

Isaac's eyebrow furrowed, trying to make sense of everything. "What about things like Voodoo? Karma? Are those real?"

"Shamanism, Vodou, Hoodoo, Wicca—those are magical practices, not a source of power." Remington corrected him. "All witches are born the ability to generate their own magic, but only some have the ability to channel extra power too! We can use different aspects of nature as tools to boost or bind spells."

"My mom knows more about Vodou than I do! If you are curious, she can teach you more later." she continued. "As for Karma... Well, it's up to you! The principle of cause and effect can be real. It depends on what you decide to believe in; Credence and emotions are powerful!"

Remington beamed at Stiles; like always, it threw him back in time. I am a witch, I am a witch, I am a witch. Remington, with the same pretty smile and dimples, whose only difference from back then is the way her hair is loose rather than being tied up into pigtails. A little mischievous, she said. "Disbelieving in your potential could cause a witch to unconsciously suppress their magical power."

"We know you never struggled with that, egomaniac." Stiles rolled his eyes, not wanting to think more of what being a Spark entailed.

"I'm not an egomaniac," Remington denied. "I'm just aware of my talents! There's nothing wrong with that!"

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, you're aware of your talent but not of your limits. Overconfidence kills, you know?"

Remington grumbled. She picked at the silver bracelet around her thin wrist. "I wouldn't have any limits if I had it my way..." She sighed, refocusing on the jars again. She lit a gray-colored candle.

"How many forms of magic are there?" Isaac asked.

"Too many to list. Ancestral Magic—mom used to practice that—then there's Connective Magic, Dark Magic, Sacrificial, Spirit... Traditional Magic. That's the most popular form of witchcraft."

"I practice Representational since that's what I'm best at." Remington said, waiting for enough wax to pool. "I use my own powers rather than channeling outside forces, like you would for Sacrificial or Spiritual Magic. I have to concentrate more since it's such a delicate practice. It's less painful. It shouldn't be, but it is."

Isaac scrunched his nose. "This is too complicated. I don't get it."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "To you, since you have a dog brain. Don't worry, though, we don't expect much from you. You can go wag your tail and howl at the pretty, pretty moon all you want, puppy."

Remington picked up the gray candle, hovering it over the sealed jars to let the wax drip over the cork seal. She blew out the candle, allowing the wax to cool before handing one jar to each of them. "For Isa," she turned to Stiles. "And one for Scott! Hopefully it'll be a normal full moon..."

Stiles laughed cynically. If it was up to him, he would stay here in Remington's bedroom—he would even tolerant Isaac's presence, which says a lot—but he has to deal with whatever the hell issue Scott and Allison kept blowing his phone up with. There are people dying. And he got his dad fired, too, so he'll have to figure that out.

At the reminder of all the issues, Stiles sighed; he threw himself down on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Butterflies and cotton clouds hung with transparent string. "Probably not," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "I have to call Scott. We still have to deal with Jackson, and like, a billion other things, I guess..."

Isaac sat up, scratching the back of his neck. "Derek will probably want me back," he said quietly. "He doesn't care where I stay, usually, but... Full Moon, I guess."

"Well," Remington trailed off with uncertainty. "I'll... Be here? Keep me updated, I guess..."

Isaac and Stiles both nodded.
None of them moved to leave, just staring at each other.

The doorbell rang.
"I'll go get!" Remington stood quickly, running towards the door. Isaac followed her immediately; Stiles shot up after them, nearly slipping a few times. The three of them raised down the spiral staircase, Remington opening the front door without hesitation. "Hi! How can I...."

Whatever greetings she was going to say died out in her mouth.

Isaac took a step back. Stiles frowned, yanking the two of them behind him. "Don't open the door without checking first, morons, what if—"

He trailed off, mouth snapping shut.

EVA SINCLAIR TOOK GREAT PRIDE IN HER INNATE CUNNIGNNESS. She is a natural genius, one of the greatest witches to ever grace New Orleans with her powers. More so, she is a survivor. Misery after misery, yet she is still here. Eva Sinclair will only go out at her own hands. No one else is worthy of feat that is killing her. No human, no vampire, not a mutt and certainly not another witch.

Still, Josephine LaRue makes her second-guess herself.

Eva held her phone, white-knuckled and with a racing mind.

She thought she had long abandoned her past, yet here she is, calling the person who betrayed her yet loved her in the purest form. The matriarch of all New Orleans witches, chosen by the Elders themselves. The same person who housed her and raised her and called her dear as she led Eva to a prison.

It nauseated her. Nonetheless, Eva dialed the number she couldn't bring herself to forget.
Her daughter is worth the stinging bitterness of bile rising up her throat.

The call was accepted immediately.
Either of them spoke for a few suffocating seconds. Evan straightened her back, shutting her eyes to gather her strength before speaking.

"Forgive me for the bother, Madam LaRue." Eva greeted coldly. "This is—"

"Eva, deary," Josephine greeted with that all-knowing tone of hers, as if she knew this call was destined to happen. It irritated Eva.

"As you most likely know, I did not call to share pleasantries, Madam." Eva asserted, trying to keep the rage in her heart from spilling into her tone.

Josephine let out a pitiful sigh. "My deary, do you have to speak so coldly to me? Let's forget it, how about that? I understand you must harbor hatred against me, Eva," the matriarch lamented. "And while it pains me greatly as someone who viewed you as my own daughter, I am in no position to ask for pardon. As always, my doing is to protect the covens. I thought you'd understand—After all, you would've done the same had you listened to me."

"You're mistaken, Madam LaRue, I do not want your forgiveness." Eva interjected, tongue just as sharp as her mentor's. "I do not need admissions of guilt as they are useless to me: I am no longer the naïve Eva you raised. I called to claim a suitable solatium for all the... Grief you've caused me."

"And what of the grief you've caused me, Eva?" The matriarch questioned.

Eva's jaw clenched. "What happened that night?" She demanded, sickened by the mental games. She needed to know where Remington came from, who her parents are, her ancestors. Anything. Anything that can make her understand why her daughter is dying. And if Remington's suspicion is right, how to stop it.

Josephine didn't speak.
They both knew what night she was referring to.

Eva Sinclair is prideful. She was born full of deadly ego and resentment, teaching her daughter to be like her unsweetened mother and walk with a straight back, strong in spite of a world trying to tear her down for simply being alive, but being just as she taught Remington, Eva learned from her as well.

Living with her heart outside of her body is terrifying. A mother's life is nearly impossible—but Eva is a survivor.

And so, with a deep breath, thinking of her daughter's blonde curls and her laughter and the way her eyes are the color of an the endless blue sky—fitting for a hummingbird like Remington—Eva pleaded. "Please, Madam LaRue. I beg of you. What happened that night, at the Lafayette Cemetery? I am asking you as a mother."

Just as Josephine went to speak, a soft knock dragged Eva's attention away from the door. Slowly, the door opened—Remington's head peaked inside, entering with light steps when Eva beckoned him. Her expression was that of flustering horror, wide eyed and shifting weight from foot to foot. Something must've happened, Eva thought.

Just as she thought the call with her mentor was doomed to be futile, her matriarch spoke slowly:

"Is that the child?" Josephine's voice cracked.

She set the phone down on her desk
. She had a feeling she could use this to her advantage.

"A moment, Madam." Eva tried to hide a smirk, walking to where Remington was hovering by the door nervously.

Her daughter latched to her long-sleeve, tugging at the fabric nervously. Eva cupped her cheek, raising her head high to look at her. "What is it?" She questioned, loathing the anxiety in Remington's features. "I heard the doorbell. Where's Stilinski and Isaac?"

"They—They, uh, they are, they're downstairs..." Remington winced, tilted her head. She wouldn't meet Eva's eyes. "With the visitor. Who needs to see you. Like, now, mom."

"I'm a little busy with a call," Eva told her lightly. It's an easy fix: she can deal with the cat—or dog, speaking from experience—that dragged a dead rat into her home while Remington chats with Josephine enough to soften her mentor into speaking. "Though, I suppose you can speak to them just as well. It's an old friend, you see. We were just about to talk about you, darling."

Remington tugged her sleeve, nodding frantically. "That's okay! Yeah—Yeah, I'll go introduce myself and you can go to talk, uh—To—"

Eva frowned. Her daughter was too distraught for the visitor to be a bloodied Scott like she had assumed. "Calm down, Remington. Now, who do I need to speak with?"

Remington breathed in, trying to do as her mother said. Letting out the last few jitters, she finally responded.

"Uh, it's..." She took a breath. "It's Chris Argent. Allison's dad, the, uh, the, you know, the hunter. He wants to talk to you," Remington swallowed, gaze shifting around awkwardly.

"And he is crying."

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

OH Josephine MY HAG LOVE <<<333 and ofc PAPA ARGENT 💦💦💦💦 AND THE PROBLEM TRIO = ESTABLISHING. isaac and stiles are my fav LOL okay next chapter should really give us more SAUCE on the new orleans side of things i'm hype

okay okay bye bye until next time!! comment pls i love comments