CHAPTER SIX // A MONSTER IN
THE SHAPE OF A GIRL.

A hand was in her own, just as small, tugging at her side as they ran happily with her. She heard giggles, high-pitched and joyful; ones that weren't her own. What a beautiful sound the giggles were; adorned in youth and imagination. She could tell they belonged to a little girl, the one whose fingers intertwined hers; the one who was racing through the exciting spring day with her.

She felt happy here. Seen. Known. Loved. By whoever the little girl next to her was. Eagerly, she turned her head to see, a bright grin on her face.

But the little girl turned away, her face masked by shade so dark she couldn't see through it. Even when she squinted, even when she searched, the little one's features were indistinguishable.

Yet, she never stopped giggling.

     A knock startled Summer awake.

     Her head jolted up from where it had been lulled to the side, leaning back against the red brick wall. She blinked away the fuzziness and took in a sharp breath, gazing drowsily around until her eyes focused and landed on Scott. He was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pocket, leaning against the wooden frame with a small smile on his features.

     The boy chuckled softly and nodded down to her lap, where the german shepherd puppy was still fast asleep. "He likes you. He hasn't relaxed the whole time he's been here."

     She yawned and pushed herself up by the palms of her hands from where she had slouched down during her slumber— having dozed off at some point during the distressed group's long conversation she hadn't re-entered the main clinic to be a part of.

     "You tired?" the werewolf asked, and she nodded. He looked exhausted himself. "Yeah, it's late. Derek and Isaac already left. Let's go talk to Deaton and get out of here." He turned to leave, but was interrupted by her quiet voice.

     "Scott?"

     "Yeah?" he turned back around, raising his brows.

     There was a beat. "Is that Erica girl really dead?"

     "Derek doesn't think so."

     "Do you think so?"

     He sighed a heavy sigh, shaking his head after a moment with an honest shrug. "I don't know." He paused, then beckoned with his head. "But we've got a plan to get whoever's in there out. Come on."

     She rose to her feet, still cradling the sleeping puppy like an infant against her chest as she began to walk out of the room. Scott stopped her before she reached the door.

     "Summer, uh . . . what are you doing?" he chortled awkwardly, knitting his brows. She frowned and scrunched her nose. "The dog?" he emphasized.

     "Well, I thought I'd keep him." she innocently shrugged, like it was obvious and simple; protectively tightening her grip on him a little. A perplexed air spread across her features when Scott only laughed.

     "No, no, you can't keep him. All these animals are people's pets."

     She tilted her head. Another one of their unfamiliar concepts. "Pets?"

     "I'll tell you in the car."

     With crossed arms, Summer watched the wheels turn behind Deaton's eyes as the anomalies of her existence were divulged to him in vivid detail; the vet never losing his composed manor as he listened carefully. The tile floor was still damp from the disastrous ice bath debacle.

"And before we even have time to ask, okay, why is her blood white, she heals." Stiles is pacing circles around the otherwise still room as he speaks, hands flying about in fervent expression. "Oh, and! And!" he rushes back over to Deaton, gesturing to the room where all the 'pets' were being kept. "You saw that whole thing!"

     Scott and Summer had surrendered to silence long ago— letting the enthusiastic Stilinski boy take the lead.

"What whole thing?" Deaton asked simply.

"Wh—" Stiles scoffed, tossing his arms to the side and jarring his head back as if he'd been offended, deeply. "What do you mean what whole thing?! You saw her go in there and calm all the animals down while you were doing your little lycanthrope spa night!"

     Deaton shrugged. "Could the animals not have just calmed down since there was someone in there with them?"

     "Alright, she's not Pocahontas, okay?" the boy placed an exasperated hand on his hip. "That wasn't a normal level of calming them down. They went silent the second she stepped inside."

     His hazel eyes flickered briefly over to her, and Summer shifted uncomfortably beneath them. They were suspicious. Untrusting. Like his gaze on her could sometimes be. She didn't like it when he looked at her that way.

     There was a long bout of silence as Deaton thought, and he soon glanced back over to Summer. "And you have visions as well? Ones that alert you to any supernatural abilities within others?"

     She nodded, gnawing on the inside of her cheek, feeling slightly discouraged. He was stumped— it was obvious. The longer he stood there saying nothing, the more she worried her case would never be solved. Her family, if they even existed, would never be found.

     But suddenly, his eyes lit up; back straightening and shoulders tensing as he stood much taller than before— a look of shock and realization flashing across his face. The three teenagers changed their posture when he did, blinking and exchanging looks with one another as the vet marched hurriedly across the room and swung open one of the cabinets; a newfound sense of urgency about him.

Maybe she wasn't hopeless after all.

Scott and Summer both moved out of his way, Stiles joining to crowd behind him instead; carefully and curiously scrutinizing his every move. He shuffled a few things around, eventually revealing a small, mahogany box in the very back of the cupboard; one that had been purposefully sheltered by the other items. The man plucked it from its hiding spot, blowing a puff off air across its smooth surface to rid it of the dust settled like a blanket across it.

Stiles spluttered and frantically waved his hands infront of his face, coughing and dramatically screwing his eyes shut; only calming down again when he saw the look he was receiving from his best friend.

"What? It's dusty! You know I have allergies, Scott." the boy defended himself before their attention was moved back to Deaton.

Summer gulped when he took the box and moved back across the room, his back facing them as he entered the code on the small lock attached to it; the girl suddenly nervous at his serious behavior.

What was inside this locked box that was causing such a rational-seeming man to act so irrationally? What about her was making him act so irrationally?

The boys must've been growing a little nervous too, because Scott furrowed his brows and asked seriously: "Deaton, what is it?"

He didn't answer, only pulled out a neatly folded piece of notebook paper from the box before discarding it on the counter; unrolling it quickly. His rapt gaze only flashed over the handwritten words for a moment before he advanced suddenly towards Summer, too suddenly for her liking. The already nervous girl's pulse jumped in her wrist, and she instantly took a large step behind Stiles before he could reach her.

Deaton immediately halted, features softening as he realized his focused stupor was frightening her. Both the boys blinked in surprise, Stiles lips parting when he glanced down at the small tug on his sleeve; Summer's knuckles white as she gripped onto it for dear life. The boy stiffened, but didn't dare move an inch; his eyes traveling back up to her face where her own ones were wide in fear, still glued to the vet.

"Hey," Scott's gentle, intentional tone was the first thing to pull her attention; her dubious gaze snapping over to his reassuring one. "It's okay."

"I apologize for getting ahead of myself." Deaton sounded genuine when he spoke, and he was far calmer now. "I just . . . think I may have an answer for you. Would you mind if I looked at the back of your neck?"

Summer continued to stare, still clutching desperately onto the fabric of Stiles' sleeve beside her.

"We wouldn't take you anywhere that wasn't safe. I swear." Scott vowed a final time.

She looked over to the boy, and eventually, decided to trust him— not that she had much else of a choice. With a final glance at Stiles to gauge his own perception of the situation, she hesitantly let go of his shirt; stepping meekly out from behind him. She shuffled over to Deaton and turned so her back faced him, slowly pulling her braids out of the way.

His expression shifted, his eyes enlarging as he blinked several times; like the sight before him was just a figment of his imagination.

"What is it?" Stiles immediately interrogated, both he and Scott rushing to look too. They all piled up behind her, the amnesiac uneasy that they were all able to view whatever was on the back of neck without her. It was a part of her own skin, her own flesh, and they knew it before she did.

"Hang on, Summer." the McCall boy spoke up after a moment and she heard a camera flash; a sound from one of the apps on his phone she'd become familiar with. Scott quickly handed it over for her to see.

There, on the back of her neck, in a shade of green so dark is was nearly black, was a small tattoo. It was a thick circle with just a sliver missing, preventing it from being whole. Inside of it, in the same thick lines, were either vines or leaves.

Stiles squinted at it a moment longer before looking back to Deaton with eyes enveloped in interest. "What's it mean?"

Deaton cleared his throat, taking a step back. Summer whipped around, running her hand along the back of her neck where the bizarre symbol was permanently etched; an unsettled feeling spreading throughout her chest.

The vet seemed to choose his words carefully. All three of them were hanging onto each syllable he spoke, listening intently. "An old friend and fellow emissary wrote me recently, concerned about potential implications of an experiment he'd done."

"What kind of implications?" Scott queried, his best friend's next serious question immediately following.

"What kind of experiment?"

"He was worried he may have opened a portal of sorts. One to a realm separate from ours, belonging to a supernatural creature I'd only ever heard of before in legends." Their eyes widened larger than the moon, their lips parting as they painstakingly awaited the long beat that followed; Stiles subconsciously leaning forward on his toes. "Fae."

Scott pulled a confused face. "Fae?"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait." Stiles screwed his eyes shut as if the information hurt his brain, waving his hands to signal a pause. He inhaled a long breath before opening his eyes again, gesturing to Summer and raising his brows. "You're telling me she's a fairy?" Deaton nodded. "Like- like- like faith, trust, and pixie dust?"

"What's faith, trust, and pixie dust?" Summer inquired so faintly no one heard her, shifting nervously on her feet as her anxiety-riddled eyes shot back and forth between Scott and Stiles.

"Very little is known about them, but . . ." Deaton trailed off, distraught brown eyes lingering on the far more distraught teenage girl for a moment. He was keeping something— holding back somehow. The man abruptly changed course, his gaze shifting over to the boys as he forced his lips into a strained smile. "May I speak with you two alone for a moment?"

     His sudden shift in demeanor threw them all off; Stiles jarring his head back and furrowing his brows in concern, Scott blinking in utter confusion, Summer's heart thudding faster in her chest, if that was even possible. He was making it sound like there was something to be worried about.

     The two boys exchanged uncertain glances before Stiles let out a hesitant "sure" and Scott managed a polite "okay."

     The McCall boy flickered Summer, who couldn't mask the absolute terror on her face, a small smile as Deaton and Stiles exited the room; heading to the front office area of the clinic. "I'm sure it's fine."

     She didn't waste a second once the door shut. Immediately, and on silent footsteps, she rushed over to the barrier; pressing her ear firmly against it. Deaton's was the first muffled voice she heard.

     "The letter Samuel sent me, the friend who conducted the experiment, didn't only address his error. He's been studying Western European folklore and fae in the bestiary."

     "The bestiary?" Stiles' voice. "Last time I checked Fae weren't in the bestiary."

     "He found missing pages. Three of them. All on fae. The point I'm trying to make here is that he is nothing short of an expert. His studies turned quickly into an obsession. Granted there is still much unknown, no one knows more about this species than him."

"Okay . . . why'd you have to tell us that alone?" Scott's voice.

"Because he made one thing unmistakably clear in his letter. Fae are not a species compatible with our world."

"Not compatible with our world. What does that even mean?" Stiles asked quickly.

A beat— a dark, heavy one. "They're violent."

     Summer frowned and jarred her head back slightly. Violent? In what way? She didn't know what she had been expecting Deaton to say, but that hadn't been it.

"Yeah, but so are werewolves." Scott easily dismissed it, chuckling as if a bad joke had been made.

"No, Scott. They are biologically wired to be killers. I'm not talking about the same way werewolves are. That's more of an animalistic predator prey dynamic. This, is an integral element of their species and their culture. It's how they think, how they function, what motivates them. Their purpose stems from destroying the human race."

Her heart dropped, the air snatched from her lungs— he was serious.

"Okay, destroying the human race? Really?" It was Stiles again. "That's gotta be a bit of an overstatement."

"The words Samuel used were vicious, deadly, and power hungry. He wrote that it was in their blood to command any thrown and that this simple mistake he's made could be lethal and catastrophic for life as we know it."

     The Stilinski boy was quieter when he spoke again. "Okay, so maybe not an overstatement."

     "A-alright but, you met her, Deaton." It was Scott this time, tone indicating he wasn't buying it. "That's not someone who wants to destroy the human race."

     "Perhaps the amnesia is a ploy."

     "You really believe that?"

     "I believe the bestiary. And I think you two might be in over your heads this time. She is dangerous, Scott."

     Summer's head was spinning. This couldn't be true. All of this had to be some kind of fabricated story. What was a bestiary? And why was it telling them she was bloodthirsty?

     It couldn't be true, yet she still felt sick to her stomach; her knees shaking beneath her.

     There was a long beat. Too long for her liking.

     "So what should we do, then?" It was Stiles; he sounded defeated, conflicted.

     "For now, keep on doing whatever you've been doing with her. Play dumb. I'll call Samuel and he'll be on the first flight over."

     "And what will he tell us to do?" Scott this time.

     "I'm not sure."

     Summer hadn't uttered a word since they'd left the clinic. She was sitting in the back of Stiles' jeep, arms crossed tightly and eyes trained out the window and into the black of night; poorly masking the dreadful concoction of worry and shame and confusion and fear on her face.

All she had wished for since awakening in the woods were names. Labels. Something, anything to be defined by. Some knowledge of her history, of who she was. She hadn't expected the labels to be violent, vicious, and power hungry. She hadn't expected her biology to apparently be that of a killer. Maybe it was her fault for thirsting for knowledge so fervently with no regard to the prospect that ignorance is bliss. Maybe she should've never asked. If she had never asked, she could still be Summer the girl. Not Summer the killer.

     There was a beat of tense silence when Stiles and Scott entered the car, shutting their doors behind them. Her eyes flickered between them in the front until eventually the McCall boy twisted in his seat to face her; plastering on a smile. The first one of his she couldn't find reassurance in.

     "So, uh, Deaton's gonna contact his friend who wrote that letter. He's apparently some kind of expert on fae. He's pretty sure he'll head down here to see you right away and know how to help."

     She stared at him for a long beat, allowing the opportunity for either of them to continue. Neither of them did. "Was that all Deaton said?" she asked softly.

     Scott did almost as bad of a job as she was doing concealing his expression; sadness, conflict, and guilt flashing through his eyes until he eventually just nodded with a quick, "mhm!" and turned back around in his seat.

Her heart sank to the soles of her shoes, down past the floorboards of the jeep and straight beneath the cracked asphalt; where it could rot happily alongside the idea that they'd tell her the truth.

No longer attempting to hide the devastation in her eyes, they desperately moved to meet Stiles' hazel ones in the rearview mirror; her last shred of hope. But he quickly averted his gaze and turned the key in the ignition, the car rumbling to life beneath her as they began to pull out of the clinic's parking lot.

A lump formed in her throat and she turned her head sharply to stare out the window at the darkness, only illuminated, ironically, by moonlight and scattered street lamps.

It hadn't, by any means, felt good to hear those words from Deaton. But it felt exponentially worse to see them be believed by Stiles and Scott, who, whether she liked it or not, were the only thing she'd ever known. As limited as it may be, her world was them— she had nothing and no one else to hold onto.

Suddenly, her lips parted in shame; the glossiness in her eyes promptly fading as her own situation crumbled from her mind. A wave of strong guilt hit her at once, and she stared determinedly into the rearview.

"I need you to take me to Lydia's house."

     They both exchanged glances, evidently confused. Stiles finally glanced at her through the rearview. "Uhhh . . . why?" he droned, brows furrowed.

"Just take me to her house, please." she insisted firmly.

Another uncertain glance shared with Scott. She was getting sick of their uncertain glances.

     "Okay."

     The rest of the short drive was silent. Uncomfortable.

     The second they rolled to a stop on the street outside the home, right in front of the mailbox, Summer was unbuckling her seat belt and reaching for door. She paused at the last minute, fingers hovering just above the handle.

     "I know what your vet said, Scott." her small voice was so quiet it could barely be heard, a dispirited, hurt tone clinging to it; coming from the thick of her throat as if she were a wounded animal. The last words exited in a mere whisper. "I don't wanna hurt anyone."

     She didn't give them time to respond and didn't stick around to absorb their reactions before hurrying out of the car and shutting the door promptly behind her. She hastened up the concrete pathway and swung open the front door, not shutting it as she entered the house.

     "Excuse me!" a surprised voice caught her attention. She turned her head to see a woman about Melissa's age with shoulder length brown hair. She wrapped her long robe tightly around herself, covering the set of silk pajamas she was wearing; feet bare and toenails painted a pretty red. Confusion and worry were etched into her features as she stared at the stranger, along with a twinge of annoyance. "Can I help you?"

     She must be Lydia's mother.

     Summer only shrugged in a way she thought was politely. "Nope!"

     Without another word, the blonde trotted up the stairs. She'd never been to Lydia's house before, but so far she was gathering that pretty much everyone she knew had bedrooms on the second floor of their home. She didn't have to search long until she found an open door, warm light spilling from inside and illuminating the carpet in the hallway.

     Lydia's bedroom was different from Allison's. It was girlier, no surprise there, and much more colorful. The walls were a deep purpley-pink shade with butterfly sculptures hanging above her large, cushy headboard. There were nightstands on both sides of her bed, covered by various decorative lamps and accompanied by framed paintings on the wall. Multiple fluffy throw blankets were at the foot of her bed, and a purple loveseat was tucked in the corner; her closet stuffed to the brim.

     Lydia herself was lounging on the bed against her stomach, her legs kicked up in the air with crossed ankles and a white pair of socks; propped on her elbows as she read one of the many textbooks sprawled against her sheets, highlighters and pencils strewn about. She looked up when Summer entered, lingering by the doorway.

Confusion flickered across her face for a moment before she pushed herself up, sitting on her heels and retrieving her normal cool and aloof expression; flicking her lush hair behind her shoulders before crossing her arms. "What are you doing here?"

"Angel of death." Summer blurted.

Lydia furrowed her brows, arms quickly falling from their defensive position and relaxing at her side. "What?"

"You keep asking me what I saw in my vision of you. If there were any words that came to mind from it. There were. Angel of death."

     She blinked, clearly unnerved by such a forbidding title. Angel of death couldn't mean anything good. It was much scarier, much darker sounding than creature of the night. She cleared her throat, drawing back her shoulders and pursing her lips to save face. It didn't matter, Summer still knew she was unsettled.

     She crossed her arms again, as if testing her. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

     "I dunno." Summer shrugged sheepishly, despondent eyes drifting about the colorful room before meeting Lydia's gaze once more. "I guess because you deserve to know your own story. Everyone does." A beat. "And sorry, if um . . . if you felt like I was freaked out by you, or something.

She could see the wheels turning behind Lydia's eyes as she digested the information; one of the few times she'd seen the girl allow her authentic reaction to play across her features without quickly slapping her typical bad girl mystique over them. After a moment, the blonde turned to leave, only stopping and turning back around when she heard Lydia's voice.

"Do you want to spend the night tonight?" her tone was genuine. "Allison was supposed to stay over, but she's still busy obsessing over those matching bruises. I can help you officially enroll at school and register for classes. My mom's a teacher there so I can basically get you whatever schedule you want." she boastfully rolled her eyes and smirked.

Summer stared at her with a frown, brows furrowed so deeply her entire forehead creased; the redhead only batting her thick lashes. She and Lydia hadn't developed a great track record in the short time they'd known each other. And perhaps it was mean, but she had by far been Summer's least favorite of the friend group she'd been inadvertently adopted into. She was smart, and successful, and intimidating, and popular, and shamelessly blunt. And based on their limited interactions so far, Summer had deduced the girl didn't like her, and the feeling had been mutual up until now.

But the more she thought about it, Lydia still waiting for an answer, the more she realized her bluntness and sometimes cold demeanor might be friendship in its own, peculiar way.

Perhaps Lydia Martin was just an acquired taste.

And for this reason, and because her feelings were currently hurt by Scott and Stiles, and because this is the first time she'd ever gotten to make a choice for herself, she hesitantly nodded; deciding a sleep over would do.

"Thank God." the redhead exaggeratedly rolled her eyes, leaning over and sliding open the top drawer of one of her dressers; pulling out some sort of beauty kit. "We've got to get your nails painted. They still scream I was found on the side of the road."

Summer's jaw tightened. Lydia Martin was a taste she was still acquiring to.

     Scott was out of the car, leaning against it when Summer walked back outside; the boy quickly pushing off of the jeep and taking a step towards her when she approached them. A hand was over his heart, his eyes contrite and brows pulled together.

     Instantly, apologies were spilling from his lips. "I'm so sorry for not telling you everything Deaton said. You deserved to know, and I should've made sure you were a part of that conversation to begin with. A-and we know you'd never hurt anyone. That's what I told Deaton, and I really believe it."

     Through the rolled down window, her watchful eyes shifted to Stiles once Scott had finished his heartfelt spiel; waiting a long moment to see if the boy had anything to add on. She wouldn't let it show on her face, but she wanted him to. She wanted him to apologize too and tell her he didn't believe any of it either. But he only stared ahead, hands still resting on the steering wheel.

     The girl pursed her lips and crossed her arms, letting her gaze move back to Scott's guilt ridden one; staring at her like an abandoned puppy in a torrential downpour.

     "You need to work on whispering during conversations that are supposed to be secret. You're not very good at that."

     Scott let out a breath of relief, a smile stretching across his face. He knew that was her version of an apology. "Noted. Okay, so! I'm staying over at Stiles' house tonight. We have a lead on where Boyd might be and we've gotta do some research on it. But we'll drop you off then pick you up in the–"

     "That's okay. I'm spending the night at Lydia's." she interrupted him.

     Scott raised his brows. "You are?"

     "You are?" Stiles peered out the window, but Summer didn't look his way.

     "Yup. Allison will pick us up for school in the morning."

     "Okay." the McCall eventually agreed with a confused sigh, soon shrugging happily. He didn't think the Martin girl and Summer had been getting along well, but it looked like he'd been mistaken. "We'll see you tomorrow, then?" She nodded, about to turn when the werewolf continued; his voice a little more serious this time. "Also, I know everything Deaton said sounded . . . scary, but we're gonna figure this out. I swear."

     Summer's shoulders shrunk, her throat going dry. She didn't want to get choked up again, and certainly didn't feel like chatting any more about her so-called 'violent tendencies' tonight. So she simply looked at her shoes and gave a small nod.

     "Okay, goodnight then." Scott clapped her on the shoulder before beginning to walk around to the passenger side of the jeep. "Call me if you need anything! You can use Lydia's phone."

     "Night, Summer." Stiles farewell was weak, and the girl still didn't bother to look his direction.

     "Goodnight, Scott." Summer said, hands in the pockets of her jean jacket as she turned on her heel and walked back towards the house.

any guesses as to what kind of fairy
summer girl is?
hint: you can use hints from the first six
chapters & find it in the bestiary chapter ; )

HAVE A GREAT DAY EVERYONE! MWAH!! <3

word count 4,714