Who: Lydia Martin What: Banshee stuff When: Friday night (during Packhouse Shenanigans) Where: Her house Warnings: None Status: Complete Narrative
The noise in her head had come on suddenly, intensely. Lydia had experienced all kinds of signs, signals, cries for attention from whatever the voices she heard were. They were always there in her mind, sometimes louder than she could ignore, sometimes more insistent. But it was rare that the dull rumble of some kind of distant knowledge turned so quickly into a roar demanding her attention. Even more rare, especially these days, that it pulled her right in and took control from her.
She’d been sitting on the couch, dressed for bed because she had no intention of leaving again tonight, skimming through options and plans and trying to decide on a lame theme for another party at the club if the upcoming one was a success, when it happened. The world slowed down, all but stopped for her as the voices in her head rose. She only had a moment to think about what was happening before her realization was gone, swept away as the voices insisted that there was trouble, that her friend was in danger, that he might die. Scenarios zipped in front of her eyes, a world without Stiles, a world without each and every member of the Pack she wasn’t all that close to anymore.
Completely unconscious of her actions, Lydia rose from her seat, papers abandoned in her place and her cellphone left where it sat on the table. She was pulled unawares right out the front door without so much pausing for her shoes. Barefoot, she walked down the short path to the road. And from there, she just kept going, kept walking in the dark. If there was anyone left on the streets to wonder what she was doing, she paid them no mind.
She didn’t know where she was going, or that she was going at all, just that she needed to be there and that nothing could stop her.