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"What the fu..." Stiles yelled grabbing the banister. "Who the. WHO LEFT A BOOK ON THE STAIRS? I almost broke my neck." He's the most likely to do something like that, drop a book and keep going. Maybe if he were, oh say, getting a decent amount of sleep he might have noticed it. "Totally uncool," he grumbled.
Stiles dropped down on his bed looking at the ceiling, book still in hand.
"Surviving the Flame, Descendants of Salem," he read aloud. "I bet, with all those people trippin on that LSD infested water." His snark was strong, for good reason. He didn't think his dad would own a book like this. He's barely handling the fact that not only was Scott bitten by a werewolf, but his son and his best friend were sometimes apart of the supernatural shenanigans of Beacon Hills. Stiles flipped through the book carefully and with ease, treating each page as if it were made of spiderwebs. The pages were yellowed with age, and ever so often the handwriting changed. Different owners, different periods in time. Logically there's no way this little book held the amount of pages he flipped through. This is Beacon Hills after all, logic is sometimes void. He tried to make sense of it anyway. This little book, no less then the size of two little dollar store diaries stacked on top of each other, it should have around 150 to 160 pages it was confusing. The more he tried to examine it, the more confused he got. It's 5x3.5x.5, but he turned through at least 300 pages so far. From Latin, to old Old English, to "American" English.
He'll never understand why his dad had such a weird book, it has to be his dad's right, because it's just them whose else could it be. He probably didn't even know it was missing, he'll just check out a few pages before he returns it. Stiles skimmed through the pages, logically he should have reached the end of it but he just hit the halfway mark when he instantly recognized his mom's handwriting. It's been years, and his memories faded, and nearly all traces of her seemed to be gone from the house save for his dads ring and a few trinkets. This is his mom's handwriting. If the writing wasn't enough there was that silly little doodle she always drew for him. A simple little smiley with an upturned nose and what he used to think were polka dots but now knew to be moles, it was a little doodle of him. This was too much for him to think about, he threw the book like the pages burned and ran to his dad's room. Believe it or not, he never actually goes in there, hasn't since he was maybe 13. He used to as a kid though. Sneak in and climb in bed, curl up in his mom's spot and cry himself to sleep. On those nights, the good sheriff would drink himself to sleep downstairs, so Stiles stopped.
Where would he start, why was he in there, what answers could he find that his dad hadn't already gotten rid of. It was useless. He ran downstairs to the kitchen to get his phone, and there it was. Just sitting there next to his phone on the kitchen table. Sitting there like he left it there opened to the passage in his mothers handwriting. He didn't scream, honestly he didn't. But if he had, it would have a totally been masculine scream, if he had that is, because he didn't. There's nothing wrong with screaming, it's healthy, and can probably save your life one day. Or let the killer know where you are, he's 50/50 undecided on screaming.
Stiles sat in the living room for the better part of an hour, fingers laced together tightly in his lap staring at the book from across the room. He should call Scott, no, his dad, no Scott, his dad would be the best person to talk to but he doesn't want to involve him anymore then he already is. He called Scott. Voice mail. Crap Scott and his mom were out of town this weekend. Visiting Melissa's mom, and all of Scott's ridiculously attractive cousins.
"Okay," he said, not procrastinating at all, but if you asked him, the garbage did need to be taken out, and the carpet needed to be vacuumed also the dishwasher was still full and the laundry was building up. He's just being a good son that's all, and if the book managed to just so happen to show up in whatever room he was in, that was an honest coincident, nothing freaky at all. Book, what book? Your face is a book.
He finally decided to acknowledge the books presence after his dad called to check up on him and tell him he'll have to work a double shift again.
What exactly is the appropriate reaction to finding a book, a magical book. Finding a magical book that once belonged to your mom. Finding a magical book that once belonged to your mom and probably her mom before her, is that how she found the book? Finding a magical book that once belonged to your mom and probably her mom, but also followed you around your house very quietly demanding you read it. What exactly do you do after that? Take a double dose of Adderall and wash it down with a Monster energy drink.
Stiles read his mother's introduction several times actually, running his fingers over her writing and the little stars and crescent moon she doodled. He loved her curvy hand writing, like she took her time to write it. Claudia Stilinski, Salem Descendant. Ancestry dating back to 1630 when 16 year old Anne Dudley and other Puritans emigrated from England. Stiles made a sticky note to Google her later and stuck it to the passage. She must have picked it up in America he figured. The occult huh, witches, hocus pocus, candles and brooms. It cant be that bad, he's surprised he hasn't come across more witches, blame it on Beacon Hills. Heh, more witches, already including himself into the group. If not, why else would a magic book be stalking him.
So, he has a book of shadows now, a grimoire, something to connect to his heritage. Ironically there was a little note scribbled on the page he was on, 'Heritage does not equal destiny.' Ironic or magic. He could just accept what he's read and be done with it, close the book and ignore it forever, or he could learn more, maybe there's something in here about Beacon Hills, maybe he could be helpful for when the things that go bump in the night become too much for the super scary supermodel Laura Hale from the Hale pack. Or maybe Scott wouldn't have to worry when the things bypass the werewolves and go straight for them, it's happened, it'll happen again. He fired off a quick text to Scott.
Dude, I'm totally magic now
Stiles has most defiantly googled witchcraft on more than one occasion, who hasn't. It's a cool ass subject and gods and deities are his thing. Except almost everything he's read about books of shadows goes against what's in this book. There are similarities, but there aren't many diary/journal type entries about working your craft and what spells and days of the week, or herbs and crystals you used, that would have been fucking awesome actually.
That would have been much better then reading about his mom worrying about him because she thinks he manifested a power at such an early age. Manifested a rare power. She wouldn't deny her baby his gifts, she was just sorta hoping they had skipped a generation or oh say kick in when he was at least a double digit age, seven was entirely too young.
Stiles is great at adapting, taking things and bottling them up, not letting them bother him until the bottles are all full. He couldn't do that now, he had a gut feeling that what ever this rare power was, it scared the shit out of his mom. No high fiving himself because, "fuck yea I got a super awesome cool rare power that's probably totally bad ass and I'm totally magic now." He felt sick, maybe food would distract him.
Stiles put the book down and stretched and tried to shake off some of this nauseous feeling. He wanted to finish reading, he would definitely finish reading. Although he should call his dad first. Pfft not because he was scared or anything, and it was getting late, and he was home alone or anything. He ordered a pizza.
It's been less than a minute since he ordered, the pizza was taking to long. He picked the book up again. At first the subtle changes in his moms handwriting weren't noticeable, but with fresh eyes he noticed the script got sloppier, frantic, manic, chicken scratchy.
"I love my baby boy with all my heart, and I love my beloved husband just as much. I am so blessed and thankful to have both of them in my life," he read aloud. "But Stiles, Stiles is dangerous. This is nearly unbearable to write. Writing about my baby boy, and how I cant help him. So far my enchant me to keep people from interacting too much with him is holding up, that's something to be thankful for. I don't know if it's something I've done, or will do, I don't understand. Why-why would my baby boy be blessed/cursed with such a devastating gift. NON COMPOS MENTIS. He's too young, nothing good can come of this." The frantic last words written in the book by Claudia Stilinski.