Into the Wreckage ▸ Scott McCall (3)

xxi. A SHOT AT REDEMPTION

xxi. A SHOT AT REDEMPTION

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92 DAYS BEFORE THE SENIOR SCRIBE

"You know, I had a hunch."

Foster raised a brow, her butt currently planted atop of the counter of Deaton's vet clinic. Scott was currently at home, not having a shift tonight, so Foster decided that it was the perfect time to take to Deaton about the whole éadroma and dorcham business. It wasn't that she didn't want Scott knowing, it was just that it felt as if this was a conversation meant for her.

The both of them were both shocked at the knowledge that she was fated to bind to him no matter what; that they were already linked together. Regardless, Foster thought it would be a good idea to go over all that she extracted out of Peter with Deaton, seeing that he was basically the Jedi Master Yoda of the supernatural world.

Now that Foster thought about it, being a jedi would be so much cooler than all this.

It was settled. Foster would buy a spaceship, leave Earth, and become a jedi. 

With a bit of annoyance, Foster raised a brow. "You had a hunch."

Deaton shot her a sheepish look, and she could honestly say that this was the first time she had ever seen that expression on the druid. "You had all of the abilities that the gaelic legends had, but I didn't think it was possible at first."

Foster rolled her eyes, pointing out, "We've dealt with a giant lizard, a dark druid, and a nogitsune; and you think that it's far fetched that I'm the éadroma?"

Meeting her eyes, Deaton admitted, "Yes, actually."

Her nose scrunched. "Was that supposed to be an insult?"

"No," he corrected, Foster watched as he began to tend to a dog who was currently there for a check up. Foster stared into the lab's big brown eyes, wanting nothing more than to run over and hug it. Afterward, she told herself. You can pet him afterward. "It's just that no one's seen signs of the éadroma or the dorcham for centuries. In fact, I wasn't entirely sure that it was anything more than a legend.

"The idea of two single people holding the entire balance of the supernatural world is hard to believe. If what the legends say are true, then you're stronger than you could ever know. And if Peter's right about the dorcham, then I'm afraid things are going to be worse than they have been. Did you check the deadpool for the name?"

Foster nodded her head, memorizing the name to heart, but unable to find anything about the mysterious boy she knew was lurking somewhere in Beacon Hills. She had searched for him on Instagram, Twitter. She Google'd him, she had literally tried everything. She even asked Stilinski to let her go through this files (which he said no to, damn him).

"Yeah," she explained, knowing that it wasn't too hard to find his name. He was worth twenty million dollars on the deadpool, after all. She was honestly shocked she dismissed his name so quickly. "Ivan Lynch."

Deaton raised a brow. "You know him from anywhere?"

Frustrated, she released a sigh. "Not a damn thing. It's like this boy doesn't exist in the world of social media." She scrunched her nose, lost in thought. "Maybe he's stuck in MySpace."

"Or maybe he doesn't want to be found yet."

"Yeah, but that sounds more daunting. I prefer the he's a social recluse living in the old days archetype."

"You're also well aware that this is Beacon Hills."

Foster hummed in response, waving her hand dismissively. "Let me have this one fantasy, Doctor D." She noticed the faint smile etched on his lips in amusement, hardly able to believe that this was the girl who held the good side of the supernatural world in balance. Finally, Foster pushed herself off of the counter, landing on her feet with a small bang. "So, what else can I do. I can take strength and give it, but what about the claws and fangs?" She cracked a grin, clearly joking about the claws and fangs past.