### Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Hallways
Waking up from a sleeping curse is supposed to feel like a grand awakening. It's supposed to involve a dramatic gasp of air, eyes snapping open, and the immediate rush of blood returning to dormant veins.
I got none of that.
One second I was in the quiet, empty void, and the next, I was simply… *here*.
I looked down. Below me, resting inside the heavily runed stone sarcophagus I had carved with my own hands, lay my body. It looked peaceful. Well, as peaceful as a body could look when its skin occasionally shimmered with a faint, gold-and-green scaly tint. My physical chest wasn't moving. No breath. No heartbeat.
*Great,* I thought. *Did I dead-ify myself? Is this what permanent death feels like?*
I tried to touch my own sleeping face, but my hand passed right through the stone. I stared at my palm. It was semi-translucent, glowing with a soft, ethereal light. I wasn't dead, not exactly. The tether of my soul to my physical body was still intact, a thin, silver thread of dark magic hummed deep in my chest. But my consciousness had somehow slipped the leash.
*The curse,* I realized, a dark, dry chuckle escaping my spectral throat. *True love's kiss was the only loophole. No one kissed me. So why the hell am I awake?*
I floated up through the stone ceiling of the cellar. It was a bizarre sensation, like walking through cold water, but without the wetness. I passed through layer after layer of dirt, rock, and old foundation until I popped right through the floorboards of the upper house.
I expected to find the dusty, quiet, vampire-brooding lair of Stefan and Damon Salvatore.
Instead, I was nearly run over by a pack of pre-teen kids in matching blue blazers.
"Whoa! Watch the—" I yelled, dodging instinctively as a kid with literal wolf ears walked straight through my midsection.
I shuddered. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water through my soul. The kid didn't even sneeze. He just kept walking, laughing with his friend.
I stood there, frozen, staring around the grand foyer. The old Salvatore boarding house was unrecognizable. It was clean. It was bright. It was filled with trophies, bookshelves, and dozens of kids. Witches were levitating books in the corner. Werewolves were roughhousing near the stairs. Vampires were walking around, looking smug and wearing daylight rings.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "They turned the brooding vampire mansion into a high school. What is this, *Glee* with fangs?"
I spent the next hour wandering around, trying to get anyone's attention. I waved my hands in front of a teacher's face. I screamed in a vampire's ear. I tried to knock a vase off a table, but my hand just slipped through the ceramic like smoke. I was a ghost. A highly powerful, dark-magic-infused phantom, but a ghost nonetheless.
And as I walked through those halls, a sudden, heavy wave of grief hit me.
It wasn't just the magic that told me how much time had passed. I could feel the temporal shift. It had been years. Back in Beacon Hills, my pack—my *former* pack—would be starting their senior year of high school.
I closed my eyes, and for a second, I could see them. Scott, probably sitting in his room, practicing his pack-leader speeches. Lydia, being brilliant and beautiful, pretending she didn't hear the voices of the dead. Malia, trying to understand math. They would be heading to the high school library, preparing to write their initials on the floorboards as a senior tradition.
And my name wouldn't be there.
To them, Stiles Stilinski had died. He died the night of the dark ritual, or he died when the darkness took him. They had mourned me. They had moved on. They had to. Season five of their lives was starting, and I was just a ghost story from their sophomore year.
*Better this way,* I told myself, swallowing the bitter lump in my throat. *If I went back, the Dark One would eventually feed on them. They're safer thinking I'm in a grave.*
"Alaric, we have a situation."
The sharp, authoritative voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned around and saw a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a leather jacket—Alaric Saltzman, if the history books in my head served me right—walking quickly toward the front doors.
Beside him walked a girl.
She was beautiful, in a tragic, guarded sort of way. She had auburn hair, striking blue eyes, and an aura of raw, devastating power that practically hummed. She was a tribrid. I could smell the blood, the magic, and the wolf on her all at once. Hope Mikaelson. The daughter of Klaus Mikaelson, the Great Evil of the vampire world.
Beside them, Alaric was guiding two new boys. One was a scowling, newly-triggered werewolf who looked like he wanted to punch a wall. The other was a lanky, curly-haired human who looked entirely out of his depth.
"Get him to the cellar," Alaric was saying, referring to the werewolf. "We need to keep him contained until the transition is fully over."
They walked right toward the grand staircase. I stepped to the side, leaning casually against the banister. I was prepared to watch them walk right through me, just like everyone else had.
As they approached, Alaric passed right through my left shoulder. I winced at the cold chill.
But then, Hope Mikaelson walked by.
She didn't pass through me. As she drew level with me, her eyes darted to the side.
And she stopped.
She looked directly at me. Her blue eyes widened slightly, her brow furrowing in confusion.
I froze. I slowly pointed a finger at my own chest. *Me?* I mouthed.
Hope blinked, her gaze locking onto my translucent, glowing form. "Who are you?" she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
"Hope?" Alaric called out, stopping a few paces ahead. "Everything okay?"
Hope kept her eyes locked on mine. She didn't look away for a second. "Yeah," she said slowly to Alaric. "Yeah, I'm just… I thought I saw something. I'll catch up. Take Landon to the library."
Alaric nodded, leading the curly-haired kid away.
Once they were gone, Hope stepped closer to me. The air between us felt electric, buzzing with a strange, warm pressure that I hadn't felt since I woke up.
"I'll ask you again," Hope said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. Her hands curled slightly at her sides, ready to channel magic. "Who are you? And how are you doing that? If you're a projection, your spellcasting is sloppy. I can see your magical signature vibrating."
I stared at her, a massive, genuine grin slowly spreading across my face.
"Oh, thank god," I breathed, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief. "You have no idea how boring it is being ignored. I literally spent twenty minutes trying to make a vampire trip over a rug, and nothing. Zip. Nada. But you—you can see me. This is fantastic. Highly irregular, but fantastic."
Hope didn't laugh. Her eyes narrowed. "You're a ghost. But you don't feel like the spirits from the Other Side. Who are you? Are you a spy? Did Malraux send you?"
"Malraux? Sounds like a cheap brand of cigarettes," I said, waving my hand dismissively. I took a step closer to her, marveling at how she actually tilted her head back to keep eye contact, as if I were fully solid. "And as for who I am… let's just say I'm a resident. A very long-term, rent-free resident of the basement."
"You're not a student," she said flatly.
"No. Definitely not. Too much acne in this place for my taste," I joked, crossing my arms. "And I don't do homework. I'm more of a… silent partner. A ghostly observer."
"If you don't tell me who you are, I will find a spell to banish you from this school," Hope threatened, her eyes flashing with a hint of hybrid gold.
I chuckled, the sound carrying a tiny, dark edge that made the nearby chandelier rattle ever so slightly. The Dark One's magic might be asleep in my body, but my soul still held the keys to the castle.
"A banishment spell? Sweetheart, you can try," I said, leaning in close enough that she should have felt my breath, if I had any. "But I'm anchored to something much deeper than this school. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried."
She stared at me, her expression a mix of frustration and intense curiosity. "Why can only I see you?"
"That," I said, looking her up and down, "is the million-dollar question. Maybe you're special. Or maybe I'm just lucky."
Before she could answer, Alaric's voice echoed from down the hall. "Hope! We need you in the cellar!"
Hope shot me one last, warning look. "This isn't over. I'm going to figure out what you are."
"I look forward to it, Hope," I said, offering her a mock bow.
She turned and jogged down the corridor, but she didn't look back. I watched her go, a strange, unfamiliar warmth blooming in my chest.
For a guy who had put himself to sleep to escape the world, I suddenly found myself very, very interested in staying awake.