"…A hospital run by a surgeon gone mad…."
That has Stiles' head snapping up to look at the TV mounted on the wall, brown eyes flickering with interest and the controller tossed to the little table beside the bathtub. The footage being shown on-screen is shaky and sepia-toned, showing white-clad patients pulling and tearing at doctors and nurses alike.
"October eleventh of 1931 is when the esteemed Hale Psychiatric Institute for the Criminally Insane was revealed as a hospital of horror. A fire set by patients in an uprising against the staff killed all but five lucky survivors in revenge for the inhumane torture that Doctor Peter Ian Hale inflicted on his patients…"
And that really has Stiles riveted, any information he can get on the Hales treated like gold. Anything truly interesting got destroyed in the big fire over ten years ago, along with most of the family aside from Cora and Derek. Cora's currently living in South America and, well, Derek isn't exactly the sharing and caring type. Seems like fires are a family curse.
Stiles sighs, turning up the volume as the shaky camera work is replaced by a man in his mid-fifties dressed in a cheap suit that's too large on him. He looks like someone's grandpa on his way to church.
"Peter Hale is little known today," the old man's saying," but he's probably one of the most prolific mass murderers of this century. He's succeeded now by his great-grandchildren, Derek and Cora Hale. The sight of his carnage still exists today, restored almost completely by the Lahey family—"
"And that's all I needed to know," Stiles says, muting the TV and grabbing his phone. The number he dials is one he memorized when he was sixteen and thought that feeling in his chest meant he was in love. Now he's old enough to know it was a possessive claim on the massive Hale fortune and all the family name entitled him to.
"What," snaps a voice down the line.
"Birthday update, babe."
"As much as I'd love to listen to you talk about yourself for the next four hours, I'm kind of busy here. This nice reporter is trying to shoot me."
"Well, I certainly hope they succeed." There's a faint click and Stiles huffs in annoyance, glaring down at the Call Ended message on his phone screen. "Such a dick." He wastes no time in calling Derek back, keeping at it for the next ten and a half minutes until the asshole actually answers him.
"It's opening day of my new theme park and you want to talk to me about your birthday," he asks, almost disbelieving. "Really, Stiles? It can't wait until I'm home and we're trying to pretend each other doesn't exist?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Derek might have laughed at that in the early years, but now it makes him let out an impatient sigh. "Just have everything arranged and you don't even have to attend."
"And by the next day the tabloids will say we're getting a divorce."
"The only reason we haven't is because I didn't sign the prenup." And hadn't that been a day filled with hope and all that other bullshit? Two freshly graduated high-schoolers that still believed in love despite only dating for two months. Unlike Scott and Kira, their relationship deteriorated after their two week honeymoon in Switzerland. "Now, are you going to listen to my idea or not?"
"I don't think I have a choice here."
"Good to see you've learned a thing or two." Stiles can already see the impressive eye-roll that Derek is doing right now, he doesn't even have to close his eyes to picture it. "So, I was watching Terrifying But True—"
"Of course you were."
"—And they were covering the old Hale Sanitarium and I figured it'd be a great place to host my birthday." There's silence on the other end, Derek actually speechless unless one of his precious roller coasters turned him into a bloody smear over brand new steel rails. It's a nice picture and an even nicer insurance package for the poor widower.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Not dead yet, but Stiles will manage. "That's not happening."
"But—"
"Hold on a second, Princess. Matt says something's up." Stiles growls low in his throat at the nickname, but he keeps the scathing remarks to himself. Matt Daehler is miserable to be around at the best of times and he's so far up Derek's ass in the most metaphorical sense that it'd only be funny if Derek actually let the poor kid bang him.
Stiles can make out pieces of the muffled conversation, all of it about the new roller coaster, and tunes it out when there's not any blackmail material. What's the point of marrying someone with an ungodly amount of money if you can't make them wish they'd never met you in the coffee shop so many years ago?
"Derek," he shouts when he realizes the muffled conversation has ended.
"Jesus, don't you have a cauldron to stir while I'm at work? Crystals to polish or Ouijas to wax? We're not having your fucking party at that place, Stiles. You can forget it."
"I'll email you the guest list when I get out of the bath and every person on it had better be at the party this year or I'll make a scandal so big that even the meth addicts will want to steer clear of your shiny rides and beheaded Beanie Babies." Stiles hangs up before Derek can respond, tossing his phone to the side table and leaning back comfortably as warm jets of water work out the tense muscles in his back.
Derek scowls as he comes into his office, picking up the nine page list of guests his darling husband had emailed and his secretary had printed out. Half the people on the list aren't even people that Stiles enjoys being around and the other half are ones he can gloat over, which makes sense considering his personality.
Derek tosses the papers on top of the shredder and pulls open a Word document, typing out names of different heads of industry as well as a few shallow leaches similar to his husband. If he's going to suffer through this charade of a birthday, then he's going to get his money's worth out of it. What better way to celebrate than by gaining new investors? He's just finished typing the last name when his phone chirps, the new email from Stiles short and to the point. 'Don't forget that you're not invited -xoxo'
Why did they even think marriage was a good idea back then?
Derek blames overpriced tequila and the fact that Stiles' ass looks good in a pair of skintight pants. At least that's one aspect of their marriage that hasn't changed, Stiles is a decent lay and he's vain enough now to stay in shape; a runner's body, all lean muscles and dark moles. Derek used to lavish attention on those beauty marks until Stiles knew how much he loved them. Now Derek takes him face down and imagines someone else.
"Mister Hale," Matt says, popping his head around the door. "Deucalion and his people are here to discuss profits for this quarter."
"Tell them I'm coming." Matt nods and ducks out, quick and efficient. Derek might have taken him to bed at one point, but even he's got standards and Matt Daehler doesn't fit them with his smarmy smiles and eager-to-please persona. He's good for fantasies when Stiles gives Derek the cold shoulder but not much else.
He logs out of his account and strides out of his office, readying himself to take on the head of accounting and his little group of thugs-turned-legal.
It's only seconds after Derek logs out that his computer comes back to life, password typed in and Word document pulled up by invisible hands. The names on the guest list are highlighted and deleted, replaced by names of a different sort before the document is forwarded to Matt for invitations to be sent out.
Hales are known for a nasty sort of revenge and Peter is thirsting to get his hands on the five who didn't die.
Erica likes to think of herself as honest and trustworthy, but that doesn't mean she's letting this snotty brat of a director boss her around. She's cute and sweet and makes the best fucking coffee in the entire department, so what gives Blake the right to treat her like secondhand garbage?
She says this right to Blake's face instead of keeping it bottled up, you know, like a moron. Now she's sitting curbside with the ugly black box that came in the mail. She'd been handing it over when Blake went off on a tirade and she'd forgotten about it until she sat down and her situation hit her like a bus. Fired, jobless, no money for epilepsy meds.
In short, she's fucked.
She hefts the heavy metal box in her hands, turning it until she finds the simple lever on its right side with a little plaque bolted above it. "Rotate once to operate," she reads aloud, barely more than a mumble. She turns the lever, a music box tune of the birthday song playing as a panel pops out on the front. There's a little dial on the front of this part and another plaque reading do not rotate under any circumstances.
Unease hangs heavy in Erica's gut as she stares are the warning, fingers twitching and curiosity urging her on. Who receives mysterious packages from FedEx anymore? Even Blake prefers to do her shopping through Erica and she's FaceTiming her the entire time. The woman doesn't even order things off Amazon when she's drunk.
Curiosity may kill cats, but Erica has enough satisfaction to bring her back. She grabs up a stick and uses it to rotate the dial, happy she does when a tiny metal scythe bites into the wood enough to get stuck. The scythe is connected to a little skeleton that popped out of the top panel, made of shiny chrome that winks at her in the low sunlight. Erica leans closer, finding a small envelope wedged in beside the skeleton, small enough to fit comfortably in her palm.
"What the hell?" She pulls it out, setting the box aside as she traces her finger over the spidery writing on the front. It spells out Blake's name, but Erica doesn't feel the least bit guilty about breaking the wax seal on the back and pulling out the card. It's made of the fancy card stock you have to pre-order, the words printed in black ink across the front with a slim border going around the edges.
'Derek T. Hale commands you to attend a very unique birthday celebration for Mister Stiles Stilinski-Hale' And if it didn't have all of her attention before, it certainly does now. She flips the top up to see the details on the inside, brown eyes going wide at what she finds. 'Terror, humiliation, perhaps even murder will be the entertainment with ONE MILLION DOLLARS paid to those that survive the entire night inside the walls of the Hale Institute'
There's more information printed on the back, an email address to RSVP and a dress code of black tie that Erica can't follow since all of her clothes come straight from the Goodwill. Still, one million dollars will keep her in the black for a while, certainly long enough to find a job where her boss isn't a raging douche.
"Hale Institute, here I come."
Despite popular belief, Boyd fucking hates dealing with people. Yes, he was a professional lacrosse player and, yeah, he's decent at dealing with the press, but that doesn't mean jack shit when it comes to retail. The only thing that's keeping him from stabbing Call-Me-Aiden in the face with a knitting needle is because he promised his mom that he'd make today a good day.
Maybe she'll understand if I tell her this guy is a creep.
But no, bail money is something they can't afford right now. Instead of acting on bad impulses, Boyd takes a deep breath and makes sure Aiden can't see his fists balled up under the counter. "I'm sorry, sir," he says, doing his best to keep his voice level. "Your brother needs the receipt if he wants to return this crochet hook."
"But you can see that it's bent." I'm gonna bend you in a minute. Another deep breath, an easy smile that his sister used to love. "He needs a new one."
"They're in aisle three."
"Your store sales cheap materials that bend easy—"
"Would you like to file a complaint?" Aiden sucks in a deep breath of his own and looks to his twin standing just a few feet away, the other staring down at his shoes like they hold all of life's mysteries. He's embarrassed by his brother's actions and Boyd can't blame him.
"We don't want to get anyone in trouble," Ethan says finally, taking a step closer. "I'm sorry my brother's making a scene." Ethan turns back to his brother, speaking in a softer voice that Boyd can barely hear. "It's not this guy's fault that our foster mom is the Queen Bitch of Castle Hell."
"Fine," Aiden grumbles, looking ready to pitch a fit all the same. "Go pick out another one of these things and Kali doesn't have to know that her sugar daddy is paying for it."
"Ennis won't mind. He actually likes us." Boyd stops eavesdropping after that, biting back a snort at the unexpected turn in conversation. Sugar Daddies and foster parents aren't something he has much experience with, but the Steiner twins seem tough enough to survive just about anything as long as they have each other. Boyd just really wishes they'd do some of that surviving outside of the crafts store.
"Pack your bags, we're getting rich and really drunk," comes a loud voice somewhere near the front of the store. It doesn't take long for Boyd to make out the wide grin and bright blonde hair of his girlfriend as she comes barreling down aisle five straight for customer service where Boyd is currently trapped.
"What are you talking about," he asks, catching her as she launches herself at him. Erica isn't subtle at the best of times, but she's really hyped about something right now and a hyped-up Erica can mean anything from a raise to twenty-five bucks she found on the subway.
"I got fired from work today because Blake is the biggest tool to ever tool in all of forever, but I forgot to give her this really weird box—here ya go, hold this—that FedEx delivered and I opened it and look!" It all comes out in a rush, but Boyd learned Erica Babble in first grade, so it's not too hard to interpret as he hefts the metal box she's shoved into his hands.
"You got fired and you stole Blake's thingy?"
"Is it really stealing if the woman you take it from doesn't know it was hers in the first place?"
"Yes, dear."
"Boo-freaking-hoo. Check out what was inside that death trap." She brings a small card out of her jacket pocket, waving it in Boyd's face until he snatches it out of her hand and reads what it says out loud. Next to them, blatantly snooping, Aiden lets out a low whistle when Boyd rereads the part about winning a million fucking dollars.
"Jesus fuck, you guys looking to adopt? I know a great couple of kids that enjoy giving their foster parents solitude and making awesome pancakes on Saturday mornings. They're twins, so that just makes them cuter."
"Aiden, you just stole your foster mom's sugar daddy's credit card and set your brother loose in the yarn section," Boyd points out.
"Yeah, but Kali sucks." And, really, how can he argue with that when he's met the five-foot-six inches of pure malice and thinly veiled hate? The first time he met her, she threatened to shove a tapestry needle into his brain for suggesting that Ethan try out crochet for some of his anger problems. He looks from Aiden to Erica, both of them pouting with a similarity that almost makes Boyd nervous.
"No, we're too young to adopt a pair of teenagers. Hell, we were teenagers just a few years ago."
"But what about the party," Erica asks, snatching the invitation back. "We totally have to go and win a lot of money. Think of what that million dollars will mean for us, babe." She moves closer so she can rest her hands on his shoulders, leaning into his space with full confidence. She's the only one Boyd's let get this close to him since his baby sister was taken, and that's not going to change any time soon. "We could get our own little apartment where our parents can't come over without calling first."
"Three bedrooms, so we can have a nursery."
"Exactly. A beautiful nursery for the baby we're going to have in three-to-four years, you'll paint the walls a cheery yellow while I carve up the crib. Just like we've been wanting since college." How can Boyd argue about that? How can he crush the hope in her beautiful brown eyes when there's a shine to them that means possible tears? "That money will get us the IVF, if nothing else."
"Fine, but I'm not wearing a tie."
"Good, because I'm not wearing any underwear since the only decent dress in my closet is too tight for that shit."
"Not exactly a new phenomenon."
"A hot one, though," Aiden says. Boyd turns an unimpressed stare at the teenager that he used to use as a bouncer to the Half Moon Club in Beacon Hills. It has the same effect as it did back then, the color draining from Aiden's face as he spins on his heel and goes to hunt down his brother.
Katherine Alexandra Argent is a sociopath, she knows this and embraces it. She recognizes her flaws but doesn't actually care enough to fix them since her relationships aren't long-lasting enough to make an impact on the neat little checklist in her mind of all the things she needs to change.
Her point is that the world has been trying to eat her alive since she was eight years old and she'll be damned if she isn't going to fight back the only way she knows how. Kate isn't the type to back down, not even if it means her brother has to bail her out of jail for threatening to break her ex-agent's nose. Again.
"Have I told you lately that your behavior is ridiculous," Chris asks as they walk out of the police station, hands stuffed in the pockets of his heavy coat.
"Yesterday, we were eating dinner and I told Allison that she shouldn't form friendships in school." Kate shrugs, her logic sound. "They only exist because she's stuck with those people for eight hours a day, not counting future archery practice. You know what they call that type of friendship in prison? Gangs."
"That's not— You can't just…." He lets out a sharp sigh, shaking his head. "She is three years old, Kate. Let her be a fucking kid and stop putting your ideas in her head." She bites back the scathing remark on the very tip of her tongue, knowing that Chris is the only family she has left aside from her niece. If Chris goes, then little Allison goes, too.
"Fine," she grumbles, climbing into her brother's SUV and eyeing the car seat in the back. It's empty—of course it is, it's two in the goddamn morning—but the checking is instinctual so she knows what words can and cannot be used during the drive. There's no cursing around little ears because getting a call from the daycare after the little girl with neat pigtails tells another girl to go fuck herself is a bad thing.
"This came for you yesterday." He hands over a metal…. Something; it weighs half a ton and is all sharp corners like a house in a scary movie.
"What the hell is it?" There's a smudge of red near one of the corners, dried blood that flakes when she scratches her fingernail over it hard enough. Despite that one imperfection, the thing is actually pretty neat. It'd go well on her mantel at home.
"An elaborate invitation." Chris tosses a square of cardstock over to her as he pulls out of the parking lot, driving just under the speed limit until they're well away from the police station. Kate reads over the invitation on the drive back to her brother's house, tapping her finger against the side as she thinks it over.
She knows the Hales—well, knew them. Before the fire, she and Erik had been passing acquaintances until she'd shown an interest in the guy's nephew and Erik had threatened to tear her limb from limb and bury her under their septic tank. Derek, apparently, was out of bounds. A year after that, most of the family were burned alive in that big house of theirs and the survivors moved to New York to get away from it all.
"Have you read this," she asks after a while, tracing the tip of her finger over the slight indentations in the card.
"I have."
"Do you think I should go?" She almost wants to if only to see the place that gave Erik nightmares. He'd gone in the old family institute once on a dare and he'd come out ghost white and shaking. Kate had asked him what was wrong, tried to barge in there and see for herself, but Erik had dragged her back to the car and didn't talk to her for a week.
"No, I don't." She does look away now, leveling her brother with an amused sort of look. "I already packed you an overnight bag and Allison snuck in a drawing of Señor Snuggles." Ah yes, the grouchy old cat that Alli just had to have, bright orange and carrying a special hatred for Kate. Her and animals have never gotten along, but she tolerates them for her niece.
"Is that a statement on my lack of impulse control or just you knowing me so well that you're not even gonna argue with me?"
"A little bit of both." He turns into the driveway and parks before shutting off the car, staring ahead of him for a long moment before turning his gaze to her. "I want a promise before you leave, Kate." This is his Serious Business stare, the one that always reminds her just who the younger sibling is in this family. "You come back home afterwards. I don't care if you need me to come pick you up in the middle of the night, just come back to us."
"I always do, Chris."
"This is different and you know it. This is a Hale family tragedy waiting to happen and you'll be smack dab in the middle of it." She knows what he's thinking, the words that are hanging like a ghost between them. You almost died in that fire, Katie. We almost lost you along with Beacon Hills' oldest family.
"I promise I'll come home, Bubba." Neither of them mentions the little used childhood pet name, they just hug and soak up warmth. They don't do this often enough, just be soft around each other, not since their mom died and their dad became an abusive old fuck. Maybe Kate needs this closeness, the touch with no strings to tangle her up in because her brother just wants to make sure she's safe.
And maybe, just maybe, part of her knows that she might not get another hug after this.