| Seven Years of Bad Luck |
The only sounds heard throughout La Iglesia were the creaks from the wind and the stewing debris from the shift in the Earth. The town had been abandoned since the hunt for Kate Argent and nothing dared disturb the church, the locals finding the recent rumors even more frightening, ones that would be passed down into local legend for generations to come.
On the night of the new moon in November, someone disturbed the church once again. Garbed in a long velvet cloak, dawning the midnight blue hood attached to the neck, a figure walked through the abandoned site of worship and made their way down into the tunnels. They made their way deeper, pausing as they saw signs of gunfire, one bullet hole in the wall overrun with a brown sticky substance. They continued on, paying no mind or fear to any potential danger lurking within. The figure finally came upon the shattered carving that once bound a Hale. They picked up a large chunk, just larger than a softball, and made their way further into the tunnels.
The figure stopped, standing before the smoking mirror of Tezcatlipoca. They stepped forward, smearing some dust from the chunk onto the mirror with a gloved thumb. Swiftly the figure stepped back and chucked the piece of sculpture as hard as possible into the center of the mirror. The obsidian seemed unaffected at first, only for cracks began to tendril outward from the point of impact. As on reached the top of the mirror, it shattered.
The figure took their leave, finding their way back through the tunnel, up into the church, and back out into the abandoned square before the structure. There, half a dozen SUVs rested, gas still running, lights all pointed toward the church in an arc. Enough men and women stood around to comprise a small army. And on her knees, hands bound next to a scar-faced woman, was Araya Calavera, blood caked near her temple. Off to the side were Severo and two other hunters, bound and gagged on their knees.
The figure walked down the steps of the church and towards the captured matriarch, crouching down before her. They slowly removed their hood, revealing a woman only a few years older, her hair white and her smile just as devious and cold as Araya's could be. "I'll ask you again: where's my daughter? Where is Kate Argent?"
...in Beacon Hills, CA
It was 1 AM and Stiles was in the kitchen. There was a pep in his movements, almost as if a song was running through his head. He was cooking. Breakfast. The stove was on. Two pans were hot. The eggs were simmering and the bacon was bubbling. A strip began to pop and a drop of grease flew off and landed on his stomach; he was clad only in boxer-trunks. He swore at the burns, rubbing at it before flipping the bacon and placing a lid over the violent pan. As the scrambled eggs finished, he separated them into two plates, carefully removing the four strips of bacon, putting three pieces on one plate and only one on the other. He turned the nozzles for the burners, grabbed the plates, and rounded the corner.
He looked at the bed he'd abandoned, the dark sheets a mess. He walked closer and in a rather giddy, almost sing-songy voice, said, "Time to get up, sourwolf." When Derek didn't stir, Stiles set the plates down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. "I can't believe the bacon smell didn't wake you up," he said, leaning over to pull on Derek's shoulder. When Derek rolled onto his back, Stiles almost jumped at the sleepy, rousing face of a teenaged Derek Hale. Stiles clambered off the bed, accidentally knocking off one of the plates of food, the cheap porcelain snapping as it crashed to the floor.
Derek startled, first at the noise and then at seeing Stiles. He took in the sight of the human, noticing his lack of clothes. And then he looked over his own form, his own apparent nakedness quite evident. The smell of recent sex struck him hard and Derek glared up at Stiles, slowly saying, "What the fuck?"