Author's Note: Thank you to all those who favorited and followed. I promise I won't let you down! Here's another chapter. Please review. I accept comments, critiques, requests and suggestions, so keep 'em coming! Now on to the story...
Lydia dreamt of reptiles. Lydia dreamt of wolves. Lydia had nightmares within nightmares full of dead friends and bloody claws, but she was used to it. They were repetitive. She knew what she was getting herself in to when she closed her eyes every night. Her first night in an abandoned asylum, however, sent a very different treat to her subconscious.
She dreamt that she was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a red field. There was nothing supernatural about this field, except for the bloody hands that reached down from the sky and played with her hair. Her dream self chortled in a haunting way, and she knew deep down that she couldn't make that sound, but she enjoyed the blood in her hair...she enjoyed the coppery smell of it in the air..she wanted suffering and madness and death-
I don't know anything! Her dream self screeched suddenly. I don't know anything!
"I don't know anything, man, I swear to God-"
Stiles' voice.
Lydia opened her eyes in time to see a large dark man press something red and steaming into Stiles' wrist and smell burning flesh in the air. Her vision was blurry but she saw Stiles drawing blood from his own hand with his teeth, obviously trying to stop himself from screaming. Lydia's heart plummeted at the sight. She could see the man's profile as he kneeled in front of Stiles, who was huddled against the wall, and she knew it was the very same man he had hit with the tire iron.
They hadn't even chained him up. She guessed that his back hurt so badly that he wouldn't be able to escape the werewolf's grasp in time to fight.
What chance did they have at winning anyways?
Lydia wanted to help Stiles, to stop him biting his hand to the bone, and to stop the burning metal pressing into his skin, but she knew that he wouldn't want her to. She knew she couldn't help without getting herself hurt in the process.
And when the werewolf lifted the branding iron from Stiles' arm and he pulled his bloody hand away from his mouth and let out a shuttering gasp, she caught his eye. The werewolf was concentrating on objects that Lydia couldn't see from her angle, so Stiles took the chance to shake his head very subtly, eyes wide, sending Lydia a silent message. Don't. Please. Pretend to sleep. Don't say a word.
And then the man turned back to Stiles, and Stiles began to talk. "Look, do you have a polygraph or something? Cause I swear, I don't know where Derek is or what the hell he does in his free time, so unless you want me to lie, torturing me isn't going to help anybody, seriously."
"Stiles."
This was a different voice. Heather's voice. Lydia closed her eyes and listened to Heather walking into the cell. She made her eyes into slits so she could still see what was going on, hating how vulnerable she felt with her eyes closed.
"I've decided to show you some decency and at least tell you who we are, so maybe you'll show us a little compassion and tell us what we need to know."
"Compassion? Your very...large friend here just branded me because I told him I didn't know anything, and you want me to show you compassion."
Lydia wished Stiles would just stop talking. Every word he said made her heart beat faster, fearing what Heather would do if she got angry. But she knew when it came to risking Scott's life, Stiles wouldn't let down his defenses, even if the pain in his voice was evident.
Unfortunately, Stiles' defenses came in the form of dripping sarcasm and the immaculate ability to piss people off.
"We're a Beta pack, and we're going to kill Derek and his whole pack, with or without your help," said Heather, ignoring Stiles and getting straight to the point.
"Wait, wait...a Beta pack? Meaning no Alpha? Is that even possible? I mean, no offense, but I thought you guys would kill each other without, you know, the Big Guy keeping you in line," Stiles asked. Lydia couldn't tell if he was genuinely curious, or just trying to buy himself some time. She opened her eyes a crack more.
"Well, let's look at it this way...you seem to be doing just fine without your precious Mommy. We can live without ours."
Now Lydia had her eyes open all the way just in time to see whatever color that was left in Stiles face drain completely. She also saw four gruesome burn marks across his left forearm, bleeding and black. How could they know about his mother?
"How...?" Stiles asked, his voice cracking, repeating Lydia's own question.
"We've done research, Stiles. Very...extensive research. Your mother is dead, you think it's your own fault, constantly blaming yourself every day and every night, blah blah. History of some bad panic attacks, huh, Stiles? She died nice and slowly, didn't she?"
Heather was tracing a finger down Stiles' face, as if mocking motherhood, and he was trying hard to keep it away from her slim fingers. Even from her spot on the bed, Lydia could see Stiles' throat working like crazy, tears shining in his eyes. Lydia felt an ache in her heart that she was unfamiliar with.
"We know everything about you, boy, and if you think we can't make you talk, then you're in for quite the ride. You may just be even more useful than little Lydia over there."
Heather confused Lydia. Sometimes, she would act incredibly patronizing, putting on a soft voice and a warm smile that didn't reach her eyes, and seconds later, she would turn into a block of ice, cold and sharp all over. Lydia wondered if maybe Heather was trying to decide which act would work better on her and Stiles.
In one quick, determined motion, Stiles spit in her face. Not only was that probably a really bad move, but it was so unlike him that even Lydia felt herself go pale.
Heather got up from her crouch very slowly, wiping her face as she went. Stiles kept eye contact the entire time, and Lydia could see how furious he really was. She felt some kind of pride swell in her chest, because she knew exactly how he was feeling - why were we dragged into all of this?
Heather didn't do anything at all. She turned on her heel and made her way towards the door, but before she exited completely, she uttered one name in her cold voice.
"Raynes."
And the man kneeling in front of Stiles grabbed a knife and slammed it down into Stiles' leg, right above the knee.
Stiles forgot to bite his hand this time. He screamed in agony, throwing his head back and clenching his hands into fists. Lydia forgot about the situation she was in for a moment, and she accidentally let out a whimpering, sobbing noise. Raynes turned to look at her and smiled maliciously, his eyes flashing gold momentarily. Without tearing his beady eyes away from Lydia, he pulled the knife out of Stiles leg and made him scream once more. Lydia's ears were ringing from the shock of what was happening.
"RAYNES! COME QUICK!" Someone shouted from the floor above. Raynes' face turned from a malevolent mess to a soldier's stoic mask. He threw down the bloody knife and left the prison, barring the door behind him.
Her ears were still ringing and she felt a wetness on her face, but she got off the bed and crawled over to Stiles, who was breathing heavily on the ground. His leg still gushed blood, and there were small drops coming from his arm as well. Lydia saw now that there were only four burn marks on one wrist because the other was almost completely covered in the crisscrossing marks. She fought the urge to vomit.
"Stiles. Stiles?" Lydia asked twice, her voice faltering the first time.
Stiles opened his eyes. His face was a sort of grey complexion and his mouth kept twitching like he was trying not to scream. "I heard them talking outside. They're starting with me, and by the time they're done that, Scott and Derek will come and you'll be rescued and you'll be fine, okay?"
Before Lydia could say anything, Stiles pulled off his shirt, muttering something along the lines of "ugh, fuck," and pressed it into the leg wound, hissing with pain.
"Let me do it," Lydia insisted, feeling stupid and helpless and guilty. She pushed on the wound and the shirt was immediately soaked in blood. Stiles' torso was wrapped in bandages, and now that the drugs wore off and she could think properly, Lydia deduced it was either an act of compassion on Heather's part to get them to cooperate, or just to keep Stiles from bleeding out before they could use him.
She guessed it was probably the latter.
"We need more..." Stiles swallowed and shut his eyes again as another wave of pain seemed to wash over him before continuing. "We need more sheets or something for this."
He held up his badly burnt arm weakly, and Lydia felt her stomach lurch, but she complied, ripping up bed sheets and anything else she could find to wrap around his forearm.
"And if...if Derek or Scott don't find us then my Dad sure as hell will. Right?" Stiles asked.
"Yes, of course. Don't be stupid okay, Stiles?" Lydia said, still ripping up fabrics from the bed.
When she came back to kneel beside him again, Stiles was grinning weakly. "Told you you get snappy when you're upset."
Lydia sighed dramatically and secured a bed sheet around both the arm and the leg. Stiles hissed in pain when she tied a white sheet around his leg, but he drew blood from his lip when she wrapped it around the burnt arm.
Soon enough, Lydia was sitting next to Stiles, her back leaning against the wall next to his. This was the second time they had sat in this exact position, one person injured and the other not. She had a feeling this would become a daily thing for a long, long time, and the injuries would only get so much worse.
And they really didn't know where Derek was.
