He came to consciousness through quicksand, awareness slowly resolving into pain. His head hammered with every heartbeat, and all Derek knew for a countless age was the throbbing inside his skull. Eventually, the rest of his body joined him, tingling with pins and heavy. He ached down one side and realized, without moving, that he lay on something cold, hard, flat and that he was in motion.

He opened his eyes to darkness. When he moved to touch his face, he discovered his hands lashed together. The realization made him jerk hard awake with a full body spasm. Chains rattled somewhere near his feet, and he breathed with quick, shallow gasps. Memories rushed over him.

Kate. Fuck. Kate.

The air smelled like her. The new her. That and rust and vaguely of Stiles's borrowed shirt.

Despite his racing heart, Derek held himself very still, hands braced against the hard, vibrating floor, and listened. The engine was unfamiliar, and the buzz of the tires on the road had the dull roar of heavy treads. Kate's heartbeat sounded steady somewhere above his head as he lay prone. Fear licked at the soles of his feet, but he clenched his jaw against it. As long as she was driving, she wasn't here. If he didn't draw attention to himself, she might keep driving. He drew an unsteady breath and let it out slowly. Calm . . . think.

He felt around with careful fingers to get the lay of his surroundings. A bench was built into the wall not an arm's length away. He couldn't roll completely the other way from where he was, so the space was small, maybe four feet at max.

His body twitched, and his back felt like it was being kicked. Electricity, then. Low electrocution had a particular mix of pains, which compounded the hammering in his head from the wolfsbane. Groggy from hurt, he adjusted himself enough to sit up and had to latch onto the bench as a wave of dizziness hit. Colors burst through his vision. Breathing ragged, he waited for the sensation to pass and then hauled himself up onto the padded bench. It was, at least, a vast improvement over the metal floor. Chains clicked along the floor as he moved, too loud, too loud, giving him away. He winced and held his breath in anticipating fear. The sound and motion of the vehicle continued unaltered, and after a moment he let himself breathe again.

As he moved his hands, something bumped and slid along his thigh. It skittered when he reached for it. Derek froze in confused terror and waited. Poundpound. Poundpound. Poundpound. But nothing touched his leg again. With slow caution, he shifted his hands back and tried the whole motion a second time, only now he used his leg to pin the thing down until he could grasp it.

A rubberized cord.

He ran his fingers along it to where it entered a box attached to the wall—where it attached him to the wall.

Rage and panic burst through him, rushing hot and ice cold, at the realization of being chained. Weight pressed in from all sides, and his throat burned from holding back a roar.

He strained at the manacles holding his wrists, until his arms and chest ached in protest. He should have been able to bend metal, rip his way out.

She'd taken his strength.

He tried to shift and found she'd taken that, too. Even in the darkness, he felt exposed, vulnerable and surrounded by her scent. The familiarity made his insides quiver with humiliating weakness, and he couldn't get enough oxygen.

Derek swallowed down a sick feeling and pulled his limbs in closer.

Despair settled in his bones. Hollowed him out.

His hands shook as he felt for the end of the bench and lowered himself down, squeezing as much of his frame onto the small spot as he could manage.

They were driving. He didn't know where. Or why.

It didn't matter.

He curled in on himself to bring his nose closer to his chest and inhaled some of Stiles's scent. It rubbed a balm over some of the fear, let the constriction in his chest expand. He tried not to wonder if anyone was looking for him—if anyone had noticed his absence. Tried not to pin any hopes on a rescue.

A lifting ache above his breastbone had other plans, so he lay, rocking with the motion of the road, a warm yearning battling with cold sick dread, the kicking in his back beating out a too fast rhythm, and in time, exhaustion pulled him under.

A little after 10, Stiles banged in through the kitchen door, sluggish from too much emotion and weak with the need to sleep. Somehow, his backpack weighed more than it had when they'd left, and he scowled at the effort it would take to bring it upstairs. He dumped it in the corner of the dining room instead, perversely pleased at the thud it made when it hit.

"Stiles?" His father's voice came from the living room, but the man himself quickly appeared to block him from going straight to his room.

Stiles sighed. "Hi." Here to make me feel worse about myself?

"Bakersfield?" John said, incredulous. "You do know I can read a map, right? That you were halfway across the state?"

Stiles stared at his father with a blank expression. He had already gone through regret, grief, and anger on the ride back. That was all his spoons for the day. If his dad expected some articulation of remorse, he'd need to find a different vessel, because Stiles was on E, with just enough fumes to reach his bed.

His father scowled at his silence, then narrowed his eyes.

Stiles waited, suffering the scrutiny, unsure what to expect next but unable to care either. His throat hurt from not screaming in rage, from not speaking at all.

The expression on his face must have revealed something telling, because his father's tone shifted.

"Son?" he asked, searching Stiles's face.

Interrogation he could take. But not this . . . not this.

He swallowed and lost the last outpost of defense when their eyes locked. His dad looked so worried.

"We turned back," he croaked. Obviously. It was a stupid thing to say. But his father just nodded, like he knew.

"You wanted to keep going."

He nodded tightly. It took a moment to build up more words. "Scott said the trail was gone. Washed away." He turned his eyes toward the floor. "Maybe—maybe if I'd gone faster . . ." He shrugged faintly and tried to ignore the way his eyes burned.

His dad sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "It's not your fault."

A bitter laugh burst from Stiles's lips, and he glanced up with barely concealed sorrow. "Then how come it feels like it is?"

He let himself be pulled into a hug and curled onto his father's solid frame.

"He called me, Dad," Stiles whispered, the words strained. "Derek needed help, and he called me."

"And you tried."

"And I failed." No one seemed to see that—how spectacular he'd become at letting everyone down. He squeezed his eyes shut, two tears escaping despite his efforts.

"Hey." His father pulled back to get a better look at him. "Stiles, listen to me. You guys? You got us the only solid clue we have so far. No one else could have done that. No one." He shook him a little in emphasis.

Stiles blinked. "Scott did that."

John's face fell a little. "Scott followed a trail. You spotted the cameras."

That was . . . true, he had to admit. He wiped at the tear tracks on his face and shrugged.

His dad went on, "Agent McCall agreed to get a warrant for the tape, since it looks like we may have an international incident brewing."

Stiles nodded at that. That was better than Scott having to ask his dad as a favor.

"It might be a day or two before we get it, though." He delivered the news with the gentle tone of apology.

Whatever energy Stiles'd managed to gather into himself bled back out. Disappointment scrawled over his face, and his father winced.

"I'm sorry, son. That's just how it works. I can't—"

"It's okay," he muttered.

It was not okay. But what else could he do? Wheels of justice and all.

He stared at his dad's chest and blinked, lost on what to do next.

"Hey"—a gentle hand on his shoulder again, drawing him back to the moment—"why don't you get some sleep. Been a long day. The contractor will be here early tomorrow to fix the front door."

Stiles frowned slowly at him. "I thought our house was a crime scene."

"It was"—a light pat—"but I've got some pull at the sheriff's station."

That got a half-hearted smirk, and then his dad stepped aside and nudged him toward the stairs.

The last time his bedroom had been this far up, Gerard Argent had used his face as a punching bag. Truth be told, it felt about the same. He lurched into his room on autopilot and stripped off a layer of clothes, mindless of where they landed. The moonlight fell chilled on his pale skin, and he wrapped himself in a comforter to escape it. It felt like the ball of guilt in his gut, cold and perfectly formed—impervious. He lay for a while trying to breathe around it, but his lungs wouldn't fill like they should. He shivered and pulled the comforter tighter, rolling until he'd made himself into a miserable burrito.

Sometimes he saw Scott, rain dripping from his hair and face, eyes full of apology in the moment before he delivered the news.

Mostly he saw Derek back at the loft, reaching for him when he'd thought he would be abandoned. Raw, wounded fear, desperation, need.

I'm sorry blistered his throat.

Derek shouldn't have trusted him.

No one should.

Morning struck with inspiration, like literary genius. Like a long con. Stiles's body told him in small aches that he hadn't slept, but the abruptness of late morning sunlight in his room said he had. Slept and slept too long. He followed the smell of coffee to the carafe of dark roast waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Thanks, Dad. He made himself a travel mug to drink on the way and snatched his backpack from the corner, despite it being a Saturday.

It was brilliant. Genius. Seriously. If everyone would just play along.

An hour later, Stiles strode into his father's office nearly vibrating. He adjusted the pack slung over one shoulder.

His father lifted his eyebrows at him, but then guessed for himself why he'd come. "We don't have the video yet," he said.

Stiles nodded a little, his face as still as he could make it. "I don't think it's gonna help."

That earned him a frown.

"You don't."

"No. I mean, yes, maybe if we find out what she's driving, maybe someone will spot it. But you were wrong last night. It's not the only piece of evidence." He paused to give his dad a chance to object, but John waited with his look of curious patience. "Severo and his men," Stiles said. "What are the chances that Kate Argent just happens to show up same place, same time as another family of hunters bust down Derek's door?"

"You think they were working together." His father stood and paced around his desk so they could speak in quieter confidence.

Stiles looked him in the eye. "When's the last time anything was coincidence?"

Almost reluctantly, John forced himself to ask. "What is it you want?" He hung his head and closed his eyes as he waited.

Stiles licked his lower lip. "To question Severo."

His dad's expression turned pained. "Stiles—"

"Dad, I know he knows something," he kept his voice low and urgent. "And I can make him talk."

John's head snapped up, and he eyed his son with suspicion. "You."

"Yes. I just . . . need a little bit of time alone with him."

"A little—do you have any idea how illegal that would be?"

A noncommittal shrug. "Fairly to mostly?"

"Felony." He turned away sharply, making Stiles scramble after him.

"C'mon, dad, you know these guys work outside the law." He bobbed and weaved until he could make eye contact. "They're werewolf hunters. You think this is their first hunt?"

John sighed and drummed his fingers along the surface of his desk. He cast around the room, tension and indecision pulling his mouth into a thin line. For a while, he said nothing, and Stiles could hear his own heartbeat echoing in the silence. The fall into resignation said more about the state of their lives that Stiles was quite comfortable in knowing.

"He's being brought to the interrogation room at noon," John said. "I was planning on having a second chat." Then he stood straighter and raised his voice. "Hey, Parrish!" He waited a beat, until the young officer filled the doorway. "How you feel about grabbing lunch? My treat."

Parrish started to smile and took a breath to reply, but John cut him off.

"I wanna hear the story behind that commendation."

Parrish's expression flickered. "I thought—didn't they send over the report?"

"Yes . . . and now I want to hear you tell it."

Parrish's face broke into an embarrassed smile. "Sure. Uh, lunch would be great. Sir."

John sent him off with a nod of dismissal and turned toward his son. "I imagine I'm gonna be gone for a while. Probably won't be back until, oh, I don't know, one?" He unclipped his swipe card and placed it on his desk without turning his attention away.

A grin tugged at the corner of Stiles's lips. "Right. Yes. You should—you should try the new burger place. I believe they have veggie patties that get awesome reviews." He nodded like he couldn't stop.

His dad nodded back at him. "That sounds like an excellent suggestion, son." John glanced down at his watch, then grabbed his coat off the back of his chair.

Stiles made as though to follow them out, then turned back at the last second, claiming to have left something in the office. He swiped up the key card and slipped into the observation room for Interrogation 1—the place behind the two way glass. Also the place where the recording equipment was housed. He eyed the component stack for a second trying to discern the control unit for the camera. After a minute he opted instead to just pull the plug.

Then the waiting. Usually Stiles had issues with waiting. But this gave him time to practice, a chance to run the lines in his head. He'd watched enough NCIS that he should be able to do a decent DiNozzo, if not a Gibbs. Maybe a McGee.

He stopped bouncing his knee as the idea settled within him that this body had done intimidation before. It had housed power and confidence and the utter indifference to life necessary to kill. He didn't need a TV persona to call upon those things, just the memories that lived all too close to the surface. A stillness came over him, and he lifted his eyes to see Slater bringing Severo into the interrogation room just as his father had said. He locked the hunter's wrists into handcuffs with a long chain slung around a bar built into the table.

Stiles turned toward the sound of Slater's retreating footsteps, giving him time to get back to the bullpen and out of line of sight. He stood with borrowed grace and stared down at his hands—clever hands that had fashioned bombs and plucked at the heartstrings of innocents. In that moment, in his core, something obsidian glittered.

He picked up his bag and went in, calm as the windless Dead Sea.

Severo looked him over and started to laugh.

Stiles placed his backpack carefully on the chair at his end of the table and opened the zipper with deliberate slowness. He smiled wanly down at the laughter and then cut Severo a steely look.

"And what are you supposed be?" the hunter said.

Stiles looked down into the bag. "Me?" He shrugged. "Well, I'm not a werewolf, if you're wondering. Or a banshee. But I am"—he took a small bottle out of his bag and placed it on the table—"a kid with the right connections."

He took a syringe from the bag and placed it next to the bottle, aligning it straight.

Severo's eyes narrowed, and his chuckling died.

Stiles offered him a tight smile and then picked up the bottle. "You prolly watch a lot of TV, lot of action movies. So you've heard of truth serum, right?" He lifted the bottle a little and then peered at it with intense interest. "Sodium pentathol." He gave Severo a sharp look. "Turns out, it's also called sodium thiopental, which is used in lethal injections." He paused, inspecting the label. "I have to admit, that was a surprise," he added, before setting the bottle back down.

Severo scoffed. "The death penalty's illegal in California."

Stiles looked impressed. "Yes, it is. For humans." He picked up the syringe and uncapped it, then pierced the bottle and started to draw up fluid. "Turns out it happens all the time to animals," he said, sounding as matter of fact as possible.

Severo's mocking expression slipped, and Stiles tapped the syringe to knock out all the air bubbles. That he had seen on TV. Then he placed it down on the table and crossed his arms. He could recall the haughty set of the fox's shoulders and the poised stillness of his expression that radiated innate superiority. Stiles slipped them on like a tailored coat.

"Why were you after Derek Hale?" he intoned, sounding both curious and disinterested. What's your favorite food. Please state your age. Explain your violence against my friend.

Severo shrugged languidly and sat back as far as his chains would let him. "He's a werewolf. I'm a hunter."

"Who's very far away from home," Stiles noted. "You came a long way just for one werewolf."

They stared each other down. Severo had nothing on Chris Argent's icy glare. Stiles offered a derisive snort before he glanced down and took up the syringe in one elegant hand.

"Curious thing, sodium pentathol. Right amount of this? You start telling me what I want to know. Too much of this . . ." He smiled a wicked fox smile. "You won't be telling anyone much of anything." He took a measured step closer and dropped some of the act. "Now, I'm not a trained doctor, which should probably worry you. But I'm game if you are." He lifted his eyebrows suggestively. "Whaddya say."

The hunter's expression darkened, and Stiles could see him calculating the distance between them and the length of the handcuff chain. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?"

"You're sweating."

He was. "I'll ask you again. What did you want with Derek Hale?"

Severo pressed his lips together and slowly smiled.

Stiles's resolve hardened. He'd get one shot. So to speak.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he made his way to the back wall. Severo would have to turn to see him, and the twisting of his body would shorten his reach. Stiles sent up a very small prayer and then exploded into motion.

He kicked Severo's chair out from under him and jabbed with the needle, aiming for the neck. The hunter roared as he fell and swung a balled fist that caught Stiles in the side before he could dance away.

It ended in a second; and he'd let Severo pluck the needle out for himself. The hunter dangled at the edge of the table, held partially off the ground by the cuffs. He scrambled to get his feet under him and lunged in Stiles's direction, hauling at his restraints. Stiles scurried back, high on adrenaline, and panted, waiting. Deaton had said the effects would be quick.

"I will kill you!" Severo roared and lunged again.

Stiles wondered if he'd break his wrists.

Severo pulled the needle out and threw it at him, though it was too light to fly like a dart. Stiles skipped out of the way anyway.

"Be nice and I'll give you your chair back," he said.

Severo's chest heaved like a bull. "Puta, I will cut you in half."

Stiles gave him a look as though considering his fine offer. "I've actually been trying to put on weight, so no, but thanks anyway."

Severo snarled, but it didn't stick. He leaned a hand against the table top, then another, and shook his head as though clearing cobwebs. His face went slack, then confused, and he looked up at Stiles with wide, dilated eyes.

"Que?"

Stiles returned a curious look and stepped a little closer to the table. "Do you, maybe, want that chair now?"

Severo nodded, then groaned and braced himself on the table like he might fall.

Stiles took the chance. He propped the chair up and slid it close enough for the hunter to snag with his foot. Severo dropped into it like his knees betrayed him and stared up at Stiles looking bewildered.

Better living through modern medicine.

Stiles took a position out of arm's reach, eyeing the man who had burst into Derek's home. His whole body strained toward "fight," and he shook with the effort of keeping still, tensing his muscles until they hurt. He needed to focus.

"So . . . I'm going to ask you again. Why were you after Derek Hale?"

Severo blinked at him, his head lolling from side to side as he processed the words. Unexpectedly, his face split into a grin, and he started to laugh.

Stiles frowned and glanced around in case he was missing the joke.

The hunter's laughs grew louder and deeper, full-bellied guffaws that made it difficult to maintain a threatening front.

"Pensó que—"

"English."

Severo rolled his eyes and squinted at Stiles, concentrating. "He thought . . ." He paused to laugh. "He thought I wanted his sister!" Severo slapped the table and laughed harder. "Cora!" He crowed. "I said 'Who the fuck is Cora?'" He sucked in a breath and wiped tears out of his eyes.

Stiles chuckled despite himself and tried to hide it behind his hand. "And . . . why did he think that?"

Severo wheezed, smiling, and swayed in his chair. "La Loba! Yo quería encontrar La Loba." He smacked his hand on the table in finality. "Estupido . . . Cora." He smirked.

La Loba. He couldn't be sure what the rest of Severo's statement had meant, but that part seemed important. It wasn't, however, the information he was really after.

"Yeah . . . pretty stupid," Stiles agreed, his voice light as he tried to think. Severo gazed up at him with a drunken grin; he was a surprisingly happy drunk, and not really what Stiles had been preparing himself to deal with. Happy people . . . liked to talk. To share. He adjusted himself so he was partially sitting on the table and dropped his hands to his lap. "You know . . . I saw the weapons you guys were packing when my dad brought you in."

"Yeah?"

"Way cooler than anything the Argents carry."

Severo puffed up in his chair. "We take our jobs serious."

Stiles grinned at him enthusiastically. "I can see that! But how did you ever get them across the border? I mean, no way modifications like those are legal."

Severo lifted a hand and waved it at him dismissively. "The border . . ."

Stiles waited, interest and invitation written on his face. Severo leaned closer. "You really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

"Coyotaje."

Coyotes. Stiles could have smacked himself. "That's really smart!" he said, and Severo beamed. "D-do you know someone good?"

"Good?" he smacked the table again. "Diego never loses a man."

"That's-that's great!" Stiles added, nodding when Severo looked serious. "And, um, where would I find Diego?"

Severo rolled his eyes in Stiles's direction and narrowed them. "Por que? You got family in Mexico?" he asked with a laugh.

Stiles smirked. "Maybe I want to take a vacation. Planning for spring break."

"No."

"C'mon. A town? A last name?"

Severo's mood shifted abruptly and he scowled. "Why you wanna know?"

He paused to consider his response, then leaned in a little closer, wearing the nogitsune's face. "Because the women who killed your friend took mine. And if you help me, I'll pay her back for you."

They looked at one another a long time. "Kate. Argent. That bitch is a traitor."

That was interesting. "She was working with you."

Severo snorted and held back a sneer.

Stiles leaned in a little more. "The town."

"She'll kill you."

"She'll try."

He smirked. "Lordsburg."

Stiles turned on his heel and grabbed the sodium pentathol bottle, dropping it into his bag. He snagged the used needle and hurried out of the room.

"What makes you think you stand a chance!" Severo called after him.

He closed the door before having to reply.

Sheriff Stilinski and Deputy Parrish came in just as Stiles was heading out.

"Back already?" Parrish turned, giving Stiles at look as he glided by.

Stiles shot him a wide grin. "Like I never left!" Then slung an arm around his father's neck and pulled him into a huddle. He dropped his voice. "If there's anything you want to ask our felon, I'd suggest trying within the next 20 minutes or so."

John narrowed his eyes. "Do I wanna—"

"No, you do not. But you'll thank me. Also, give him a glass of water."

He gave his dad a hard pat on the back and held the borrowed key card up between them.

"Ah." His father plucked it from his hand. "I thought I'd dropped it."

Stiles's expression went innocent. "Yeah, you should be more careful with that."

They shared a moment of silence and barely hidden smirks. When his father nudged him to get going, Stiles went.

He aimed his car toward Scott's house and dialed Lydia.

"Where are you?" she demanded, no preamble, not even a hello. Stiles set his phone in the holder.

"Just left the station. Why? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? You left school in the middle of the day. And you didn't—" She cut herself off just as her temper started to rise. She got shrill when she got angry.

"Didn't . . .?" He waited.

"Call. Text. Anything. You could've been halfway to Mexico."

He couldn't help but grin at the phone. "We kinda were halfway to Mexico," he admitted.

Rustling came over the connection, and Lydia's voice sounded closer somehow, full enough to fill the car. "And?"

"And . . . we lost the trail. Scott said the rain washed it out. We had to come back." He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel in irritation.

"But you're going back."

Stiles shrugged at the phone, nodded, even though it wasn't a question.

"Stiles."

"Yes. Okay, yes." He hadn't even asked Scott yet, and it occurred to him with some surprise that Scott's refusal wouldn't actually change his mind.

Lydia was silent long enough that the air grew tense.

"I'm coming with you," she said at last.

The Jeep swerved a little.

"What? No, Lydia, we just got you back, I'm not—"

"I wasn't asking," she said.

He slowed for a stoplight and stared at the phone with mixed feelings. "But . . . you don't even like Derek."

Lydia sniffed pointedly. "We don't have to be friends for me to help." Her tone softened. "Plus"—he could imagine the artful shrug she was making—"he'd do it for you."

Her words brushed warm across his skin, and he cleared his throat. That seemed reply enough, because Lydia went on.

"So you might as well just tell me where you're going."

"Right now? Scott's house."

"Fine. I'll see you there."

She hung up before he could object.

Lydia made a strained sound and flung her hands out in the universal sign for: Wait a Goddamned Minute. She rolled her lips over her teeth and seemed to work through several different options before settling on what she really wanted to say.

"You . . . want to hire a coyote to smuggles us out of Mexico?"

Stiles suddenly felt smaller and several IQ points shallower than before. "I—yes?"

"Us?" Scott frowned, looking between them.

Lydia's glance cut glass. "Oh, I'm not letting you do this by yourselves."

"You're not."

She rolled her eyes and turned fully to face Scott. "Neither of you even speak Spanish."

"I take Spanish," Scott replied, defensively.

"Yeah, and you're getting a C," Stiles added. "She's got a point."

Lydia brushed non-existent fluff from her skirt and fought to not smirk too hard. Scott scowled for a few seconds before giving in with a defeated nod and toss of his hands. For an alpha, he was pretty bad at alpha-ing. After a second, Lydia lifted her eyes to Stiles.

"Tell me this plan again?"

He crossed his arms uncomfortably. "We go to Lordsburg and find this Diego guy. Tell him we're going to need him to get us back across the border and make arrangements."

"That's it."

He shrugged.

"That's the whole plan."

Stiles sighed in exasperation. "Lydia, I don't have much to work with here. We know they came up, together, to get Derek. We know Kate took him. We know she was last seen—smelled—heading south. If she knows she can cross safely at the place they used to come up, why go somewhere else? We're just a bunch of kids on vacation on the trip down, so the border guards will let us through. It's just coming back with someone without a passport that's the problem."

"Why go to Mexico at all?" Lydia asked.

She kept asking the questions he'd avoided because he didn't have answers. It's not that she was trying to sink their plans as much as she seemed so right while doing it. Stiles's confidence flagged, and he dropped onto Scott's desk chair.

"I don't know. They held him there once, maybe they were going to take him back. Maybe there's a reward."

Scott turned his big, hopeful eyes on Stiles. "Maybe when they get the tape from the gas station, it'll help?"

Stiles started shaking his head before Scott even finished. "I don't know. Look." He pulled up a map on Scott's computer. "Lordsburg's in New Mexico, right? That's 15 hours from here straight driving. Another 3 from there to the border. She's had 24. She could already be across."

"If she didn't stop," Lydia said, leaning over Stiles's shoulder for a better look. "Do you think she'd stop?"

He gazed up at her, considering. "I think . . . I'd prefer to assume the worse where Kate is involved."

"That doesn't mean it's useless," Scott said. "My dad can alert the Mexican authorities, and they can be on the lookout."

Stiles spun around in the chair as Scott and Lydia moved back to their seats on the bed. He scratched at his scalp.

"You guys realize that actually finding them in all of Mexico is probably the easy part, right?"

Scott's confusion articulated itself in a frown. "What's the hard part?"

Stiles leaned his elbows against his knees and let his eyes linger on the ground. "The average coyote cost two grand per person," he admitted.

"Two—" Scott's shout cut off mid-sentence. "Two thousand dollars? Stiles, where are we gonna get money like that?"

"I don't know, Scott! In case you missed it, this is kinda a work in progress!"

Scott paced across the room, shaking his head. "No way my mom has that type of money to spare."

Stiles dropped his head into his hands, bleak hopelessness chilling his veins. "Maybe . . . maybe we can find Peter. I mean, I've never asked, but they don't have jobs, so they must have money somehow . . . And Derek's family. Peter'd pay to help family. Right?" He lifted his head and found Scott standing in the middle of the room, staring. "What?"

Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, waving Stiles and Lydia closer. He dialed Chris Argent.

Stiles peered at the phone. "Isn't he in France?"

"Yeah."

"Scott?" Chris's voice came over the line, remarkably clear for halfway across the world, and Scott turned on the speakerphone.

"Hi, Mr. Argent," Scott replied. The confidence seeped out of him, leaving an awkward boy. Too much tangled history lay between them for Stiles to even imagine how either of them were feeling.

"What's wrong, Scott?" Chris asked, balanced between patient and alarmed.

Scott's eyes widened. "How did—"

"Because you're calling."

He left it unsaid that Scott didn't have too many reasons to call an Argent anymore.

Stiles motioned for Scott to get on with it, and Scott cleared his throat.

"When we attacked that armored car, Allison offered Kincaid $150,000 for the scroll. Do you . . ." Guilt got the better of him for a second, and Scott had to close his eyes. "They took the briefcase from your house. When the charges were dropped, did they give it back?" He opened one eye and peeked at the phone.

"Are you asking me if I have spare cash?"

Scott glanced at Lydia, then Stiles, then back. "Yes?"

Chris was quiet for a second. "No. It was Katashi's money, not mine. Probably in federal lock-up with the rest of his things."

A collective sigh rose on their end of the phone.

"Scott, what do you need with that kind of money?"

Stiles put a hand on Scott's arm, and they exchanged a look of caution.

"Some . . . hunters attacked Derek in the loft," Scott said. "They took him. We think they're from Mexico."

"Araya," Chris ground out the name.

Stiles leaned closer to the phone. "One of them's named Severo," he offered.

"Araya's son," came the reply. "She came to see me while I was in jail, pretending to be my lawyer." He huffed a humorless laugh. "Guess now I know why. Do you know what they were looking for?"

Stiles glanced at his friends, rubbing his fingers across the pad of his thumb. "La Loba. He said they were looking for La Loba, but that it didn't mean Cora Hale."

Chris heaved an audible sigh. "No. No, it doesn't mean Cora Hale. La Loba's a legend, like the Loch Ness Monster. She's the mother of werewolves. They say she wanders the desert gathering the bones of wolves, and when she has a full skeleton, brings a new werewolf into being."

Stiles stared at Scott, then Lydia. Lydia's perfect brows drew into a frown.

"So, they think if they kill her they put an end to any more werewolves?" she asked.

"That's one interpretation. Another says that if you kill the progenitor of a line, their progeny dies, too."

Stiles's eyes went wide, and both he and Lydia stared at Scott in horror. "But that. But wouldn't that kill all werewolves?" Stiles asked, a little breathless.

"I don't know about all. La Loba isn't the only werewolf origin story."

"Lycaon," Scott said in a hollow voice.

"Yes. But . . . some, maybe? If the legend is even true? I can't say. And I don't know what they want with Derek."

"We need to cross the border," Stiles said, filled with new urgency. "We know they used a coyote to smuggle themselves up. We think we can cross somewhere near there and use the same one to smuggle ourselves back once we've rescued him. But . . ."

"You need money," Chris finished for him, his tone gone somber. "I don't have the money from the gun deal. But . . . I do have some . . ." He trailed off. "I do have some I can send you. Do you know how much you'll need?"

Stiles glanced quickly around. "We uh . . . well, it'd be eight thousandish for the four of us, once we have Derek. I don't know, exactly. That's just average cost."

Chris made a low, thoughtful sound. "Well let's start with ten."

Scott frowned at the phone. "Are you sure? I don't—"

"Scott . . . There's nothing else I'm going to spend it on. It's . . . Allison's college fund," Chris told them.

Lydia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Scott locked eyes with Stiles, his pieces slowly falling.

"Mr. Argent," Stiles whispered, strained, the only one of them able to speak.

"It's okay," Chris said, his voice gone thick with a forced smile. "I guess she just isn't done saving people yet."

Stiles blinked, unable to breathe through lungs of ice. A tear slipped down his face before he realized. "You don't have to," he made himself say.

"It's done, Stiles. Get him back."

"O-okay."

"Scott?" Chris called, expectant.

"Yessir," Scott breathed. "We will."

"Good. Is it just the two of you?"

Lydia moved closer to the phone. "I'm going," she said, sounding small.

Chris made a sound like a sad smile. "Well they'll need someone to keep them in line. And don't let them tell you otherwise."

She laughed like broken glass, caught between a smile and a sob.

"You'll need to take the money out in cash, so I'll send it Western Union to a bank account if you have one."

"I have one," Lydia said with a cracking whisper. She cleared her throat. "A teen account, but . . ."

"It'll do. But it'll take three days for the transfer to clear, you all understand that?"

Lydia's cheeks flushed as she avoided their eyes. "It won't be a problem." They looked confused, but she didn't elaborate.

"All right," Chris said. "If there's anything—if there's anything else."

"We'll call," Scott promised, "Thank you," and hung up.

They stared at one another in gutted silence, unsure if it was okay to set aside the unexpected surge of grief. Stiles touched Lydia's arm, but she pulled away.

From the doorway, a new voice said, "You didn't tell him about Kate."

Melissa stood with her arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the door.

Scott whirled around to look at her. "I-I didn't think it would help."

"If he knew she was alive? Scott, it's his sister."

"His evil sister," Stiles corrected.

Melissa gave him a disappointed look. "I still think you should have told him."

Scott looked at the floor, then up at his mother. "I think he's been hurt enough."