AN: Warning for violence and threatening language toward a teenager. Show level violence, but still, could be very unpleasant for people who suffer from abuse triggers, so I thought I should post a warning.


The thud of rubber repeatedly hitting blacktop seemed to drown out the other sounds of the day, but Stiles couldn't stop tapping his foot against the sidewalk where he sat, perched on the curb, wearing a hole in the side of his sneaker. The Chevelle was at arms length, its trunk open just a crack, the way he'd left it before deciding he really, really wanted to sit down. That eleven percent of doubt that Bobby was a hunter? It was gone the moment he'd carried the rather heavy cardboard box from the hardware store to the car and made the unfortunate decision to put it in the trunk instead of the backseat.

He'd snapped a picture of the symbol drawn inside the trunk, and he was certain he'd seen it before when he'd gone on one of his supernatural-werewolf-knowledge binges on the internet. That? That was the kind of symbol the sex-drunk teenagers in horror films saw in the haunted house before they were brutally murdered. And it really didn't help that the strange scent of decay was coming from back there. Those brown stains? He was pretty sure that was old blood. And even though there were still a few tools, a water jug, and a bag of rock salt stowed back there, Stiles could just make out the indentation of heavier items. Things Bobby had probably taken out.

"Like weapons and dead bodies," Stiles muttered. He thought of Peter's nurse, rotting in her own trunk and nearly vomited.

His cell phone felt sweaty and warm between his hands. He flipped it over a few more times, considering his options, but they weren't great. Instinct told him to call Scott, but that would just lead to panic, and, frankly, the last thing he wanted to do was chance his wolf-bud coming to see him while he was running errands for a hunter.

Which, hey, now that he thought about it, he'd just slid another piece of the puzzle that was Sean Mills' death into place. Whatever had killed his uncle and the other locals had probably been taken out by the (un)friendly neighborhood hunter. Check that off the list, he thought.

That was another thing he was going to have to tell Scott about. Eventually. When it wouldn't lead to his best friend getting himself shot.

"This is a stupid idea," he warned his hands, but they were already at work, pressing a number he hadn't planned on using again, quite frankly. As the phone buzzed against his ear, he told himself this wasn't a betrayal, that Scott would understand, but he didn't look forward to telling his best bro about this call.

"Stiles?"

She sounded shocked, like she was feeling genuine emotions that weren't homicidal, and it threw Stiles for a loop, because he hadn't been sure she'd even answer the phone.

"Allison. Hey."

"Is…What's wrong?"

Stiles could hear it missing between the words. She wanted to ask about Scott. She thought Stiles was calling because something bad had happened to Scott. He rolled his eyes. This had been a mistake, but it was already made.

"Everything's fine," he assured her. A mostly true statement. He resisted the urge to point out that she didn't really seem as interested in their safety the last time they were all together. "Um, so, safe travels and all?" He reached up, sliding his hand down his face. Way to sound casual. "I mean, did your move go well?"

"Stiles, I don't mean this in a rude way, but why are you calling?"

"Can't a guy just call to check up on his best friend's ex without an interrogation? Also, I wanted to ask you a question." Stiles was expecting a reply. When one didn't arrive, he sighed to himself. "So, how much information do you have on hunters outside your family? I mean, are there, like, freelancers who work alone or do you have to be part of a hunting family to organize-"

"Hunters? Stiles, what's going on? Are there hunters in Beacon Hills?"

"Beacon Hills is fine. And by Beacon Hills, I mean Scott. Scott's fine. Or I hope he's fine. He's been sort of evasive the last few times we talked, and I'm not actually home to keep an eye on him. Worrisome, I know."

"What do you mean you're not home?"

"Dad realized I was lying about, well, everything, so he sent me live with a relative in South Dakota until I fess up."

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from mentioning the incident that pushed his dad over the edge, the bruises he'd lied about. He still wasn't sure how much Allison knew about Gerard's plans for that night, and it had been Chris Argent he'd spoken to, however briefly, Chris who'd assured him the Betas would make it out of the basement. He didn't want to know if Allison had known what her grandfather was doing, if she'd told Gerard that Stiles would make a good message for Scott. He didn't want to ask and risk hearing something he'd rather not.

"I'm…" The sound of movement echoed from the other end as she shifted the phone. "I'm sorry."

"Bobby Singer," Stiles said, abruptly cutting off his own thoughts. "Ever heard of him?"

"Bobby Singer?" she repeated back. "No I don't think so. Hold on."

Stiles raised a brow when he heard another voice in the background, the subtle shift in their muffled voices as the speaker phone was activated.

"Stiles, stay away from Bobby Singer, do you understand me?"

Stiles was thrown by the worried note in Chris Argent's voice. "Uh, hey, Mr. Argent. How's the gun business?"

"This isn't a game."

"Dad, what's going on?"

Stiles huffed out a breath, amused. "No kidding. You know Bobby?"

"I know you have your reasons not to trust us," Chris said, "but I think we can agree that the further you stay away from this world, the better."

Stiles glanced up at the trunk of the Chevelle. "Not always an option. And I think I'm already pretty deeply involved, don't you? I mean, your dad seemed to think so. Or does he go around abducting normal teenagers too, because he seemed to have a knack for it?"

"It's not safe for you to be looking into hunters, Stiles."

"Is Bobby dangerous?"

Chris hesitated before answering. "I don't know Mr. Singer very well. I know a few hunters who have traded information with him in the past. He seems to be a good man, but he keeps dangerous company. There are rumors about the kinds of hunters he works with…You don't want to be mixed up with them, and you certainly don't want them to know you're involved with a pack of werewolves. The best thing you can do to keep your friends and family safe is to stay away from people like him."

Of course he'd throw in the friends and family card, Stiles thought, rolling his eyes. "That might be difficult, seeing as I'm driving his car."

"Stiles!" Allison snapped.

"He doesn't know anything! And as far as he knows, I don't know anything. He's just fixing my Jeep. I just wanted to know if I was aiding a serial killer, because that's illegal in most states. But according to you he's an okay guy who won't kill me as long as I don't grow extra hair on a full moon. Thanks for the info, guys. Keep in touch." He ended the call before he could tell which of the Argents had been about to shout at him. "Or don't," he added, as an afterthought, "since I already have enough hunters to worry about, apparently."

Stiles felt the presence at his back a second before he heard the man's voice.

"No kidding."

Stiles jerked in surprise, nearly at his feet when a boot hit the back of his knee, knocking him onto the blacktop. Before he could note more than an ugly porn-stache on his attacker, something prodded into his shoulder blade, sending a burning jolt of pain through his body that left him seeing white. His body felt like one giant muscle cramp before the pain was suddenly gone, a heavy weight on his spine in its place, knocking the breath out of his lungs before he could scream. It was the man's knee, he realized, pinning him down as his wrists were pressed together behind him. The plastic cuffs bit against his skin as a hand wrapped around his neck, forcing him back up to his feet and toward the trunk of the Chevelle.

"Inside," the man snapped. Another tap from the taser, and Stiles stumbled forward toward the car. The trunk had been knocked open, a black maul, ready to swallow him whole.

"Don't do this," Stiles begged, his teeth gritted. He hated that he sounded afraid.

He wanted to sound witty, a jackass, as Bobby had labeled him. But he wanted desperately more to see his aunt driving by in a cruiser. Despite that it was a sunny mid-morning, there was no one there. He'd consciously parked on the lonely side street beside the store, hoping for some privacy as he had a conversation about the things that go bump. His decision making, he noted, wasn't getting any better in the daylight hours.

"Stiles Stilinski" the man growled, chuckling against the back of Stiles' neck, "your hunter problems are about to get a lot worse."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," he snapped back. He felt a bit better about the retort, right before the taser hit his flank and he rolled forward into a metal monster that smelled like death.


"No, actually, I don't have a Targeryan crystal shard anointed in a priestess' blood, and I don't have time to call every antique dealer in the heartland to find you one, asshat! But thanks so much for your time. You been a real help."

Bobby slumped forward in his chair, ending the call while the other hunter was still rattling off in his ear. He'd heard what he needed to hear, which was a fat lot of nothing.

Maybe he was a bit heavy-handed in the sarcasm these days. Bobby scowled at the thought. As much as it was exactly like him to hang up on people, he usually paid a bit more attention to what the hunters in his circle were saying. At the moment, though, he was too preoccupied with his own problems, or potential problems, to deal with someone wanting to use him a crutch. That problem, of course, being the hunter who'd shown up at his doorstep as if he'd been invited over for brunch, when Bobby had told the guy over the phone not two days ago to piss off. It had set Bobby on edge, the guy thinking he'd get tossed a "job" if he just popped in, as if Bobby was the damned supernatural classifieds section.

Bobby was apt to know why the man was so desperate, hence the hunters he was trying to get in touch with. One of them might know enough to fill in the blanks.

It wasn't that Bobby knew this Mitchell enough to have anything personal against him, but he didn't like guys who'd gotten used to getting an allowance from wealthy hunting families. That sort tended to act more like mercenaries than hunters. Bobby felt bad that the guy had lost his contacts, sure, but Hell, he wasn't going to babysit some hunter he didn't even know if he could trust. He had enough babysitting going on it as it was.

He rolled his eyes when he caught the time on the phone. That blame kid had been gone nearly an hour. Bobby kind of hoped he'd stay gone a bit longer, too. Considering it, he sent the kid a text message, "Pick up lunch somewhere cheap. I'll pay, ya broke ass." He huffed out a chuckle that he'd never admit to, imagining Stiles' outrage at being ordered around. Bobby had a feeling he'd be getting a receipt for steak today. Kid was a hoot, if quick to get on one's last nerve. Not that Bobby would admit to that either.

"I did tell that kid to stay out of the trunk, didn't I?" Bobby muttered to himself. He couldn't remember if he'd cleaned the old girl out after his last hunt. Not that it mattered much anymore. Scaring the kid off might be the right move.

Bobby had figured he could drill in a few more lessons on car maintenance before showing the boy how to fix his "precious" Jeep. He wasn't sure why he was bothering, other than to assure that Sheriff Mills would take it easier on him next time he called in a favor. Now, though, he was considering ending those lessons early. He hadn't liked the way Mitchell had looked at Stiles, and Bobby would be the first to admit that some hunters were as dangerous to humans as they were to monsters. It wasn't safe to have a civilian around all the time.

The ringing of his phone pulled him from this thoughts, and he answered with a curt, "Singer."

"Bobby Singer? My name is Chris Argent. We don't know each other, but we're in the same line of work. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time."

"Well, speak of the devil," Bobby muttered. Clearing his throat, he started over. "I know who you are. I was actually just looking for contact info on your family. Fixated bunch, you Argents." Nuts, too, Bobby wanted to add, but held his tongue. "Kind of an odd coincidence, you calling me."

Chris sighed on the other end. "I might have some notion of why. I know you've never worked for my family, and you have no reason to hear me out, but I need to request a favor of you. And I need there to be no questions asked."

"Honor among hunters, huh?" Bobby huffed. "Horseshit. Heard some rumors lately about the way your family does business. I don't think I've made it a secret that I'm not interested in working with your bunch. I just turned down one of your cast-offs this morning for just that reason."

"What cast-off?" Chris asked. "Who was there?"

Bobby blinked at the question, surprised by the urgency in the other man's voice. "I'm guessing that's not why you called. If this isn't about Mitchell showing his ass, what is it about?"

"Mitchell Roden? He came to see you?" Chris swore under his breath. "Did he say anything about Beacon Hills?

"I didn't give him time to say much. Anyone working for Gerard Argent doesn't get my intel. Which, now that I think about it, includes his son. So how about you cut to it, or we end this conversation now."

"Gerard's not in the picture anymore," Chris assured. "But it might take more than a warning to get rid of Mitchell. The man's a bit…enthusiastic. He was loyal to Gerard to a fault. Most of the family's hired help left on their own, but Mitchell took my father's recent fall from grace the worst. Singer, was anyone else at your house when Mitchell came to see you?"

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "You're dancing. I'm hanging up."

"Singer, wait!" Chris snapped.

"Spill," Bobby barked.

"Fine. I called about a kid. Stiles Stilinski."

Bobby thought he might be losing his hearing. "How the hell do you know Stiles?"

"He's my daughter's friend. There's nothing supernatural about him…He's normal. We'd like him to stay that way. That's the favor. I was calling to ask you to make sure he stays out of our business. But, if Mitchell saw him there, he might have recognized the boy from a little mix-up we had in Beacon Hills."

Bobby scowled. "Gotta go, Argent. Got a casserole in the oven."

"Sing-"

Bobby cut the man off and snatched up a set of keys for the van he'd hoped to retire. Jody Mills was going to kill him for this.

"Balls."


Animal attacks. Paralyzed victims. Murders that didn't quite add up. Several very bizarre crime patterns over several decades, currently at the spiked end of the graph.

Jody had promised not to look into Stiles any further, but the odd occurrences in Beacon Hills kept itching at the back of her mind. She was almost certain there was something supernatural happening in that town. Her instinct was to call Bobby Singer and ask him to look into the evidence, but she'd held back so far.

Mostly because of Noah. He was the sheriff, the guy Bobby would have to work around if he investigated. She didn't want to chance Noah finding out about the things that go bump in the night. There were enough problems in the world without adding the dead rising from the grave. She was afraid, though, that even without her interference, he might find out on his own.

He was the one looking into Stiles. Into whatever his son was lying to him about, and Jody was afraid she might be getting a clearer image of what might distancing him from his son. The details were still blurry, but she was certain of one thing: her nephew knew something about whatever was reeking havoc on Beacon Hills. He was at too many scenes, witness to too many of the bizarre occurrences in his home town, to not have noticed what was happening. Which meant she was finally beginning to understand why he was lying to his father.

Jody groaned, letting her head fall forward to hit her desk. If any passing deputy noticed her through the blinds on her door's window, they didn't comment.

After a moment, she felt a small vibration, followed by the sound of her cell phone's ringtone. What she wouldn't pay for it to be a work call instead. She frowned when she saw Singer's name across the screen.

"What did he break today?" she asked, in greeting.

Bobby was quiet a moment, which worried her. His reply worried her even more. "We need to talk about Stiles."

"Funny, that's my line," she replied.


"You're a liar."

Stiles' vision blurred slightly as he stared at the stained green button-up shirt hovering in his view. The hunter's words seemed to bounce around his ears a few times before making their way inside. When they soaked in, a breathy chuckle came out in reply.

"Yeah, I am," Stiles answered.

He cocked his head up, despite the pain in his shoulders, and forced himself to meet the man's eyes. Mitchell. Mitchell had been nice enough to introduce himself when they'd reached his humble abode, AKA an abandoned house the man was obviously squatting in, if the sleeping bag rolled up against one wall was any indication. By then, though, Stiles recognized the man, if not by name. He'd seen that face before, clean-shaven instead of wearing that hideous mustache. He'd seen him, if only for a moment, when during a particularly stressful lacrosse game, the goon had forced Stiles into Gerard Argent's SUV.

"I am a liar," Stiles continued, feeling winded. "But I'm not lying about Gerard. He wanted a werewolf to bite him and cure his cancer. That's why he was after the alpha."

Mitchell glared down at him, his dark eyes narrowed in thought. Without replying, he stepped around Stiles, just out of his eye sight. Stiles wanted to twist his neck, see where he'd gone, but he couldn't from his current position, afraid that his tied ankles might make him lose his balance. Next time he was abducted by a crazy man, he was demanding chair. Instead, he was stuck standing, his arms forced behind him and pulled up slightly by a rope hanging taunt from the ceiling so that his shoulders were hunched forward. He was sure he'd only been standing for ten minutes, but it felt like an hour had passed. His fingertips were already painfully numb.

A second later he realized where Mitchell had disappeared to when he felt a sharp tug at his wrists. The rope jerked up a few inches, forcing his back to bend further. Stiles gasped in pain, shocked that such a slight change had hurt so badly.

"A hunter would die before allowing themselves to be turned into a beast," Mitchell said. The man circled Stiles, his boots just barely in his eye sight. "Gerard was the best hunter I'd ever worked with. He understood sacrifice. He would have killed his own child if it meant ending a monster's life. You're either a liar, or you believe your pack's lies."

"My pack?" Stiles tried to bite back a laugh. It hurt too much to breath at the moment. "I was there, buddy. Want proof, ask Chris Argent. He knows what happened. In fact, why don't you call Chris right now. I'm sure he can straighten this out."

"That coward chased me out of town, then fled without even attempting to seek justice for his father. I can't believe a word he says either." Mitchell's boots stopped somewhere near the side of Stiles' head. "The old man was too merciful with you. He knew you were lying with the dogs. He knew you were involved with them when they killed Kate. He should have put you down like you were one of them, but instead, he kept you alive. He gave you a warning to scare you away from the mutts…Looks like you didn't heed it."

"Warning? That what you call kicking my ass." Stiles grimaced. "If Gerard was on the straight and narrow, then why did he become a kanima's master? Huh? Sounds a little too seven degrees of monster-hood for me."

"It was a means to an end," Mitchell snapped. He pinched Stiles' ear, yanking at his head as he bent down to his level. "Gerard had a plan," he growled into his face, " to clean house. To destroy that mangy pack. To give the Argents a fresh slate for his granddaughter to inherit. He shared his plans with those of us he was closest to, so don't think I'm an idiot, boy. I know what he knew about you. His intel. You're the pack bitch, the pet human. Did they promise you the bite if you did their dirty work?"

He let go of Stiles, standing upright.

"You are so off base here, moron." Stiles closed his eyes, trying not to focus on the pain running up his arms, slithering across his spine. It felt like someone had jabbed a spike between his shoulder blades. "Is that why you took me? Because you think I helped hurt your boss' rep?"

"The truth will come out," Mitchell assured him, "but I didn't take you so I hear you lie about Gerard. You know why you're here, Stiles. Did you really think I'd let you get away with spying on another hunter for your pack?"

"Spying?" Stiles wanted to laugh, but the stinging at his eyes told him that wasn't the response his body was going for. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to force his panic down. He couldn't let this guy see him lose it. He couldn't be the one to beg. To cry. "Dear God, a conspiracy this big must have its own Youtube channel," he spat out.

The soft, slow beat of Mitchell's boots hitting the wooden floor were pounding in Stiles' head. He already knew where the man was going. What was coming next.