Most of the time, Derek drifted some place between dream and waking. He laid on the bench and blinked into the dull gray light of his cage, not knowing or caring when consciousness slipped away. Was it days? It could have been days. His bones and cuts had healed, so days. The car slowed. The car sped up. Electricity kicked him in its constant, merciless way.

He tried not to think about it and found it difficult to remember.

By the gathering heat, he supposed it was midday.

They went over a bump, and his whole body rocked with the motion of the vehicle.

Rocked, rocked. Rocked to sleep . . .

The driver's side door squeaked open and then slammed.

Derek's eyes popped open, and he hurried to sit up. With his heart in his throat, he stared at the door and waited, the taste of blood and chemicals suddenly in his mouth. He started to sweat.

The door latch suddenly clunked, making him flinch. Then it swung open on angry hinges and let in a painful swath of sunlight. Derek shaded his eyes and inhaled the scent of mesquite and dirt and Kate.

She climbed in, wearing jeans and a pink tank top. It approximated cute. That was as close as she was ever likely to get. He couldn't guess what other people saw when they looked at her. He saw cruelty, a shining blade, a beauty that made him sick.

The stench of alcohol and stress clung to her, and even in the dim cabin, she looked drawn.

Derek shrank from her, pressing his back into the wall behind him as she crouched on the floor an arm's length away. She had a plastic bag in one hand. With calculating interest, she gauged his reaction, then rearranged herself to sit cross-legged—a non-threatening pose chosen on purpose.

Kate pulled a bottle of water from the bag and set it on the floor between them. She even leaned back to give him space.

Derek stared at it, his need suddenly staggeringly insistent. He swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy, and fought to keep from reaching for it. His fingers twitched with the impulse.

Amused, Kate made a show of picking up the bottle, uncapping it, and taking a drink. She set it back down, and Derek lunged for it, curling both hands around the bottle like a child. He drank the whole thing in a single go, which left him panting. He considered throwing the bottle back at her, but precious little good could come from a tantrum.

He set it back down carefully and waited.

Kate pulled something in wax paper out of her bag next. It smelled fried and sweet. She took a bite to prove its trustworthiness, then offered that as well.

So. Today was feed the beast day.

If he could have denied her out of spite, he would have, but Derek's stomach squirmed with emptiness, and he snatched the empanada from her hands. He tore it despite the bindings on his wrists, forcing himself to eat small bite-sized pieces and chew slowly. He stared at her intently, keyed to the slightest movement.

At length, Kate leaned back against the wall, watching him through slitted eyes.

"Do you know what she can do?" she asked.

He put a piece of fried dough in his mouth and savored the crush of baked apple against his tongue. Caring less would have cost him effort.

Kate nodded to herself and spoke to the empty space between them, her tone devoid of inflection. "They say La Loba wanders the desert gathering the bones of wolves. And when the skeleton's complete, she sings it a song that brings it to life." Kate flicked her eyes up and watched him for a reaction. "The wolf runs away, and it turns into a man. Or a woman." She shrugged lightly.

He swallowed the last of the empanada and reached into the bag she had left. He came back with a package of Twinkies that he had to rip open with his teeth.

Kate sat up straighter and caught his gaze. She looked wild, and it made him freeze. "She makes werewolves, Derek. Think about it!" She searched his eyes fervently. "She raises the dead." She spoke it like a shared prayer, as though this should set his heart aflame.

Raises the dead. That should mean something, but his thoughts slid around one another, not connecting. He put the piece of cake in his mouth and ate carefully, watching Kate's face. Her eyes gleamed with something he once took for ardor, now took for madness.

Kate sat back in disappointment when Derek failed to share the glee of her revelation.

"We were going to kill her," she said absently. "Araya, Severo. Kill the mother of wolves and hope her creations died with her."

Derek couldn't keep the scowl from his face. Of course that was the plan. Potential genocide. Anger shivered free in his gut and broke along his skin. He tore a piece of Twinkie off and ducked to eat it to cover his expression.

Kate shut her eyes for a moment and covered her mouth with her hand. "But then I got back and"—her laugh was brittle—"can you guess what I found?"

He reached into the bag for another cake while she wasn't looking.

"She was dead," Kate said. Her voice hardened on the last word, and she surged forward onto her knees, into his space. "My Allison! Dead!" Her shout rang through the metal housing with the force of the thing she had become. Breath heavy with tequila washed over him.

Startled, Derek jerked back from her anger, dropping the food, and fought to keep his face a mask. His eyes widened at her lengthening fangs, but she fought the transformation down and pulled back to give him space. His rabbiting pulse beat loudly in his ears, and he wondered if she could hear it the way a wolf would—wondered how much of himself he could not keep from giving away.

"She was seventeen, Derek." The words came softly aching. Kate sat back and put her hand to her mouth again. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the desert floor outside. "She didn't even get to live," Kate whispered, her eyes clouding with tears. She raked a hand through her long hair and gave up on pulling her fingers through a knot. Caught on the edge between laughing and crying, she made a frustrated noise and looked at him, shaking her head. "She may be the only thing I ever loved," she admitted, a raw look on her face.

Derek narrowed his eyes. Everything she said sounded like truth. She smelled like grief. And yet . . .

Kate stared at him, quivering with emotion. "La Loba can raise the dead, Derek. Do you understand?"

A chill went down his spine. He wiped his damp palms on his jeans, swallowed, and cautiously drew a breath to speak. "You want to turn your niece into a werewolf?" His disbelief could write sonnets.

Kate grinned sadly and held back her tears. "Better a live werewolf than a dead corpse." The last word cracked.

He snorted and shook his head. Convenient fucking logic.

Kate reached out and gathered the empty plastic bag.

"We can fix it," she said gently. "She didn't deserve to die."

He snorted again and glowered at the walls, faces of the dead flashing through his memory.

"She can be a teenager again. Beautiful."

He refused to look.

"Think of Scott."

He tried not to.

"Think of Chris."

He cut his gaze to Kate and her pleading eyes so perfect and dark he almost believed her.

"He's lost everyone," she whispered, as though it broke her heart.

He had thought of Chris. Pulled him drunk and ragged from the edge of misery. Witnessed his grief with quiet understanding. He'd feared who Chris might become on the other side of the storm and resolved to usher him through, if only to gather the pieces as they fell and press them back into place.

That, if anything, nearly tipped him over.

Kate rocked forward to get on her knees, and Derek shied away on instinct. She hovered.

"Help me."

He struggled to remember to breathe under the assault of her proximity. Every nerve too frayed.

Go away go away go away go away.

He stared at the wall nearest his face, breaths coming in short gasps, and waited.

Kate sighed and turned away.

"Just think about it," she said as she got out, then slammed the back door shut.

The tension and breath went out of him. Bring Allison back. That's why he was here. To restore to Kate what she most valued.

He thought of Chris, of Scott, of Lydia standing casket-side and Stiles sunken with guilt. They deserve to have her back.

Not Kate.

Never Kate.

He dropped his head against the metal wall, hard enough to sting.

"¿Has visto este camión?" Lydia held out her phone with the photo of Kate's truck.

A young boy concentrated on the image and shook his head. He waved some friends playing soccer in the street over, and Lydia showed the image to each of them in turn, all with the same response.

"¿O una mujer rubia, muy hermosa?" Boys may be more likely to notice a beautiful woman than an old car.

Again they indicated no, and Lydia thanked them for their time.

She sighed in frustration and turned her face toward a slight breeze blowing in from the west. Wind chimes tinkled sweetly, and the children she'd been talking to called to each other and laughed. Ascensión wasn't a big place, but still too big to know where to start. She wondered, not for the first time, why she'd volunteered herself for this.

That was a lie. Every time she spied Stiles rubbing at his chest like he could massage out an ache, she knew why she'd come. He looked haunted at the best of times ever since . . . ever since. He would've come by himself, lost in a foreign language, and there wasn't a single one of them who needed to be that sort of alone. A laughing little terror had scrabbled at her throat when she thought of letting him out of her sight, like he might vanish. Or worse, that she'd feel him dying over the edge of the horizon—powerless to pull him back.

They kept slipping away.

As she poured out her grief at Allison's graveside, she'd made her a promise. To be better, to be worth it, to listen, to protect others, to fight and be fierce and keep anyone else from dashing themselves to pieces for her sake. She dropped prayerful tears to the earth and performed an inner alchemy to be made of finer strength.

For just a moment, Lydia let the west wind be Aiden's fingers on her cheek and a warm laugh in her ear. For just a moment, she let her heart grow heavy and looked at the dust-covered shops and dirt streets of poverty with a strange sort of sympathy.

But only for a moment.

She'd left the boys at a bodega to buy supplies and returned to find them stacking their haul on the counter. Everything looked remarkably unhealthy. Scott turned to her scathing expression.

"We didn't know what to get you," he said.

"That is not true," Stiles announced from behind him and leaned back into view. "I know for a fact you love Sno Balls. Scott didn't believe me."

She smiled at him, because she did, in fact. The orange ones, especially, but they only came out on Halloween. Lydia waved them both off.

"It's fine." Shopping for herself happened to be a specialty. "Meet you in the car?"

While the boys left, Lydia went to the refrigerator case for a soda and perused the snack aisles. She grabbed some plantain chips and asked the clerk at the register for a torta, por favor.

The man smiled at her Spanish. "Your accent's very good," he said in English.

Lydia tipped her head and offered a genuine smile in return. "Thanks." She glanced at the door, where Scott and Stiles had just left. "Did my friends happen to ask you about a car?"

By the questioning look on the man's face, she took that as a no. Lydia pulled out her phone and brought up the picture of the Land Rover.

"You didn't see this come through here, did you?"

His eyes narrowed. "Me? No. But you should talk to my cousin. He runs the Pemex, and last night . . . this car was the only thing he talked about. Javier, he loves cars like this." He motioned with his hands. "Big. Sí? He goes out to pump the gas, and while it's going, he looks around at the tires. He looks at the, um . . ." He frowned. "Las ballestas."

Suspension.

Lydia nodded to keep him talking.

"Sí. And then la mujer, she jumps out of the car and shouts at him. What he is doing and mind his own business. He says, 'Jorge she looked loca. I did nothing!' He was afraid of her, so he let her finish the gas and just took the money, even though that is not allowed. All night I hear this story." Jorge scoffed, shaking his head, and rang her up.

Lydia put some extra money on the counter after she got her change.

"And where is the gas station?" she asked, her voice going high as she tried to hide her excitement.

Jorge gave her directions to a location on the south end of town a few blocks east. As she turned to leave, she nearly tripped over a case of bottles on the floor. They rattled against one another with a musical jangle, and Jorge rushed around the counter to see if she was okay. He cursed his lazy assistant, while Lydia apologized for her uncharacteristic clumsiness. How had she not seen a giant thing right next to her? She thanked him again for his help and trotted out the door to find Scott and Stiles waiting in the Jeep.

"You're smiling, why are you smiling?" Stiles asked as she climbed in.

"Because the man at the gas station saw the truck," she said, and grinned with pride at their stunned faces.

"How did—"

She cut Scott off with a wink and waved at Stiles with an onward flick of the wrist. "Take the third left."

She guided them to the station and motioned for Scott to follow her while Stiles stayed with the Jeep. The station had a small store attached, and Lydia figured the manager would let other people run around working pump in the heat.

"Javier?" she said to the man behind the counter.

Scott leaned closer. "You know his name?" he muttered in disbelief.

She flashed him a coy smile and turned her attention back to the man they'd come to see.

"Sí," the manager replied warily.

Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder and offered her sweetest smile as she showed him the picture on her phone.

"Did you see this car yesterday?" she asked in Spanish.

"Sí . . ."

Apparently Javier wasn't as talkative as his cousin.

"And a woman was driving?"

"Sí. Loca. All I did was look."

Scott hovered at Lydia's shoulder trying to follow their conversation. "Does he know where she went?"

She relayed the question, and the manager shrugged. "Not really. Straight down the road out of town. There's only one."

Lydia translated for Scott, and he nodded.

"South."

"South," she confirmed.

Bells on the door jingled as another customer entered the cramped space, and Lydia turned to stare at it with a tickle of déjà vu. Scott nudged her on the arm, and she blinked at him.

"What?"

"Ask him. If Kate said anything else."

She gave the bell above the door another look before tearing her eyes away. "Did she say anything else? Anything strange?"

Javier frowned and shrugged. "Not after the yelling." He looked sorry that he didn't have more to say.

Lydia thanked him for his time and left a tip on the counter as they shuffled out to make space for real customers.

Stiles turned the car south. They passed through the commercial section into the residential, and Lydia watched identical houses with their identical bicycles out front slip by. A bright flash of sunlight made her squint. Something hung from one of the porches, a piece of glass art. It's broken shards twisted in the breeze and sent blinding glints in all directions. As they passed, she heard the shards clinking against one another.

It rushed down her spine.

The chimes on the street, the bottles, the bell.

The same sound.

"Stop the car."

"What?" Stiles looked over.

"Stiles, turn around!" She grabbed his arm, and he slammed on the brakes in alarm.

"Lydia, what—"

"I heard something." She twisted in her seat, stomach strung tight with anticipation. "We have to go back."

He didn't even question it, just checked for on-coming traffic—ha!—and swung the Jeep around the other way.

"The house with the glass art. Do you see it?" She pointed at the bright flashes of light.

"Yeah," Stiles breathed, eyeing the house as they got closer.

Scott leaned forward from the back seat. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know. I just kept hearing it."

Stiles stopped at what approximated for a curb, and for a second they all just sat, staring out the windows at a little white house with a wooden porch and blue sea-glass wind chime flashing in the breeze. Lydia drew a deep breath and got out first. She waited until she felt them both at her sides before stepping up onto the porch, then stopped at the sound of Scott's voice.

"Uh, guys?"

They turned and watched Scott pressing his hands against a barrier that arced yellow as it resisted him. Stiles glanced down at the boards beneath their feet.

"Mountain ash," he said, and looked up. "I don't know if that's good or bad."

"That depends on why you're here," a voice with the sonorous depth of a cello spoke in unaccented English.

They whirled as a man Stiles's height stepped out. He had dark skin, short-cropped black hair, and a tank top left little of his thick frame to the imagination. He crossed his heavily muscled arms, and Lydia's gaze slid over the full sleeve tattoos. He right depicted Christian symbols: crosses, fish, stained glass with the Our Lady of Guadalupe. The left, a menagerie. She could pick out an owl, a snake, an eagle, a wolf, and some sort of cat.

He blinked at them slowly, and Lydia could not look away from his one blue eye, on the animal side. He swung his hand out, forcing them to make a path, and marched down to Scott, sizing him up.

"Show me the color of your eyes."

Scott lifted an eyebrow but complied, flashing red.

The man grunted and crossed his arms again.

"Did I pass your test?" Scott asked.

The man ignored the comment. "Where's your pack, alpha?"

Scott's spine grew a little straighter. "Am I gonna need them?"

Lydia narrowed her eyes at all the posturing and watched for an opening.

"Where're you from, wolf?"

"Beacon Hills, California." Scott lifted his chin.

"Ahh. Hales." The man frowned at him. "You don't look like a Hale."

"I was bitten by one."

Scott let the implication of that hang in the air.

"How'd you find me?"

Perfect.

"I heard your wind chimes," Lydia said, still standing a few steps up on the porch.

The man's arms dropped as he turned to look at her. He cut a glance at the arrangement of blue glass shards hanging from the eaves and stepped up toward her with palpable curiosity.

"What'd they sound like?"

What kind of question was that? "Wind chimes," she replied, heavy on the sarcasm.

The man moved close enough to grab a hanging shard and moved it lightly so it knocked against the other pieces. It sounded like glass, but that was all, just a monotone plink. Lydia frowned.

"But . . ."

"What did it sound like?" he asked again.

She stared at the blue, irregular shapes and then at him in shock. "It um . . ." She imitated three distinct tones. It was meaningful enough that the man nodded and started for the front door.

"You two can come in," he said over his shoulder. He left Scott outside.

The interior of the house bore the same motif as the man's tattoos: heavy Christian symbology, animals skins and skulls everywhere. And candles. An inordinate number of candles.

Lydia gasped. "You're a brujo. Aren't you." And suddenly all those nights of True Blood didn't seem like such a waste.

He turned. "I am."

Stiles slid up close. "Brujo, what's a brujo?" he whispered.

"Like a shaman," she whispered back.

"So like a druid?"

The brujo snorted, his big shoulders lifting in silent laughter. He swept a hand toward some chairs in the living room but continued to a table against the wall. "My name's Nerón." He lifted a bottle of tequila and poured himself some before turning to face them. He eyed Lydia warily. "Are you here to tell me I'm going to die?"

She blinked, her bright red lips falling open in surprise.

None of them sat.

"No." She crossed her arms. "I'm here because we're looking for someone and you might be able to help."

Nerón raised his eyebrows and stayed quiet, tipping back his drink.

"A balam kidnapped a werewolf and is looking for La Loba." The brujo's eyes widened slightly in recognition. Lydia went on. "We think she'll be following telluric currents. But, we're not from around here, so we're not too sure where those might be."

Nerón nodded and set down his glass. "And you think I can help you."

Lydia looked at him steadily. "I just followed the sound."

"Can you? Help us?" Stiles asked.

The brujo sighed and came closer. "What do you know about magic?"

Stiles shrugged at him. "You have to believe."

He arched an eyebrow and snorted in amusement. "That's it?" He shook his head. "Deaton's pussy magic. It's not all about will, kid. You want to do real magic, it requires sacrifice."

Stiles's face grew hard. "I have sacrificed."

"Yeah?" Nerón came a step closer still.

"I was dead for half a day," Stiles told him.

Nerón got right up in his face studying him with his mismatched eyes and crowding him with his superior mass. Stiles stared right back, unflinching. Nerón grunted in satisfaction.

"You were gone longer than that," he purred, and moved away.

A bit of the color drained from Stiles's face, but he made no reply.

Nerón sat in the middle of his worn couch balancing his fingertips against each other as they hung between his spread knees. Lydia stole a glance at Stiles, but he was too focused on Nerón to notice. She crossed her arms over her chest.

The brujo breathed like a laboring ox and then looked up. "The currents are the lifeblood of the earth," he said gravely. "And it will cost you blood to know them."

"How much blood?" Stiles asked.

"Stiles!"

The muscles in Stiles's jaw twitched as he ignored Lydia's reproving glare and stared at Nerón. "How much?"

He sounded sure and calm, and Lydia found herself bolstered by his confidence. She turned a critical, impatient eye to their shaman. "Well?"

Nerón flicked his unnerving gaze her way, then back to Stiles. "From you, none," he said as he stood. "From her?" He shrugged with an elaborate ripple of muscle. "As much as required."

Stiles's eyes flashed. "Her, why her?"

Good question.

Nerón grinned. "Because Santa Muerte is the Lady of the Dead." His gaze turned thoughtful. "They'll know one another, I think."

Lydia lifted her chin minutely in acknowledgment of her burden. "Stiles, get the map."

"Lydia, no, you—"

A sharp, commanding look. "Get the map."

He hesitated, gripping his hands at his sides, before nodding and jogging back outside.

They heard Scott's voice raised in anger. Then Stiles shouting.

He thundered back into the room, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. Without a word, he thrust the map into Lydia's hands and stood just behind her shoulder, simmering.

Lydia let his agitation slide off and regarded Nerón coolly. "And you're just going to help us out of the goodness of your heart?"

The man laughed—a hearty, alluring sound.

"Chica, I'm gonna do this because you're gonna pay me. And then I'm gonna tell Alan he owes me a favor for watching his wolves."

Shamans, it appeared, networked.

Nerón led them to the back of the house and into a small room with an altar along the northern wall. Lydia's steps slowed as she passed the threshold and a small thrill flitted over her skin. She heard Stiles suck a heavy breath and found it somehow comforting that he too felt a strangeness here. Nerón drew the blinds over the windows, bathing the room in shadow, and motioned for Stiles to close the door.

Lydia found her eyes drawn to the white statue at the center of the altar surrounded by heavy roses. Santa Muerte held a scythe in one hand and a crystal ball in the other. Her flowing robes covered everything but her hands, her face, and the tips of her bony toes. Lydia moved closer but resisted the urge to reach out and touch.

"You are new to her, so we should cleanse this space and make an introduction."

Lydia took a bowl from the brujo's hands and set it carefully at Santisima's feet.

"Your offering bowl," he said, then held out a shot glass for her to take. "This because the Lady loves tequila."

She held the glass with both hands as Nerón retrieved a bottle from under the altar and filled the glass to the brim.

"Set it down."

She did, cautious not to spill.

He brought out a basket of red corn and nodded toward it that she would take a piece. Lydia set it down next to the bowl. He handed her a crystal goblet.

"Go get water from the kitchen," he said.

She and Stiles exchanged inscrutable looks. He stood at the far side of the room, his limbs crossed to hold his fidgeting in check. She offered him a small smile, hoping it would do.

She came back and set the full glass next to the tequila, while Stiles pushed the door back closed with a soft click. Everything seemed to echo.

Nerón slid into her space, drawing her attention to his shocking eyes. He held up a twist of tobacco and set it in the bowl. "Now, I want you to light the tobacco and blow the smoke over Santa Muerte. Then walk to each corner of the room and do the same. Will bad thoughts and bad energy away. This is safe. This is home." She nodded at him. "Bring the bowl back and take a sip of tequila. Then fill your mouth with it and spray it on her."

Lydia's brows drew together. She couldn't speak above a whisper. "You want me to spit on your altar?"

The brujo chuckled. "Tequila is sacred. It will consecrate the space."

From the back, Stiles huffed. "Totally telling my dad that."

Lydia shot him a quelling glare; he lifted his fingers in surrender. Then she looked up at Nerón.

"Is that it?"

"Then I'll ask her to come. Then you'll ask her for her help."

Lydia nodded, swallowing, and took a lighter from his hand. She lit the tobacco in the bowl and gave it a second to smolder and build it up smoke. A deep inhale, then she exhaled gently, wafting the smoke over the figure. She took the bowl in both hands and walked the room clockwise, careful to breathe so she wouldn't cough and sully the rite.

Back at the altar, she set the bowl down, thin tendrils of grey smoke spindling toward Santisima's skeletal face. Next, the tequila.

The sip went down easily, mellow and smooth. Good time and money went into the making of this offering. Lydia wondered if it was better than what Nerón drank himself. She took the rest of the shot into her mouth as directed and sprayed Santa Muerte with it, the guilt of trespassing coloring her cheeks.

She licked the tequila from her lips and eyed Nerón as she stepped aside.

He placed a small pad on the floor and kneeled. He crossed himself and spoke with a rich, full voice, letting the prayer rise and fall with the cadence of a song. "Padre eterno conoces mi necesidad y pena hoy te suplico permitas que la Santa Muertesea mi abogada y mi ayuda en esta necesidad. Mostrarles la sangre de la tierra con la sangre de esta mujer."

Eternal father who knows my need and sorrow, now I pray let Santa Muerte be my petitioner and by aid in this necessity. Show them the blood of the earth with the blood of this woman.

"Si el favor que te pido es para mayor honra y gloria tuya; concedeme pronta respuesta, solamente pido lo que en justicia sabes puedo merecer, reconozco que soy pecador y que te he fallado, Sin embargo como el Santo Job, te proclamo como mi Dios y Señor, seguro de que tu caridad me alcanzara hasta el find de mis dias."

If the favor I ask is for the greater honor and glory yours, grant me quick response, only ask what justice deems I deserve, I acknowledge that I am a sinner and I failed, however as the Holy Job, I proclaim you as my Lord and God, sure that your charity will reach me until the end of my days.

"Santo Dios, Santa Muerte, Santa Inmortal, Librame de todo mal. Amen."

Holy God, Santa Muerte, Holy Immortal, free me from all evil.

Lydia followed his words, a strange hum building behind the sound of his voice, like harmonies on sympathetic strings. The air grew thick with the acrid scent of tobacco and cloying perfume of rose. His invocation complete, Nerón stood and moved aside. His blue eye flashed, and the patterns on his arms seemed more fluid than they had a moment before. He set a blue candle on the altar and lit it, then handed her the map. She spread it on the floor at Santisima's feet, her fingers trembling slightly as she pressed the edges flat. Then he handed her another shot of tequila.

That, too, went down smooth. She wondered, vaguely, if it was ritual or courage.

Nerón held up a small knife. "Do you want me to?" He nodded toward her right hand.

Fear sparked down her spine, but she shook her head and held out her left hand for the blade.

"Make a cut and spread the blood around your palm with the flat of the knife," Nerón said quietly. He still sounded like a chorus all his own, and it took effort not to let her gaze linger.

Lydia nodded and made the cut.

She barely felt it. Her skin separated under so fine a blade that she stared in shock when the blood began to well and blinked before she recalled what to do next.

Spread the blood, like peanut butter. Like it was not hers. Her hands shook a little at the startling red of it.

She turned to look at the crisp, white statue. "Santa Muerte," she whispered. Then held her closed fist over the map and pumped to make the blood come.

The world started to tilt. A wave of dizziness made her drop the blade, and she heard someone call her name, though it was muffled, indistinct. Blood dripped from her hand.

Unbearable heat burst across her skin, and she prickled with the sense of being watched. A presence coalesced just behind her shoulder, the chill of a cold hand pressed at the nape of her neck. She stared at Santa Muerte through the glow of the candle flame.

The flame filled her vision and grew blue around the edges.

She could not, could not get enough air.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her blood fell as time drew out into slow motion. It rolled along the surface like mercury until it found its target and sank in, joining the paper fibers. The rivers of blood began to flow. Taptap. Taptap. Deep red ribbons spidered out revealing the gentle arc of one telluric current, the sudden bend of another. The blood drew itself through where lines connected. And then Lydia's blood balled along the surface again. She squeezed her fist harder and moved it to other parts of the map. The drops ran sideways.

Her vision blurred, and Lydia started to shake from the effort to be brave, to let her blood run.

She felt someone at her side, beyond her periphery, stroking her hair. They whispered calming thing in a mother's loving tone. It brought her panic back just enough to open her hand and squeeze out a few more drops.

Goosebumps rippled across her arms. She would not cry.

The blue aura of the flame tasted like copper, as she trembled, trembled.

Her hearing went dark. The world was just a single tone drowning out everything. So loud she couldn't think to be scared. So loud she couldn't see. And with the ringing, surrendered to the darkness.

She opened her eyes to find herself in a new room, a bedroom. Stiles squeezed one hand, and she frowned slowly at him, suddenly aware of a body-wide ache. Nerón sat on the other side of the bed, dabbing at the cut on her hand. She gasped at the sting, then looked at Stiles. He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his amber eyes. Such lovely eyes.

He let out a startled laugh. "Thanks."

Lydia frowned again and tried to remember. She'd passed out.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. I did it wrong.

"Sorry? Lydia, you were amazing. Okay?" He squeezed her hand again.

She smiled weakly at him. Amazing.

Nerón pressed gauze to her palm and started wrapping the dressing. "I commune with Santisima every day, chica. I have never felt her presence as strongly as I just did." He snipped a piece of tape and applied it gently, then looked her in the eye. "If there comes a day she loves me half as much as that for having introduced you, I will die a happy man."

Lydia stared at him. A shiver ran through her when he smoothed another piece of tape to her palm. "H—" She swallowed, her throat too dry. "How much do we owe you?"

Nerón stopped and looked at them both, shaking his head. "That's when I was bringing her to you. You brought her to me."

Lydia got the sense that the way he dressed her wound was more than simple courtesy. He moved with a deliberate gentleness that bordered on veneration. She turned to Stiles.

"The map?"

He let go of her hand and picked it up off the bedside table. "Worked. There are currents all over the place. One not far south of here."

Lydia nodded, instantly regretting it. She tried to smile through the dizzy headache anyway and let out a weak, helpless sound.

"Hey"—Stiles put a hand on her shoulder—"maybe you should stay here." He glanced at Nerón, who ducked his head in a nod. "Scott and I will find a place to stay."

Lydia scowled at him. "But we're already behind, we have to . . ." She trailed off as she read the look on his face. "What?"

"What? Lydia you just got drop kicked by a goddess."

"But Derek—"

Stiles ducked his head and curled his hands into his lap. She wasn't telling him anything he hadn't already thought. He was choosing, she realized. In that moment, he was choosing her.

Her voice came out an awed whisper. "Why?"

He avoided her gaze. "Minimizing risk. I can't—I can't worry about both of you. I—" He tapped on his chest. "I don't have the room."

She reached for his hand this time and squished his fingers in her grip. "Get some place decent." He grinned. "And take a shower."

Kate returned that night on a storm front of lust and grief-streaked rage. Lightening quick, she thrust him, unprepared, against the wall, cracking his skull against strong steel, and slammed them together in a brutal kiss. Terror blasted icy through him, lighting a chain reaction he could not control.

Derek froze.

He should have fought back, thrown her off. But he couldn't move, breathe.

Beatbeatbeatbeat.

His focus narrowed to the sound of his own heart and the animal scent of her.

Her hand slid up one leg; his body started going numb.

Kate panted and rocked closer, pressing her lips harder, but he did not kiss back. Cold panic held him pinned and vulnerable.

With a roar of frustration, Kate shoved them apart, and her eyes flashed green. She slapped him, snapping his head to the side, and left gouges on his cheek that weeped blood. He flinched away and made a rough, startled sound, but she grabbed his chin and wrenched him so he had to look at her.

"Kiss me like you mean it." Her eyes glittered dangerously. She dug her nails into his skin for emphasis.

Derek trembled despite himself and fought for air against his tightened chest and throat. He knew what she wanted, what she liked. He swallowed, and his throat clicked.

He could do this. One step at a time.

His face burned. The pressure of tears built behind his eyes.

"Derek." Her voice low. A warning.

He closed his eyes and drifted forward with parted lips. Kate let up on the arm barred across his chest and dove down to meet him. He opened to her, sucked at her lower lip, licked into her vodka mouth.

It felt like slime on his skin: self-loathing and sin.

He pressed his burning eyes shut harder and enacted the mechanics of passion. His fingers grazed her cheeks as much as the manacles would allow. He slid his tongue into her mouth and licked, ignoring the cold tendrils in his gut. She answered by straddling him and nipping at his lips until they stung.

Derek sucked a breath, and Kate dropped her forehead to his, panting. She put a hand on the back if his neck and squeezed gently. His whole body shivered with fear, and he turned his face away.

Kate hummed a pleased sound and let him go. She patted his other cheek, "Good boy," and her words bore the rounded shape of a smile.

As quickly as she had come, she left.

When the door slammed, Derek's control broke. The numbness washed out of him, replaced by violent shaking. He wheezed, trying to catch his breath, and tasted iron. Time elongated. He pulled at the bonds on his wrists with the sharp panic of a caged thing and whimpered. None of these like him, his reactions all wrong.

"It's okay," Stiles said softly, and Derek curled instinctively toward the sound of his voice.

No. No no. Stiles had seen.

A sob cracked his ribs and he leaned into Stiles's shoulder just to rest his head, just to—

"It's okay," Stiles repeated and drew him in. "You're okay."

One arm looped around his back, urging him closer. He buried his face in Stiles's neck, shuddering out tears like the weakling he has always been. Pathetic, unable to fight back. He tried to make the tears stop and gritted his teeth. He raged when they leaked out anyway. Everything hurt like an open wound, too cold, too hot, and he shookshookshook to his core.

Stiles drew gentle fingers through his hair.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You did what you had to do. You made her go away."

Derek breathed in stops and starts and wrapped his fingers in Stiles's shirt because it was the closest thing to holding on.

His body hollowed, leaving a too thin shell, easily torn.

"Shh . . ." Stroke. "Shh . . ." Stroke.

More slow rhythmic charms traced along his scalp, smoothing the tremors away. He inhaled the safe, familiar scent that Stiles carried with him, concentrated as it was at the pulse point on his neck. The stench of Kate's lust dissipated into memory under the force of it.

Guilt closed a slow fist around his stomach as he became aware of his body, of being held, of taking comfort. He pressed on Stiles's chest to pull himself free, and Stiles's fingers stopped, resting carded in his hair. He said Derek's name with cautious worry.

"Y-you don't have to—" he mumbled.

Stiles exhaled. "Don't be an idiot." And resumed the small circles quickly unwinding the tension Derek's soul.

Derek folded his resistance up small and sank back down into the welcoming warmth of another, so rare and delicate a thing. He didn't speak to keep from startling the moment to ash. But he knew also one had to be worthy of precious things.

At the blurring edge of sleep, he shifted his head. "This isn't real, is it," he whispered.

Stiles's fingers paused, but only for a second. And then he shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Drowsiness pulled him, "No," and he slept.