CHAPTER WARNING: contains alcohol usage and some mild gore.
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Chapter Nine: Blood & Whiskey
That night was solemn for all of them, but none were as utterly shocked and grieved as Scott and Stiles. They had failed Danny. Despite all their efforts, they had been unable to protect him.
"I don't understand," Scott stammered, unable to comprehend their sudden and painful loss; another friend gone. His voice was raw and choked as it crackled through the phone to Stiles' ear. "We saved him. He can't be dead. He looked fine this morning."
"Yeah."
"I mean, we saved him," Scott reiterated in disbelief. He could still feel the weight of Danny in his arms as he carried him into the hospital; his nostrils still familiar with the smell of his blood. "Mom said his condition seemed to be improving. He was getting better. How can Danny be dead?"
"I don't know, bro." It was all Stiles could say.
Because he didn't know. He didn't know how someone could be alive and healthy one second and suddenly gone the next. He didn't know how a person could be abruptly wrenched from your life, leaving a hole you didn't realize could exist. How you could see someone everyday and never understand the impact of each individual on your life until they weren't there anymore. No, Stiles didn't know how or why. Mountains of psychology books had been written on the subject, but he could read all of them and still not understand his grief. He would never know why the people around him continued to die before their times, leaving gaps where friends should be. He didn't know why he and Scott seemed destined to lose everyone they cared about.
The universe didn't care whether Stiles could make sense of it or not; understanding his grief, the crappy cards life had dealt him, wouldn't stop any of it from happening. He was powerless in the face of Death, insatiable and cruel. He wondered how much more of this his heart could take. Each loss was another stab chipping away pieces of his soul. Soon there would be nothing left inside him but Grief and Misery – his old, familiar companions.
No matter how many people he lost, Stiles would never get used to the pain.
The worst part was: Danny's death was his fault. The others too – Lewis, Jones, Bachmann, Perez. Another one for the increasing list of people he'd played a part in killing. Stiles cut Scott off mid-sentence and lamely excused himself on the pretext of needing sleep. He didn't have the energy to console Scott; his own guilt was too suffocating. "Alright, man. I'll see you tomorrow."
"We'll meet at Deaton's around 9:30, yeah?"
"Okay. Cool."
"Stiles, we're going to catch this guy."
"Sure."
Stiles disconnected the call and settled into bed. He lightly traced his fingers along the edge of the chef's knife hidden under his pillow. The cool blade comforted him. It wasn't your traditional wooden stake, but it would have to do.
Despite his exhaustion, a weariness so heavy and debilitating he could feel it in every bone in his body, Stiles was too anxious to sleep. His body begged for rest, but his mind resisted. Instead he lied awake in the dark, every shadow across the blank ceiling reminding him of a different nightmare. He listened for his father's return, wondering how he was ever going to tell him about Marshall. He considered a million ways he could approach the subject, but each one seemed more traumatic and stupid than the last. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to tell him until it was over. Maybe they'd defeat Marshall and one morning at breakfast, Stiles would nonchalantly let it slip, "Hey, Dad, you don't have to worry about protective custody anymore. You know that vampire we smoked, it was Marshall! Problem solved."
Unfortunately, luck was rarely on Stiles' side.
Sheriff Stilinski finally stumbled into the house around 2:30, according to the red numbers glaring into the darkened room. Stiles heard his heavy footsteps slowly thudding up the stairs. He threw off his covers and opened his door a crack. His father was attempting to navigate the narrow hallway in the dark. He bumped into an old Dutch bureau – purchased by Claudia, a year after their wedding, at an antique shop in Los Angeles – and swore loudly.
"Dad?" Stiles asked, stepping into the corridor and flicking a switch on the wall. Sheriff Stilinski blinked blearily at the sudden bright light.
"Oh, hi, Sty. Ha – hi, Sty."
"Are you drunk?" The alcoholic fumes drenching his father were answer enough. "What did you do, bathe in it?"
"Ha! Now there's an i-idea! When I to-ok Trevor home, he invited me to stay for a drink or t-two. I said su-sure!" the sheriff bellowed, referring to Deputy Trevor Andrews. Stiles guessed 'a drink or two' had turned into several more than that. John staggered toward his room, nearly knocking over a fake potted plant in the process. "S-stupid thing!"
Stiles ran to steady his intoxicated father and guided him to his room. He sat him on the bed, helped him remove his jacket, and knelt down to untie his boots. "Damn good cop," John muttered, quieter now. "Really thought he'd last. Quit this afternoon. Seeing his brother like that, all butchered up – too much for him. And then to hear poor Danny Māhealani didn't make it. Two good boys taken from us. S-some-one's gotta stop that thing from hurting our boys."
Stiles had slipped the second boot off, when his father grabbed his face between his huge hands. The way John cupped his cheeks, firm and gentle, he had nowhere to look but into his father's blotchy red face. The sheriff's eyes were dewy and bloodshot, squinted as he struggled to focus his vision. But he regarded Stiles determinedly.
"You're a good boy." John's voice had lost its volume, a faint whisper of sound, each word carefully measured and uttered. "You took care of your mom when she was sick, and you take care of me. You take care of Scott and his pack. You take good care of everyone, without them even asking, and I hope they all take good care of you. You're brave and smart. Real smart-ass too. But you've got a mind of your own, and a good head on your shoulders. You're a damn good boy, a damned good one, and I love ya." The sheriff patted his cheek and then flopped over; he squirmed up the sheets to grab a pillow. All the while he mumbled, "My boy doesn't run away. He's strong. Stronger than I was at that age. Hell, stronger than I am now. A damn good boy. Gonna kill a vampire. If anyone can kill it, he can, my son. My son." A few further muffled sentences were incoherently murmured into the pillow, before being replaced by great, thundering snores.
"I love you too, Dad." Stiles kissed his father's head and turned off the light. He wondered if John would remember any of this in the light of day. He quietly crouched down and whispered the secret of the vampire's identity in his father's ear, knowing he'd never be able to tell him any other way.
TEENWOLF
The sheriff's phone rang loudly at 7am, rudely awakening him from a deep, inebriated slumber. An uneasy feeling settled over him as he searched his pockets, realizing he was still dressed from the day before. "Hello?" he groaned, his mouth cotton-thick and bitter tasting, like pennies and ass. He sat up slowly to keep the room from spinning.
"Sheriff Stilinski? Special Agent Jason Pierce, FBI." John wasn't sure why the man always insisted on identifying himself by his full appellation. He bit back a sarcastic retort and asked, "What can I do for you?"
"I need you down here, at our hotel, right away. ... Santiago's been murdered."
Sheriff Stilinski changed into fresh clothes, splashed cold water on his face, swallowed three aspirin and an anti-nauseant, chased down by a quick cup of stale coffee, and was ready to go. He left a brief note for Stiles on the kitchen counter and explained where he had gone. He had vague recollections of the previous night, and feared he had made a jackass of himself in front of his son. He didn't have time to worry about it though. He was needed elsewhere, and he needed to remember where he had left the cruiser, since it wasn't parked in their driveway and he had no memory of how he'd gotten home last night.
The day was overcast but warm. A moisture in the air prophesied the possibility of rain. The roads were deserted so early on a gloomy Sunday morning. Sheriff Stilinski walked the few blocks to ex-Deputy Andrews' house, where his cruiser was safely parked, and headed for the Magdalene Hotel on South Street. When he arrived at the hotel – a modest, four-star establishment near the mall – there were already several police vehicles clustered around the main entrance. Inside the comfortably furnished lobby, an officer responsible for Public Relations was attempting, with the aid of a nervous concierge, to keep panicked guests calm and relaxed.
Pierce was slumped in an overstuffed leather armchair beside a faux-fireplace. When the sheriff entered, he stood and made his way over. Despite being indoors, he wore a thick knitted turtleneck and dark shades. He shook Stilinski's hand stiffly and croaked, "Elana." He paused, collected himself, and cleared his throat. "She's in room 312. I-I can't go back in there, Sheriff. You understand?" John nodded. He, perhaps better than anyone, understood. He, who had worn sunglasses for days after his wife's death, to hide his puffy eyes; who sometimes woke in the middle of the night, reaching instinctively across the sheets for the warm body of his sleeping love, only to find the cold emptiness of her absence.
Sheriff Stilinski rode the elevator up to the third floor. As the steel doors grinded shut, his reflection stared back at him accusingly. He disdained the hungover man he saw, the bloodshot eyes and visibly pounding and aching temples. What had he been thinking last night, joining Trevor Andrews as he got wasted? Downing glass after glass of whiskey and vodka, shots of tequila that were inappropriate for a man of his age and rank, seeking a reprieve that never came for a pain that would never heal. Trying to numb himself against this case, against the bodies of dark-haired boys piling up around him that made him think of his son, numb himself to the sick bastard who had alluded police and was out there somewhere.
He should have known by now that drinking never solved anything; it only served to leave him feeling hollow and guilty. Worse off than he had been before. He had a hazy recollection of Stiles helping him to bed. He felt a sting of regret that he had allowed his son to see him in such a state, that he had made them both vulnerable by getting completely smashed, that he had left Stiles to pick up the pieces once again. He had to hold together if he was going to be able to protect Stiles from Marshall and to stop this rampaging vampire.
Sometimes it was too much for him – the police work and supernatural creatures; the bodies and blood; the pressure of protecting people who put their faith in him, who expected him to be always a model of strength and safety; the difficulty of raising a teenage son alone in what had to be the werewolf capital of California. Half the time he had no idea what he was doing, guessing and hoping he made the right choices; faking it until he made it, as his father used to say.
When it all became too overwhelming, the sweet guarantee that a bottle promised tempted him. Sometimes he didn't want to resist its siren's call. But giving in, allowing himself those moments of oblivion, were tantamount to hiding. An admission of defeat in the guise of escapism.
No more. He wouldn't drink anymore.
If Stiles wasn't running away, neither was he.
The elevator doors opened, and the sheriff was immediately hit with the fetor of blood. The scent more noxious and putrid than he had ever smelled. Sticky, metallic, and rancid. He absurdly thought of crime and medical shows on television, of war films and horror movies, how even with their grotesque depictions and expensive special effects they could never accomplish the full effect of such a scene without the smell. Could never capture all the emotions and queasiness that accompany the realization that what you're smelling, what you're seeing, belongs to another human being. The liquid life that should be flowing internally in their veins externally unveiled to you, your insides twisting as you recognize your own pulse, the warmth of the blood still within you. How can one person hold so much of it?
The sheriff's stomach lurched dangerously, and he had to swallow the bile creeping up his esophagus. He braced himself for the oncoming scene, and stepped out of the elevator. Officers crowded the hallway, few of them venturing into the accursed room. A young forensics crime-scene photographer, Nikon camera slung around his neck, lumbered out of 312 and promptly vomited into a maid's cart, puke splattering on his jacket. The sheriff winced, fighting the temptation to turn and flee.
Deputy Parrish was already there. His face was blanched and green-tinged. At the appearance of his superior officer, he took a deep breath – which hardly helped – and composed himself. "You're going to want to see this," he said by way of greeting, and boldly re-entered the room.
Sheriff Stilinski had thought the other crime-scenes were horrible, but they were nothing compared to this.
There was blood everywhere, on every imaginable surface. Spattered on dresser drawers and nightstands; staining wallpaper, curtains and lampshades – red droplets already crusted into a dark maroon; seeping into the carpet and pooling into the sheets. Stilinski thought queasily of the Nightmare on Elm Street – the first, and last, horror film he had seen in theatres – when Johnny Depp's character was killed, the fountain of blood that surged forth.
Elana Santiago was sprawled naked on the bed in an ocean of her own blood. Spidery red rivulets streaming down her slender arms and legs. As he cautiously approached, Sheriff Stilinski beheld the gore that accompanied such carnage: bits of flesh and tissue, a wide cavernous hole in her abdomen, exposing a mess of tangled and pureed organs, a mulch of mutilation, the wreckage of sinews and muscles, partially exposed bones. Most of her throat was gone completely; her face a mosaic of bruises and lacerations. Her damp hair matted around her head.
Sheriff Stilinski reached out a trembling hair and closed the staring rust-colored eyes, frozen forever in fear. He knew no matter the coroner's strength of skill or the undertaker's adept arts, they would never be able to restore to Santiago any semblance of her former loveliness.
"Agent Pierce found her this morning," Parrish said. "They were supposed to meet in the lobby, and when she didn't show up he came to check on her. He could smell the blood, he said, and he kicked in the door. I can't imagine finding your partner is such a state." He shuddered. "Why kill Santiago? Her murder doesn't fit the profile. The other murders weren't this...messy and violent. This seems almost personal. And Agent Santiago is the first female victim. Is it possible we're looking for two killers? Maybe a copy-cat?"
Why would the vampire target Santiago? What did she have to do with that case? She was here about Landry, keeping an eye on Stiles; she wasn't involved in the recent string of murders. Unless... "Marshall."
"What was that, Sheriff?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking out loud."
Parrish ran a nervous hand through his luxurious dirty-blond mane. "There's something else you need to see." The deputy turned toward the bathroom, and held the door open for the sheriff with one hand. A soggy towel lay discarded on the floor; toiletries were scattered along the counter and sink. The room was almost spotless of blood. Santiago's attacker must have surprised her as she stepped out of the bathroom after a final refreshing shower.
Parrish pointed to the long rectangular mirror hanging over the sink. This indication was needless; the sheriff had noticed it immediately. Spelled out clumsily in the crimson paint of Santiago's lifeless corpse was a single dripping word: STILES.
