Notes: Beta'd by Dusty and Poicephalus, Word Valkyries and Purveyors of Tawdry Sensuality. Chapter warning for minor character death and mentions of a character's suicide.
Chapter Ten: "Liar's Candle"
Allison's mother is dead.
It's a fog that follows her everywhere, reminding her on every breath: your mother was turned, your mother plunged a kitchen knife into her own heart, your mother is dead.
Victoria Argent wrote two notes before she died; one to be read by the proper authorities, absolving her family of all suspicion, and another intended only for her daughter.
Allison reads the note and burns it with a pocket lighter, and then she goes downstairs to her father's study and says, "It needs to die."
Her father is shocked. Her grandfather is pleased.
"Allison—"
"She has the authority," Gerard says. "Victoria's duties pass to her, now."
"That doesn't mean—"
"No." Allison takes a shuddering breath, still fighting back tears, but she's done crying. "That witch, that... thing killed my mom." She crosses her arms. "I want it dead. Not arrested. Not captured. Dead."
α
It's morning in California, which means it's little after noon in Virginia. The video call goes through to Director Jason Heidingsfeld, Stiles' boss's boss's boss, and from the looks of it, he's having lunch at his desk. As usual.
The office is a little crowded when Harley, Matt, Lydia and Stiles all have to be in here at once, and it doesn't help that they've all crammed into the webcam's surprisingly narrow field of view.
Immediately, Harley says, "Sorry to bother you, sir, but we kept getting bumped up the chain."
Heidingsfeld rubs a hand across his eyes. He's in his early thirties, and Stiles has always been of the opinion that the director looks like a character out of one of those slick legal dramas. He doesn't look like a real person.
"This is about the Aeolia incursion, right?" Heidingsfeld says.
Harley nods, and Lydia says, "Director, I should mention that Derek Hale's in the area, and his hearing's quite good."
"The werewolf?"
"I asked him not to listen in," Stiles says, fully aware of how weaksauce a defense this is.
"Still, we should all be sure not to mention anything too sensitive." Heidingsfeld steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. "Tell me what's going on."
"Long story short," Lydia says, "We can't keep Jane Doe here. Someone—we think they're associated with the Argent family—tried to break her out of the police station. We've moved her to the field station, but it's only a matter of time until the Argents find this place. We need somewhere more secure."
"And taking her to the county prison is out of the question."
"Yes, sir."
"What do you have on the Argents?"
"Not enough to prosecute," Stiles says. "ID's on a few foot soldiers who probably won't give up their bosses, a bunch of bullets that trace back to unregistered firearms, and a couple of witnesses who won't testify because they'd have to out themselves as werewolves to the general public."
"All right." Heidingsfeld thinks for a moment. "I'm declaring Jane Doe an enemy combatant. Her case will now fall within Director Lei's purview, although I'm sure Director Radke will also have an interest. Get in touch with Radke and make arrangements to have the prisoner transferred to Field Station Tian-Hou."
"Director," Stiles interjects. "We still haven't found her accomplice."
"All the more reason to get her away from the town."
Lydia says, "And the Argents?"
"I'd like to deal with them at some point, but ultimately they're a secondary concern. Get this case squared away. We're already shorthanded; I don't need four of my field agents tied up in one town. Understood?"
Everyone in the room mumbles something that resembles, "Yes, sir."
"Right. If you've got any more questions, address them to Director Lei's office. Good luck." Heidingsfeld ends the call.
α
Even though he knows the witch is powerless and locked in the basement, Derek still can't stand being in the building while she's there. He's been wandering the woods near the field station, trying not to eavesdrop.
'Trying' does not mean 'succeeding.'
He hears someone crunching across the leaf litter behind him; recognizes Stiles' breathing and heartbeat.
"Hey," Stiles says. "You had breakfast yet? I was thinking we could go out and grab something."
Derek sighs and turns around, hands in his jacket pockets. "If you need me to not be here, just say so."
At least Stiles looks guilty about it. "Sorry. Harley needs to make a phone call and she'll probably have to mention some extremely confidential things, so she's insisting that you not be around for that."
Derek starts the walk back to his car. "Okay. Breakfast, then."
α
Derek waits until they're settled at the diner before he says, "So what does it take to get declared an 'enemy combatant'?"
Stiles aspirates a mouthful of orange juice and starts coughing.
"Oh god, that burns," Stiles rasps as soon as he's recovered. "I asked you not to listen."
"I heard my name. It was difficult to tune out after that."
Stiles reaches over and steals a swig of Derek's water. "Do we have to talk about this here?"
The diner is busy, and the all-encompassing buzz of conversation makes it difficult for Derek to pick out individual voices. Which means that, for a human, it would be nearly impossible. "Here's better than most places."
Stiles rubs his forehead. "The term is technically obsolete, just so you know."
"That's not an answer."
"I know what you're thinking, okay? The department isn't suddenly going to declare you a terrorist if you step out of line. There are extenuating circumstances here."
"But you're not saying they couldn't."
"Of course they couldn't!" Stiles snaps. "Even if they wanted to, I wouldn't let them."
And of course Stiles shouts that just as the rest of the diner goes silent.
Stiles lowers his head to the tabletop and stays there for a bit.
Once the diner noise is back up to its usual level, Stiles lifts his head. "I might be gone the next couple of days. Prisoner transfer."
"How far?"
"She's going to Colorado, but I don't know if we'll be taking her the whole way." Stiles starts to twirl the straw in his glass, staring out the window. "You should probably stay away from the field station, if you can. It's not safe."
Derek nods and stares down at his hands for a moment, then says, "Thank you."
Stiles drops the straw and turns his attention back to Derek. "For what?"
"For saying you'd stop them."
α
Matt is finding it difficult to code with Lydia buzzing around the office, grabbing everything that she thinks might be relevant to the case and neatly slotting them all into the cardboard box she brought in. Lydia must have some kind of Packing Tetris powers, because he's pretty sure that box should've been full ages ago.
Half-turning in his chair, Matt says, "Do you need to do that in here?"
"I would be finished faster if you helped," Lydia replies, voice so pleasant and sweet that it chills Matt to the bone.
"Sorry, priority tasking over here."
"Of course. Harley's project."
"I'm doing all the work. It's my project."
"Hmm." Lydia crosses the room and picks up a pair of evidence bags: Jane Doe's personal effects. One KA-BAR, one pouch of... some kind of purple dust.
Lydia lays the evidence bags on top of everything else and grabs the tape gun, sealing the box shut.
Matt figures this is as good a time as any to ask. "Is another field station really the best place to put this lady?"
Lydia tears off the end of the tape and drops the tape gun back onto the table. "Are you familiar with Field Station Tian-Hou?"
"Not really."
"Tian-Hou is our primary listening post and research base," Lydia says. "It's the most secure facility the FDSI has, aside from the Vault."
"So one little witch won't be a problem for them."
"Correct."
Matt turns back to the computer, looks over the code, sighs, and slams the keyboard tray back under the desk. "Okay, this is about as finished as it's gonna get."
On her way out of the office, Lydia says, "Well, that certainly inspires confidence."
Matt grabs one of the spare flash drives that litter the desk, copies the necessary files onto it, then labels the drive 'HARLEY' and pockets it.
He can hear Lydia down the hall: "Hey, Allison. It's Lydia. Call me when you get this."
α
"No, that's a terrible idea," Harley says, her voice even but slightly colored with tones of 'my esteemed colleague is a fucking lunatic.' "We need two-man teams in each vehicle."
"We can't adequately protect the van with just one escort car," Lydia fires back.
Matt and Stiles are hiding in the kitchen. When Harley and Lydia argue, it's best not to get caught in the crossfire.
Harley says, "We can't adequately protect the van period, unless we bring in some of the local officers."
"And risk a leak? No!"
The doorbell rings.
"I'll get it!" Stiles says, and scurries past Harley and Lydia to get to the door.
Where Derek is waiting on the other side.
"Uh, this really isn't a good time—" Stiles starts, then sees what's behind Derek.
Parked next to Derek's Camaro is an old Ford pickup; Erica's sixteenth birthday present from her parents, which Stiles knows for a fact she is not supposed to be driving yet. Isaac and Boyd are sitting in the truck bed, obviously eavesdropping.
And Scott is walking up the porch steps to stand beside Derek.
After a few tries, Stiles says, "Should I be worried?"
"We're gonna make sure you get out of town safely," Scott says.
Behind Stiles, Harley says, "They're what?"
α
"We're leaving at 0300," Stiles tells the assembled werewolves in the living room. "We expect to hit Route 50 within the hour. After that it's a straight shot to Carson City, and the team we meet there will take the prisoner the rest of the way."
"The Argents wouldn't try anything once you're on the highway," Derek says. "It's too exposed. We'll get you that far, and you'll be safe."
"Sounds like a plan." Stiles gives Derek a quick, grateful smile, then says, "Okay, listen up, all of you, because this part is important. Nobody outside this station can know when we're leaving, or where we're going. Not even the police know about this transfer. If someone asks, you don't know anything. If you think you're being followed, lead them on a merry chase through the town and stay as far away from us as you can. Got it?"
Everyone nods. Stiles thinks he sees something like guilt flash across Scott's face, but it's gone so fast that Stiles must have imagined it.
α
The prisoner is quiet all the way up from the basement and out to the van.
"I dunno," Matt says, as Stiles cuffs her to a chain attached to the ring in the floor. "I think this is actually worse."
"Says the guy who doesn't have to ride in the back with her."
Matt opens the passenger-side door and tosses the case box onto the seat. "Have fun with that, by the way."
Stiles spots Derek approaching in his peripheral vision, which means Derek must actually be making an effort not to sneak up on him.
"Stiles? Can I talk to you?"
"Sure." Stiles hops down out of the van. "Matt!"
"What?"
"Watch her for a second. I'll be right back."
They pass Lydia and Harley on their way to the porch—they're colluding now, rather than arguing, which is even more dangerous—and as they reach the front steps Stiles says, "Is everything okay?"
Derek turns around, grabs Stiles by the shoulders, and kisses him, hard and frantic.
Stiles scrambles for a hold on Derek's jacket and tries—mostly fails—to keep up.
Eventually Derek breaks the kiss, and Stiles says, slightly breathless, "Worried?"
"Maybe a little," Derek answers. One of his hands moves up to Stiles' neck, strokes one thumb across the line of Stiles' jaw. "When you get back, there's something I need to tell you."
"Okay." Stiles leans back in for another brief kiss. "I'll have my phone, if you need me."
From the Jeep, Lydia shouts, "Ten minutes!"
α
At 0300, four vehicles leave Field Station Artemis: a Jeep, a borrowed prisoner transport van, a Camaro, and a pickup truck that's seen better days.
As they hit the main road, the Jeep moves up to take point, while the Camaro and pickup bring up the rear.
Twelve minutes later, a black SUV backs onto the road from a side street at high speed, ramming its rear end into the pickup's front and running it off the road.
"Erica!"
"We're fine! They're headed your way!"
The Jeep pulls a U-turn and speeds back down the road in the opposite direction.
"Derek, you and Scott stay with the van. We'll take care of this."
The van forges on ahead, the Camaro trailing behind, while the Jeep spins and stops sideways across the road, blocking it. The van turns onto the road that leads to the highway entrance and loses sight of the Jeep.
Six minutes after that, the explosives planted across the road go off directly beneath the van's rear tires. The van flips up onto its nose, balances there for an agonizing, precarious second, and lands on its roof.
α
When Stiles comes to, the first thing he sees is the broken ring in the floor. Which is now the ceiling.
"Stiles!"
All of a sudden he's being pulled backwards, out of the van. "Ow, ow, ow, cracked ribs," he yelps.
The movement stops, and Stiles feels himself being gently propped up against the van. Derek appears in his field of vision. Oh, he looks terrified. And he's talking. "How bad is it?"
There's scraps of cardboard all over the road. Someone ripped a box apart.
Oh.
"She's loose," Stiles gasps, and shoves weakly at Derek's shoulders. "Derek, she's loose. Go after her."
"I can't leave—"
"Go!"
Derek stands and takes a hesitant step back. Then another. Then he turns and runs into the woods.
Stiles groans and tips his head back to rest against the side of the van.
He hears the click of a pistol being cocked.
Gerard Argent is standing over him, gun in hand. "Where is she?"
α
The witch's trail leads into the woods, and Derek chases after her. He wants to shift, but he'd lose precious seconds and he can't afford the distraction.
She's not bothering to hide her trail, breaking through the undergrowth rather than weaving around it. The trail leads to a stream, and Derek loses her scent. He turns, slowly, looking for fresh prints in the mud and listening for movement.
A chain loops across his neck and yanks backwards.
Derek snarls. There isn't enough strength behind the tug to choke him for more than a second, and the chain is thin; he reaches up with one hand and snaps it in half.
The witch rolls away and darts across the stream, the broken ends of the chain dangling from her wrists. Derek lunges after her, raking his claws across her back.
She shouts in pain, spins, and throws a fistful of purple dust in his face.
α
"Oh, that's not fair," Stiles whines.
Gerard says, "You must be Agent Stilinski."
"And you must be..." snappy comeback, snappy comeback... shit, he's got nothing. "I've been hit very hard in the head."
Gerard smirks and levels the gun at him.
"Don't!"
Scott's standing not ten feet away, by the Camaro. He looks... oh, that is a very complicated expression he's wearing on his face. "You promised not to hurt him!"
Stiles blinks a few times, trying to get his brain working. "Promised?"
"As it turns out, Scott's willing to give up quite a few things to keep his loved ones safe," Gerard says. "Including information." Scott takes a step forward, and Gerard barks, "Come any closer and I'll shoot."
A second later, he hisses in pain and presses a trembling hand to his chest.
"Your trigger finger so much as twitches," Matt says, stepping around from the other side of the van, "And I'll set your pacemaker off like a Roman candle."
Gerard lifts his head and glares at Matt. Through gritted teeth, he says, "Boy, if you're smart, you'll walk away now."
"Oh, please," Matt scoffs. "I've got implants in my skull. I can feel it every time my eyeballs scrape up against them. You think you can compete with that?" Something very dark and more than a little crazed takes up residence behind Matt's eyes. "You don't scare me."
And then Matt staggers back, an arrow protruding from the center of his chest.
Feedback shrieks through Stiles' earpiece; he yells and yanks it out.
Matt hits the ground.
Allison appears at Gerard's shoulder, bow in hand. She tugs on his arm. There's abject panic in her eyes. "Come on, let's go."
They disappear into the woods as Scott runs to Stiles.
α
Derek goes down hard. His eyes are stinging; he can barely see through the tears. His nose and the back of his throat burn. He can't breathe. He can't move.
He feels mud splash onto his side as the witch falls to her knees beside him. "I wanted it to be you." She sounds on the verge of tears. "It had to be you. The last scion. You were perfect." A hand rolls him onto his back, and the edge of a blade presses against a spot high on his throat, under his jaw. "But I'm out of time. I can't wait for you."
The knife digs in. Derek can't get enough air to make any kind of noise.
Then the pain is gone, and so is the witch.
α
The Jeep pulls up next to the wrecked van, with a few more bullet holes in it than there used to be. The tires haven't even rolled to a stop before Harley is out and running toward where Matt lies on the pavement.
Lydia jumps down from the driver's seat and approaches Stiles, kneeling next to him. "What happened?"
"Second team," Stiles says. He can't look at Scott right now. "We need to get Matt to a hospital."
Harley lifts her fingers from the pulse point on Matt's throat. Her slacks are soaked by the puddle of blood she's been kneeling in. "I think it's too late for that."
α
Jackson finds her by a payphone in the preserve.
"It's four in the goddamn morning," Jackson spits as they walk back to the car. "I haven't seen you in days. You can't just call me up like your personal fucking taxi."
"I have everything we need. It's time."
Jackson stops dead. "You—that means—"
The woman raises the knife, blade coated in blood and black fluid. "It's time to become a wolf, Jackson." She smiles. "And soon after that, you'll become an Alpha."
Next: "Good for Parts Only"