Shadows of Death

Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.

Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters.

A/N: Hey guys! We're drawing ever closer to the end, and I'm really hoping I'll have this fic finished and up by the end of October. Only one or two more chapters left to go, depending on how what I've got left to write spreads out. Thank you so much for the support and for reading!

Chapter 10

Everything was numb at first, Stiles' mind running slow, still trying to catch up with what was happening. When he opened his eyes, he was faced with darkness and the cold blue eyes of death. In the lack of light, it was difficult to make out much beyond that, but he didn't need to be able to see in order to imagine the predatory smile and flash of canines from his captor. He had heard it well enough in the whispered words.

"That's a good boy," the killer praised, and his touch was as cold as his eyes, drawing Stiles' attention toward the fingers pressed against the skin of his upper arm and the brief flash of silver. "Don't worry, give it a few minutes and it'll really kick in."

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but nothing made it out. It was like his vocal chords had decided to stop working, like they no longer held the strength to make sound. It shouldn't have surprised him, considering how everything, every single inch of him, felt weak. It was a complete reversal to how he had felt before, when he had been back with the others. He hadn't given it much thought, but then he had felt light. Now, he felt heavy.

"Don't fight it. Just give in," the killer urged, turning away from Stiles to disappear into the shadows, his footsteps a light echo in the empty space. "The sooner you do, the sooner it'll be over."

No matter what awareness he was currently lacking, he was aware enough to know that he didn't like the sound of that. Images flashed across his mind's eye, photographs of bodies covered in blood, chests and abdomens torn open. If he continued to just lie there, he would end up just like them. He would be nothing more than another victim. Another sacrifice.

He blinked bleary eyes and turned his head from side to side, slow and steady, careful not to worsen the dizziness that still lingered. The more he focused his gaze, the more he found he could see. The darkness wasn't as complete as he had first thought, but the little light that did make it through wasn't enough for Stiles to see anything beyond his immediate vicinity. He couldn't tell how big or small the room was, or if it was even a room at all. And his captor? He had disappeared into the shadows, only the sound of his movements giving away his position.

"We're going to die, Stiles," a second voice chimed in from the darkness, gritty like soil and dirt, barely a whisper, so quiet Stiles wasn't completely convinced that he hadn't imagined it. "He's going to kill us."

Stiles' head snapped around to the side to face the speaker, but all he could see was shifting shadows, and on top of that, the motion caused a flash of pain that radiated outward from his shoulder. That, more than anything, made everything feel suddenly real. The fog cleared from his mind, his senses returning, consciousness truly coming back to him. He made to sit up but found himself trapped, thick bindings cutting into his skin at his wrists.

A quick glance down at himself revealed what looked like four leather straps – one at each ankle and one at each wrist. It was when he tried to thrash against them in an attempt to free himself that he once again found his voice. The pain in his shoulder intensified, so sharp that it caused him to call out, and yes, he would admit it – scream. It was nothing less than pure agony.

Even when the initial sharp shock of the pain faded, a dull ache remained with the occasional added spike and twinge just to remind him of how bad the wound in his shoulder was.

He remembered now.

He remembered a half whispered apology to a gravestone bearing the name 'Tate' and coming to a rest before it. He remembered footsteps behind him and a complete lack of foreboding. They were just footsteps. How was he supposed to know they meant danger? They were just footsteps... There was no crack of thunder, no dramatic music suddenly falling away to show tension. There was just him, and the wind, and the graves, and the footsteps of an unknown person.

Then there was pain. A sharp blade being buried in his shoulder, more like a hook than a knife, digging in and upwards, a strong force dragging him backwards. Thick and roughened skin covered his mouth, stifling the agonised scream that had broken out then, sharp claws scratching against his cheeks and jaw line. Acrid breath hot against his ear.

He remembered it all. His heels digging into the ground beneath him, the feel of unrelenting hands pulling him back. He remembered his fingers entwining with the metal of his captor's necklace and he remembered tugging so hard he pulled it free, but most of all, he remembered the look on his captor's face when he had done so.

"The moment I saw you, I knew it had to be you," the killer spoke up, the gruffness of his voice echoed in the scratch of the match he lit. The flame did little to soften the features of his face. If anything, it strengthened them, from the hook of his nose to the stubble-lined jaw-line.

Stiles could only watch as his would-be killer used the match to light several candles of varying sizes before blowing the match out just as the flame reached his fingers. The orange glow, whilst not impressively bright, lit up enough of the empty space now for Stiles to make out the painted stone walls that seemed to be slick with water, no doubt from the pipes that lined the higher parts of the walls. He could still hear the faint drip drip every so often beneath the sizzle of the candles.

His captor approached, a silhouette against the backdrop of candles. In that moment, he truly reminded Stiles of the beast that had attacked them at the station and not the man that stood before him now with a smile on his lips. "The heart."

He placed his hand on Stiles' chest and closed his eyes, head tilted just slightly to the sound as if he was listening to the rapid beating of Stiles' heart. Stiles thrashed and bucked despite the pain, desperate to be free of the man's touch. It didn't matter that the touch wasn't direct, skin against skin. The fact it was there at all was invasive enough for Stiles, even if his shirt offered up the bare minimum of a shield against those blood-tainted fingertips. But it was all in vain.

The man opened his eyes but kept his hand where it was. Stiles took it as a challenge.

"Yeah, you're a real big man. Why don't you untie me and see just how big you are then?" he spat out, false courage lining the words as they ripped up his too dry throat and spilled out over his too dry tongue. Each word was like a shard of glass, but the defiance felt good. It helped him feel strong even when his body was weak. He thrashed again for emphasis, shoulders rising up and off the table, fists and jaw tightened, fighting back against the pain the movement caused.

His captor merely smiled at him and turned away again, once more returning to where the candles sat. Stiles hadn't noticed at first, but his attention now focused on the table beneath the candles and the array of tools displayed there. Metal and blood and pain. It wasn't quite a torture dungeon worthy of the Spanish Inquisition, but it was enough to have Stiles' blood running cold.

"I had to work quick with the last one, but with you..." his captor spoke, slow, savouring every moment of it. He picked up one of the tools, a curved blade tainted dark brown with blood, and Stiles felt a pang in his shoulder at the sight of it. A sickle. That was what the guy had used the previous night on him. That was Stiles' blood on the blade. The very blade that the guy now caressed almost lovingly as he turned back around to face Stiles. "With you, I can take my time."

"I wouldn't count on it, buddy," Stiles answered, trying to control the shake in his voice. "My friends are looking for me and when they find me... I wouldn't want to be you. If you let me go now, I might even be able to convince Scott to go easy on you. Maybe he'll only tear one of your arms off instead of both."

But his captor wasn't listening. He moved close once more, and Stiles swallowed against the lump in his throat, unable to tear his gaze away from the sickle. His breath caught when the tip of the blade was placed against his abdomen, lightly, so lightly, and Stiles knew the guy was playing with him. The blade moved lower until it caught on the bottom of his shirt. It didn't take much more effort on his captor's part to create the first initial tear. From there, it was a straightforward rip from bottom to top, the blade cutting through the fabric like it was cutting through water and leaving a cold tingle across Stiles' skin as it went. One done, the killer allowed the tip of the blade to come to a rest over Stiles' heart.

"What are you... what are you going to do with that?" Stiles forced the question out, his tongue snaking out to dampen his lips, a nervous reaction he couldn't swallow down.

"Do you know why they would leave the heart in the body?" the killer asked, as if Stiles hadn't spoken. His eyes were focused on the blade and Stiles' chest, an almost dreamlike glaze taking hold. When Stiles didn't answer, he continued on, pulling at the blade to scratch Stiles' skin just enough to draw blood. "They believed Anubis would weigh the heart and they would be judged. Good heart, the soul goes to heaven. Bad heart, Ammit devours the soul whole."

He laid the sickle down on the side of the table, freeing up his hands to untie the necklace from around his neck. "If your heart is truly as good as it appears to be, you have nothing to fear. Heaven will take you in its grasp." He laid the necklace across Stiles, the metal cold against the flushed skin of his collarbone, and reached behind Stiles' neck to fasten it in place.

To his defence, Stiles didn't make it easy for him. He threw his body up and off the table as much as he could, tugging and riving at the straps that held him in place, kicking and bucking and jerking and doing as much as he could. If anything, his captor seemed to enjoy the challenge, and once the ankh was fastened, he pulled back to reveal a wolfish grin that showed too much teeth for Stiles' liking.

"Let me in, Stiles," whispered the shadows, but Stiles' was too focused on those bright blue eyes of his captor to search for the owner of the voice. "Let me in..."

Somewhere behind his killer, Stiles thought he saw someone move, the candles flickering. Goosebumps prickled at his skin, the hairs across his arms standing on edge. They weren't alone. He knew that, and he wondered if the killer before him did too.

"Tick, tock..." the voice called out from the shadows. "Tick... tock..."

"Who is that?" Stiles forced out, the quiver in his voice audible. He didn't even try to stop it from shaking.

His captor narrowed his eyes, head tilted to the side in questioning. He didn't hear it. Why couldn't he hear it? "Perhaps death has come calling for you earlier than I thought..."

"Let me in, Stiles..."

"I don't understand," Stiles whispered in return, and though his gaze was still on his captor, he wasn't entirely sure who his words were directed at. The monster before him? Or the one that still lingered in the shadows?

"You don't have to understand," his captor answered, intent clear in his eyes. "Death will come for you either way."

Clenching his jaw tight in rebellion, Stiles yanked his wrists upwards again, fighting against the straps holding him down. He managed to pull himself up enough so that his face was a mere breath away from his captor's, a sneer falling into place across his face. "Death can kiss my ass." And so could the voice in the shadows.

Scott was coming for him. He had to believe in that. He had to believe in his friends, and until they found him, he had to keep on fighting. He had to stay alive. Somehow.

Thanks for reading!