Isaac found Derek holed up in the Loft they'd recently acquired, leaning on the table with his head down, back to the door.

"You called?" Isaac asked. It was late - the sky outside was dark and clear, the new moon shining with it's reflected light, the stars bright and visible enough so that Isaac could probably spot constellations.

You know... if he knew any.

Isaac tracked the movement of an aeroplane across the sky as he waited for Derek to answer.

"I have something you need to do," Derek said, heavily. As his Alpha, Derek called the shots, so Isaac nodded and stood minutely straighter. "What is it?" Isaac asked, and Derek sent a look his way, before sighing. "I need you to track Erica and Boyd," Derek ordered. "I need to know if they got somewhere safe or not."

"What -" Isaac hesitated.

Derek scowled at nothing, then sighed again. "I could smell them on - Stiles," the man admitted. "I thought they would have been gone by that time, so -"

"You want me to ask him?" Isaac asked, then winced. He'd interrupted.

"... No," Derek said. "No, I'll do that. I can't leave the territory and I don't want their trail to go cold, so I'll need you to try and find them." He sounded annoyed. Probably because he had to interact with Stiles, Isaac figured. That was - usually a pretty annoying time. Isaac's just glad that, despite rooming at Scott's on occasion and in general, hanging around the not-omega (but not pack) werewolf, he hasn't had to interact much - or at all - with the guy's best friend.

He's not... really around much. Scott worries. Sometimes.

"I'll ask Stiles," Peter said. Isaac had ignored his presence upon entering since he usually kept to himself aside from when he had a sarcastic enough remark or an ulterior motive - Isaac narrowed his eyes at the ex-Alpha because he was pretty sure that this was the latter.

Now that he was paying attention - Isaac could pick up Stiles' scent on him. That's - weird. That's very weird.

Derek's nostrils flare, and Isaac can tell from how he twitches, his scowl falters, that he can smell it too.

"... fine," Derek said, tone wary. "I'll ask Scott," He said, after another suspicious look in his uncle's direction.

"I can do that on my way out of town," Isaac offered. "Maybe -" He hesitated. "Maybe you could check around town, see whether or not they returned home?"

Derek frowned at him. Isaac held back a flinch, and the man sighed. "Right." He grumbled. "Alright," He said, louder - acquiesced. "Yes. Now - go, Isaac. Get some sleep," The man gestured upstairs. "You should be gone by dawn."

Isaac nodded and waited for Peter to vacate his spot on the staircase before heading up.

Derek turned to Peter, who simply smirked at him, awaited whatever accusation Derek was about to hurl in his direction.

Derek knew he was probably going to dodge it, but Derek still has to ask.

"What are you doing?" Derek demanded.

"Dear nephew," Peter smiled, sharp with no substance. No genuine meaning. Peter hadn't properly smiled - so far as Derek knows - since the fire. Derek... figures, well.

Why would he?

"I am standing here," Peter said, smoothly, "Wondering why you feel it's a good idea to scare the abused one. Really, that's likely the best way to get him on your side, as it were." The sarcasm was obvious, and Derek held back a growl. He didn't know how to - deal, how to handle abuse victims. Didn't know what to say and what not to say and how to treat them.

Hell, he can't even handle his own problems. Like Kate. What was he supposed to do with a teenager?

"That's not what I meant," Derek growled, attempted to ignore Peter's remark. "Why do you smell like Stiles?"

"Oh." Peter smiled. More of a smirk, really. "I've been helping him. Fixing what I broke, as it were. More than you're doing for your betas, I might add," Peter says, blase.

"You aren't helping him." Derek denied. "You don't help people. What are - what is it you want?"

"Ah. You're asking why," Peter's smirk widens, eyes amused. "He asked. Wasn't it you that told him where I live?"

Had he? Derek frowned, racked his memory. Scott had visited Isaac, and Stiles had tagged along, he remembers, but...

Oh. Incessant talking. Stiles had annoyed the information out of him.

Derek scowled. Peter smiled - proper amusement. "He can be quite persistent," Peter comments. "Wouldn't leave until I gave him a few books."

Derek raised an eyebrow at his uncle.

"Magic," Peter smiled, gestured with his hands, his tone dramatic. "Considering the Nemeton seems to like him enough, well, why not?"

Derek stared at his uncle. "Magic," Derek said, flatly. "Like - druids? Deaton?"

"Definitely not," Peter said, with a derisive, fleeting grimace. "The boy has magic all his own, he doesn't need that. No, genuine Magic." Peter smirked. "After all, someone who can unconsciously keep a part of a person's soul attached to their head as a... guide, so to speak, well, they have power worth cultivating."

Derek stared some more. Peter shrugged, held his hands out. "But that's just a thought. If you'd rather have to worry if the boy is protected or not, that's up to you." Peter smirked. "Up to you if you're fine with the human being able to defend himself or, alternatively, having to listen to him complain whenever you say he can't get involved."

Derek grimaced, reflexively. The less time spent around a rambling, angry, annoyed Stiles, the better. The less time spent around random non-pack teenagers the better full-stop, but then, Derek doesn't think he's going to have that luxury any time soon, so he'll settle for what he can get.

"Fine," Derek said.

It couldn't be too dangerous, anyway. Peter wouldn't want Stiles knowing something he could use against the man.

"So apparently I have magic." Stiles opened with. Lydia raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow in his direction, expression unperturbed. "I'm a banshee." She told him in return. "What kind of magic?"

"Banshee?" Stiles asked, then rolled his shoulders and nodded "- Right, whatever - um, my own?" He said, sounding like he was quoting someone.

"Hmm." Lydia hummed, considering. "Not a druid, then."

Stiles grimaced. "No, not a cryptic, unhelpful, balance-obsessed human, not that at all," Stiles agreed. Lydia had deigned to share her translation of the Bestiary with him. She was in the middle of translating Allison's French one - the girl had offered an English version but Lydia preferred the chance to practice her languages - and had decided that since Allison was out of town, then, well, Lydia had supposed there were worse people she could bring home for more... mature reasons.

Lydia figured she might as well teach him Latin and French. There was even more reason, now, if he was going to be digging around in old magic books that someone - he wouldn't say who - had given him. Lydia suspects Deaton wouldn't have given the boy anything, so... as much as she'd rather not think about the man, she figured it was likely Peter.

Unfortunately.

"I think I'm a spark," Stiles said, scratching the back of his head. He was growing out his hair, and Lydia approved. She'd give him some tips, and she wouldn't tell him they were originally from Jackson - along with, of course, some of her own research on the topic.

(It'd annoy Jackson more, in all honesty, but the truth is Lydia wouldn't tell him because Lydia doesn't want to talk about or think about Jackson at all. Ever. Even if he came back and showed up on her doorstep with a perfectly arranged bouquet (unlikely) she'd simply slam the door in his face, no matter the gossip that would spout.)

(For the part that was her own research - Lydia preferred those around her to look good. It was nothing against those that didn't bother, Lydia just preferred the thought that if someone were to take a candid, no matter when or where or with what device, she and those around her would always look good. As the most popular girl at her school - and, more recently, the town's nutjob - she couldn't afford any less.)

"A spark?" Lydia asked. That wasn't in the bestiary. She frowned minutely - not enough to cause any lines between her brows - at that. A lack of information was always a bad thing.

"Yeah," Stiles nodded. "It's mentioned in a few of the books... I might have to go ask about that."

"Peter will likely be unhelpful about it," Lydia said, and as Stiles blinked at her, she rolled her eyes. "Stiles," She said, "I wasn't born yesterday. Where else would you have gotten the books from?"

Stiles scratched the back of his head again. "True," He admitted, then snorted. "Deaton would be - the most cagey if I even tried to ask."

"Exactly," Lydia nodded. "So next time you go, I'll come with you."

Stiles' head snapped up. "What?" He asked - spluttered, really. Lydia pursed her lips. "Next time you go to Peter's," She repeated, voice slow, "I'll come with you."

He'd need all the back-up he could get, in her opinion. Nobody should be alone with Peter - in this specific case, someone who was bitten unwillingly and forced to spend a few months under the sway of the Alpha's ghost shouldn't have to spend any time in their proximity even remotely close to resembling alone. Ten people at least would be preferred, but Lydia doesn't know ten supernatural-world-aware people, so this will have to do.

"You don't need to do that," Stiles denied. "No - it's fine, really, Lyds. Really."

Lydia looked flatly at him. "I'm coming." She told him. He didn't really have a choice in the matter, and she'll apologize for that later - for that removal of his ability to choose - but for now, Lydia simply refused to let him be around Peter when it was only the two of them in the room.

And besides. Peter was a werewolf she needed to guilt trip into telling her things. She couldn't very well do that with Derek - he had enough of a guilt complex already. She didn't need that baggage exuding from him at every future interaction any more than it already did.

The rest of Allison's holiday wasn't to be spent entirely in France, as she'd found out. They were going to stop in Fresno for a bit before the flight - her dad had been called in by an old hunting 'friend' for a case and he couldn't exactly say no, so he'd booked the flights a little later than originally planned, apparently - and so the couple days in Fresno happened, and that was a thing, though Allison spent most of the time in the Hotel worrying if her dad was going to die from the wendigo - because, yes, apparently that was the issue here, oh merde - and reading up on the bestairy and what she was supposed to say to the tribunal and how she was supposed to act and what her responsibilities were, as the new Argent Matriarch, despite her age -

And, well. Allison was glad when they boarded the plane.

It took around eighteen hours give or take with a couple connecting stops. It was supposed to be about sixteen, but, well, airports. Not exactly the most reliable things. Anyway, it took that long just to get to Paris, which they were staying in for a week so that they could 'catch up' with a few branches of their family that live in the area - read; getting support for their case - and then they're going via the Paris-Orly airport to the Brenoux airstrip (a few strings were pulled, apparently, but Allison doesn't know which ones) which took about three or so hours, which about halved the time it would have taken to drive there - which was good, since they didn't have a car and weren't about to get a rental, just in case things went south. Anyway, they ate at the restaurant there, then took a taxi (apparently a relative, got it for half-price... putain, there's a lot of Argents in this area) into Mende.

From there, they went to the Hôtel du Pont Roupt, which is where they were going to stay. The French branch of the Tribunal oversaw all Argent family proceedings, and it was up Saint-Privat road, up the - well, Allison thinks it's a mountain. That it classes as one. Anyway - it's up that road, and the walk's about fifty minutes, give or take, which isn't pleasant but she knows why they can't get a rental and why they haven't been provided a car.

They killed Gerard. Kate's dead, Victoria - her mother - is dead, that's two very significant, capable, well-liked and respected hunters dead. And that's the Argent fucking Matriarchdead. One on purpose by them themselves, one they're going to have to defend, and one they're going to have to plead they don't set a bounty of some kind on Derek's head for, because they have witness statements about what she did but they're flimsy at best and given by a werewolf, which, well, the Tribunal doesn't exactly trust - at least, this branch of it. The French Tribunal is more on the side of the hunters, due to the sheer number of Argents in their ranks, and it shows, and right now, that's really not helpful.

So, well, they've got a few days to prepare. And then it'll be days of bargaining and politics and trying to convince the bigoted lot that a seventeen-year-old is fit to run a hunting family.

You know things are bad when you'd prefer to be in Beacon Hills than deal with thismerde.

When Danny opened his door, he hadn't expected to see Lydia. He'd say she was the last person Danny expected, but that's not true, and even if it was, Danny wouldn't be surprised, exactly.

What surprises him is the fact that she brought Stiles Stilinski, of all people. Danny doesn't generally base his opinions of people off of the opinions of those around him, or at least he tries not to, which means when he says he doesn't really like the guy all that much - not that he dislikes him, per say... Danny doesn't really dislike anyone unless there's a good reason, like being a fucking bigot, or a predator, or a murderer - he means that out of their personal interactions, Danny hasn't found himself liking the person that Stiles presented himself as overmuch.

"I need you to do something for me," Lydia said, tone saccharine sweet. She has all the blackmail in the world on him, so even if she hadn't brought Stiles and his likely obsessive research on anything blackmail related he'd probably have agreed regardless. But she did, so that's two people with a fair amount of dirty laundry of his that they could air, so Danny sighs and steps aside, lets the two inside.

"Danny?" He hears - his little sister, and, oh great. Wonderful. She's never met either of the two people that are about to enter, and he'd rather she didn't because, despite the fact that she's only heard about things they've done and maybe seen them around town, the girl's got crushes the size of Mexico. Great.

"Some of the stuff you've said they've done," She'd told him when he asked why the hell she had a crush on Stiles Stilinski and his best friend's girlfriend. "Like, things he's said and done are really funny, and anyone who breaks Jackson's nose is good in my book. And, well, she's Lydia Martin."

He gave her the second one - there were a serious number of people with a crush on the redhead (some might humor her, but Lydia Martin was not anywhere near to being blonde, strawberry or otherwise) - but the first one? Still baffles him. To this day. Danny was never too bothered about her opinion on Jackson; he got it, alright, Jackson wasn't the most likable person at times, Danny isn't blind. But the rest? Just... what.

(Danny will give he's got a weird thing where at times his face is actually pretty good looking, alright, he'll give it, but if you asked him, well, Danny probably wouldn't tell you if he found the guy attractive or not because he's actually a nice person, and if the answer was no, well, he at the very least wouldn't say that to the guy's face.)

"Go upstairs, please," He said, sending her a smile. It was probably a little strained around the edges.

"Who is it?" She asked. "Just us," Lydia said, smoothly, and Danny winced as his sister's eyes widened. "Oh." She squeaked. Stiles offered a lazy wave, more intent on staring Danny down and that was at least something because he didn't see Danny's little sister go pink and flee upstairs.

"Someone's got a crush," Stiles said, amused, and Lydia looked flatly at him. "Stiles," She said, then rolled her eyes and looked at Danny.

Well. He didn't miss it then. Damn.

"Lydia," Danny said, after a moment. "She's got a crush on Lydia."

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him as if to say "Yes... that's what I was saying... duh..." and Danny remembered that Stiles was one of the most oblivious people he'd ever had the 'pleasure' of speaking to.

Lydia's flat stare continued, for a moment. Then she rolled her eyes again and looked to Danny, and Danny could practically hear her call Stiles an idiot.

"Regardless," She said smoothly, "We need you to hack into something for us."

"What?" Danny asked, tone wary.

"Oh, nothing too bad," Stiles said, easily, and Danny tensed. "Just... hack into whatever you can think of to get us any and all information on Peter Hale," He asked - not really asked, Danny understood, but it was a nicer way of putting it.

"... you mean the coma victim?" Danny asked. Everyone knew what had happened back in two-thousand-and-four; the Hale fire was news for a lot longer than most things stayed news. The biggest and longest-lived family in town all dying in a house fire tended to do that, funnily enough.

"That's the one," Stiles said, cheerful in tone, and Danny refrained from narrowing his eyes at him and turned to Lydia. "What's in it for me?" He asked.

"Well, for one," She said, breezily, "I won't air your dirty laundry, and nor will Stiles, and, for another, you'll be paid. Handsomely." Lydia smiled, shark-like yet somehow still sickeningly sweet.

He's never known how she does it. Really, it's commendable. If Lydia wasn't dead set on getting a field medal - what Jackson doesn't notice, Danny's more than smart enough to pick up on - she could definitely succeed as an actress.

"Fine," Danny sighed because he knew if he refused, well, dirty-laundry airing would occur, and they'd start pestering him and hanging around him and generally being a pair of annoying tag-alongs until he did what they wanted, and Danny figured he'd spare himself and his sister that mess.

"Fine." He repeated, and the two smiled. God, this was why they should never have met.