Chapter 10: Tick Tock

"So how do we get in?" Fishlegs asked.

They were at the town limits after having bused most of the way when their second planed from Sacramento to the nearest town landed. Now the twins were arguing about some random inconsequential thing while Fishlegs and Scott supported Snotlout.

"Deaton told me we had to stand where we left." Stiles said. "Because that guy is so understandable."

"And maybe he just meant to go to the place where we left the town limits," Lydia snapped, rolling her eyes and brushing past them, marching off to the point.

Stiles and Scott looked at each other for a bewildered moment before hurrying to join the Banshee, Fishlegs trying to keep up with the werewolf for the sake of Snotlout (and seriously, this Viking was such a freeloader).

The twins followed, seemingly oblivious to anything outside of their bickering.

The odd group followed Lydia to the point in the woods where they had exited. The woods were eerily silent, without bird call or small, fluffy animal hiding in the bushes.

"Okay, this is creepy." Stiles said.

"Yeah," Fishlegs said, meekly looking around him with large eyes.

"So what now?" Tuffnut demanded, looking around.

"Uh, now we . . ." Scott trailed off, looking in the direction of the invisible town. Stiles looked over and did a double take as a ripple in the air appeared, about seven feet in diameter about five feet from them. Beyond it they could see the smoke from Main Street rising above the trees. Home sweet home.

"Dude, that is so Portal." Stiles whispered to Scott, who only nodded.

Without a thought, the seven people dove into the portal and were met with the incredulous face of Chris Argent.

"Uh, hey," Stiles said weakly from where he'd fallen to the ground as they had tumbled through.

"Hi," Argent said (and did this guy have any other modes than 'scary as hell' and 'super freaking intense'?)

"So, we found most of the Dragon Riders," Stiles said, waving his hand in the general direction of Fishlegs, the (still) unconscious Snotlout and the smirking twins.

"I see only two," Argent said. "Pelles, and one who's . . . asleep."

"It's part of the spell, we think." Stiles said helpfully. "There are two others, but they're invisible."

". . . Invisible."

Damn he was good at being skeptical.

"Yeah," Stiles said and turned to face the twins, "Hey!" he called. "Run into Scott!"

"What?" Scott yelped as the twins shrugged like it was no big deal and did just as Stiles had asked. Poor Scott was bowled over and must look . . . really weird judging from Argent's expression.

"Okay, guys, stop." Fishlegs pleaded. The twins rolled off of Scott and continued wrestling between the two of them. Stiles saw Argent's eyes mark the places where the twins were. They were shifting leaves and twigs and generally being really good invisible Vikings.

"And why did you come back without the fifth and sixth?" Argent asked icily after he'd gotten over the twins' invisibleness.

"We think the fifth one is in Beacon Hills," Scott jumped in so that Stiles did not have to bear the burden of Chris Argent alone (because, Stiles will repeat, Scott is a Good Friend).

"Why?"

"The clue from the twins," Lydia said. "'The clue for the mute is terribly sad, go to a place close to home that holds only bad, bad for the land and for those living within, where the clicking of cogs and wheels chime of tin'"

"So why do you think the Rider is in Beacon Hills?" Argent asked.

"Because we think we're the ones meant to find the Riders and reunite them." Scott said. "The dragons attacked Beacon Hills out of the blue—after a thousand years of some many other people collecting the prophecies and debating whether or not the Dragon Riders existed, we managed to find them."

"Not to mention the twins couldn't be found until the Statue of Liberty was built," Stiles threw in. "Just, y'know, observation."

"Which could mean anywhere since the Statue was built," Argent said.

"Not necessarily." Lydia said, stepping forwards, "The summoning ritual couldn't have happened until dragons came out—which they did here, in Beacon Hills. So it had to be whichever town had the dragons—and that was us. I think it may be the Destiny spell that Deaton was talking about."

Argent sighed. "What do you think it is?" He asked. "Someplace that holds bad for the land and the people living there, with clicking cogs and wheels most likely made of tin."

"Cogs . . ." Stiles murmured. "Wheels . . ." He glanced at Argent's wrist, where a (very expensive) gold watch rested just under the cuff of his black jacket. "A clock . . ." Stiles said. "It's a clock. They still make clocks with tin parts, right?"

"I think so," Lydia said. "The question is, is there a clock shop in Beacon Hills?"

"Yeah, there is." Scott said. "My dad bought a watch there once before he left."

Stiles clapped his hands together. "Let's go!"

The group started heading out of the reserve, Argent and Fishlegs awkwardly carrying Snotlout this time. The twins slunk through the trees, still talking amongst themselves.

"They don't always make trouble," Fishlegs had said on the second plane ride. "They're twins. They fight each other verbally, too."

Stiles was glad—there were some very sharp sticks littering the ground.

Chris Argent was on his phone as soon as they were moving, calling different people with short, to-the-point calls.

"Deaton is out of his coma." He said after one.

"What coma?" Stiles demanded, swinging around. Argent raised an eyebrow.

"In order to send you over the town limits, Deaton needed to remain unconscious. As soon as you had passed back over, the magic released him," he said this calmly, like magic-induced comas were an everyday no-need-to-get-worried kind of event.

Fishlegs was looking at Argent like he was from another planet. At least he was sane enough to see that. Seriously, Vikings might be more crazy then hunters, but that was a really, really close tie.

They arrived at Deaton's within thirty minutes, to find the pack gathered. As soon as Stiles's dad saw him he caught Stiles up in a tight hug. Stiles returned it, and he realized that he'd really missed his dad. He hadn't left Beacon Hills for prolonged periods of time in two years (the bus ride didn't count—the Darach wanted that to happen).

After the reunion, which they all kept short, they gathered in a crooked circle in the waiting room. Deaton had once again returned behind the counter, watching them all with a critical eye like he'd never been in a coma. Stiles did, however, see that his hands were shaking and he leaned a bit more heavily against the counter than usual. Peter was once again lurking in a corner (seriously, why was he here?) Derek was leaning against the wall with Malia, while most of the others were either sitting on chairs (Deaton had more brought in) or sitting on various and sundry objects.

Someone had washed Fishlegs's clue off of the wall.

"So," Scott said. "We found four of the six Dragon Riders. We think the fifth is in a clock shop in Beacon Hills."

"I only see two." Malia said.

"The other two are invisible." Stiles said.

"Do not ask them to jump me again," Scott warned Stiles.

"Hey, cool," Tuffnut said, brushing past Kira—who squeaked and jumped back—and headed for the potted plant Deaton had on one of his tables. Ruffnut joined him, grinning wickedly.

"I smell them," Isaac muttered, wrinkling his nose. Ha-ha, werewolf suckers.

"Yeah, now, I smell them." Malia said. "Why can't we see them?"

"No idea," Stiles shrugged. "So, clock shops?"

"There are two shops," Ms. McCall said—because awesome moms know everything under the sun apparently—"there's one not far from here and one across town."

"Are there any with 'bad land'?" Lydia asked.

"How do you mean?" Ms. McCall asked.

"We don't know," Stiles admitted. "That's just what the clue said—'bad for the land and for those living within.' We think it might literally mean the land. Is one of the clock shops on, like, radiated land or something?"

Ms. McCall shrugged. "I don't have much use for clocks," she said apologetically. "How about we go to the shops and see?"

It was quickly agreed and decided that Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Isaac and Kira would go to the one across town since Scott and Stiles had vehicles still parked in the vet parking lot.

("Aw," Stiles had cooed when he saw his much-loved Jeep, "Deaton likes us enough to keep our cars from being towed!" Scott had rolled his eyes and swung on his bike with Kira.)

Argent, Derek, Malia, Peter and Stiles's dad were going to the nearby one.

Ms. McCall and Deaton were on Dragon Rider duty.

Stiles swore he heard Ruffnut and Tuffnut cackle as they left.

When Lydia saw the clock shop, she knew they'd come to the right place. This was the slums of Beacon Hills—not a place Lydia would ever willingly visit. The bricks were crumbled and faded, the windows dark. This place had not been touched by the dragons, yet, and so she assumed the people were still living here.

But what caught her eyes were the plants—or lack thereof. There was one tree, and its leaves were bare though it was the middle of summer. There were a few patches of dead grass that blotted the soil, but it was so dry that it had surpassed brown and moved to grey.

"We're here," Stiles said next to her at the driver's seat. Lydia shot off a text to Derek and got out with the others.

They stood in front of the store for a moment before Scott strode forwards and tried the door. It was locked. He knocked.

No answer.

"Okay," Kira said. "Do we just—"

Isaac stepped forwards and broke the door, kicking it down. He looked back nonchalantly. "Shall we?"

Kira blinked at the sudden motion before following with Scott. Lydia glanced over to Stiles, who was gaping. He shook his head for a moment before hurrying forwards. Lydia repressed a smile before joining the rest.

Her phone buzzed. On our way, she read, ETA 10 minutes.

Good, she thought.

Inside was dark and slightly dusty. There were clocks everywhere. It looked more like an antique shop than an actual shop. There were grandfather clocks, anniversary clocks, regulator clocks, iambour clocks, carriage clocks, bracket clocks, cuckoo clocks, water clocks, sun dials, alarm clocks—digital, analog, braille clocks, mechanical, electrical, atomic, radio . . . and that was just what was in the front room. Lydia spied an entryway to what looked like another room beyond all the clocks.

"Uh, wow." Stiles said. "This is a serious amount of clocks."

"Yeah," Kira said. "I really kind of want that cuckoo clock," she nodded to a clock that looked like a remake of Buckingham Palace, with elegant dancers moving around in time to the ticks.

"Shop later," Scott said. "We need to find a room of tin."

They split up—Lydia and Stiles went to the room beyond this one with Scott while Kira and Isaac snooped around the front room.

"Look," Lydia said in a hushed voice—it felt odd to be talking normally in this store. She had spotted a staircase that led up.

"I'll go," Scott told them quietly.

"No, stay," she insisted. "That way you're in the middle, and you can help either of us if we get into trouble. Stiles and I can deal with it."

Scott didn't look happy, but he didn't stop them as they wound their way to the bottom of the staircase and began heading up.

They did their best to be silent, but the staircase creaked and groaned under their weight. Lydia and Stiles winced and grimaced at each noise. Lydia's hands were gripped tight around the railing.

When they made it up, they peered over the banister and down at Scott, who was looking worried. They smiled tightly to let him know they were okay before turning and facing the door.

It was open when they tried the knob, and Stiles headed in first with a cocky grin that wasn't quite up to his standards. Lydia was relieved to see it at all.

Inside was fairly large room—it looked to be the front half of the shop, which was about twenty feet by thirty feet at a glance.

There was a bed in one corner. It was made of black iron, and looked more like a prison bed than an actual bed. The mattress was thing and the sheets were yellowed with filth and bunched in a corner. There was a dresser in one corner with crooked drawers. A small door was closed, and Lydia assumed it led to a bathroom. A clothesline hung from the rafters to their left and a small rug lay at their feet.

But what really caught their eyes were the clocks.

They were all made of tin. There were wall clocks, there were desk clocks on the dresser, there were clocks lined up along the wall.

And they were made of tin.

Lydia and Stiles turned to call out to Scott and Isaac and Kira when the door behind them swung shut and the room suddenly went dark.

"Well, well, well." A voice murmured in their ear. "What have we here?"

Lydia fell into darkness.

When Lydia came to, she was in the bathroom.

She wrinkled her nose—this place was disgusting. The floor smelled of vomit, the sink was streaked with dirt and grime and toothpaste, the bathtub was ringed with rust and grit and—Lydia didn't even want to examine the toilet.

Stiles was there, still unconscious. But they weren't alone.

There was a girl with them. She has long, unkempt sinking blonde hair and sad blue eyes. Her arms were muscular, but her cheeks were hallowed and her eyes sunken. She wore a blue tank top and a red skirt that was of modest length. Her shoulders trembled as she fought to keep her upright position. She looked starved, like her life was withering away before her.

Lydia and Stiles were against the bathtub, squished in the corner between the wall and the side of the tub. The door was to Lydia's left. The girl was sitting with her back against the sink pipes, her knee knocking against the—really, really disgusting—toilet. She didn't seem to notice the stench. Her bare feet were filthy and her legs were littered with small cuts.

"Hello?" Lydia tried, looking at the girl. The girl jerked and looked at Lydia like she wasn't sure if Lydia was talking to her or not.

"Are you one of the Dragon Riders?" Lydia tried, scooching forwards—only to be stopped. Her hands had fallen asleep chained at her sides to a metal pole exposed from the wall.

The girl nodded slowly, looking at Lydia with eyes so full of distrust Lydia withered slightly.

"We've collected four of you," Lydia whispered. "Fishlegs, Ruffnut, Tuffnut and Snotlout."

The girl jerked again, her eyes falling half closed, and she bent her head to her chest for a moment. Lydia gave her the time she needed, waiting. This girl was so different from the others. Fishlegs held himself with confidence, Snotlout—well, he was unconscious, but Lydia guessed he was rude and brash from how Fishlegs described him. The twins were driving Stiles mad.

This girl just . . .

"What is it?" Lydia murmured. "The . . . thing keeping us here."

The girl looked up and crunched her face into a thoughtful expression.

"Can you—can you talk?" Lydia asked hesitantly. The girl shook her head.

"I'm sorry," Lydia said. The girl glared at her with a ferocity that astounded Lydia. "How about you just mime it, okay?"

The girl's glare lessened and she went back to looking thoughtful. After a moment she tugged her arm around her body with difficulty. She put her elbow in front of her mouth, lowered it barely and hissed at Lydia.

Lydia had seen enough classic movies to get that cliché. "Vampire?" She asked, voice a little high with disbelief.

But, well, she hung out with werewolves.

The girl tilted her hand in a sort of motion. She bared her neck, waited until Lydia's eyes were on her and slowly shook her head.

"A vampire that doesn't . . . drink blood?" Lydia wondered.

The girl nodded vigorously.

"Then what does he drink?" Lydia asked.

The girl looked thoughtful again. Slowly, in the dust of the sink, she drew an eternity sign.

"He wants eternity?" Lydia asked.

The girl blinked, tilting her hand again. "Immortality?" Lydia asked. The girl rolled her eyes impatiently.

"I don't know, okay?" Lydia snapped. "I'm trying." The girl blinked again and gave Lydia a small smile.

"Just, let me think, okay?" Lydia asked.

The girl nodded and closed her eyes, leaning against the sink near the toilet—Lydia shuddered at the sight of the toilet.

She wished Stiles were awake. He'd be able to help her. He was the problem solver; she was the background knowledge holder. They worked well together. But he was still unconscious, and when she poked him he didn't even stir.

"Eternity," she murmured softly to herself. "'One trapped in life, unable to speak of home.'" Trapped in life.

In life.

"He's feeding off of your life force, isn't he?" Lydia asked.

Without opening her eyes, the girl nodded.

"Oh god," Lydia said. "He's a Psychic Vampire." She had read about them in the Argent's Bestiary, about how they would drain the life-force of their victims instead of blood.

They were rare, the book had said, but extremely dangerous.

"But how are you still alive?" Lydia asked, looking at the girl in aghast ("Astrid," Fishlegs's voice supplied her).

The girl—Astrid—tapped the eternity symbol again.

Trapped in life. The eternity symbol. The Psychic Vampire.

Lydia felt sick.

"It's feeding off of your immortal life." She whispered.

Astrid nodded again.