Chapter 14: Confrontations

"You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve
And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground
Dig them up; let's finish what we've started
Dig them up, so nothing's left unturned."
—Bastille, Flawed

The monster had no name, and no face, and about itself knew only two things: that it was a monster, and that it had to obey. Other than these facts, the monster knew nothing of itself, did not even have an identity to know. The voice that spoke in the monsters mind did not belong to it, nor did the voice that spoke from its mouth.

The monster had to obey this voice, but it was not forced to obey. No more than any other creature is forced to breathe. It simply had to, for that was the way.

To obey meant to kill. The monster knew this, also. That was its purpose, its only purpose. The monster was a weapon, and a weapon is meant to be wielded. The voice that, the one that spoke in the monsters mind and through scaly lips, was the one who did the wielding. Its master, the one who chose to use their weapon as they saw fit. Whether it be for its intended purpose or for... other things. This the monster did not question. What right did a weapon have, to question the way it was used? Even if it had wanted to, the monster would not even have known how to question Master.

The monster was nothing. Felt nothing. Those whom it was felled upon would beg it, plead with it through tears, please don't please stop please help please, not realizing that their pleas fell on ears incapable of listening. It could hear them, hear their crying and choking, and smell the fear that gave the limp meat of their bodies a pungent, tangy odour. But if felt nothing. Could do nothing, but serve its purpose, and its master.

In his head, Master would laugh as they begged. He heard their please stop don't help's and laughed, and whispered to the monster, "Do it, kill."

And the monster would obey.

When it was done, if Master had no other needs, the monster would be sent back the place it stayed in, when it pretended to be a man. It would climb through the window, into a bedroom that belonged to no one. It would make its way to the shower, letting scales give way to foreign flesh, pink and naked, blood stained from the nights work. At Masters urging, blood would be washed from hands that were not its, and when it was done it would stand in front of the mirror and stare back at a face that it did not know.

And when it did this, the monster would see eyes staring back, see them red and puffy and crying, although it did not know why. And through the darkness of its head, Master would smile and whisper "Forget, Jackson. Forget it all."

And the monster would obey.

When Jackson woke from his nightmare, he did not do so gasping and crying and breathless, screams dying on his lips. No, he was long past that. Now when he woke up, terrified and sick from another horrible nightmare, he simply found himself awake in his bed, covered in sweat and feeling as if he was going to vomit, but still and unshaken. He didn't scream, he didn't cry.

It was better this way, he supposed, but he hated that he was getting used to it. Why did he have to get used to having these horrible nightmares? Why couldn't they just go the fuck away?

Sometimes, when he was at his worst (often, these days) he would tell himself to stop complaining about this. These nightmares, having to relive Matt's abuse and the way he'd murdered all of those people, it was just the punishment he deserved. He had killed, and now he had to pay for that. It was only fair. But these, these new nightmares... did he really deserve those too?

The voice in his head, the voice that at times sounded unmistakably like Matt, told him he did.

Jackson sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. The clock on his night table told him it was four in the morning. He sighed, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and went to go make himself a cup of coffee.

He could stomach no more punishment tonight.

Allison stared down at the book in front of her, and told herself that she was going to read it. She didn't even have to read the whole thing—she'd already done that, now she just needed to go through it and find quotes and evidence to support her arguments. Well, the arguments she was going to have, once she got around to actually figuring out her essay.

It was second period, English class. Because exams were so close, their teacher had given them a free period, to study or work on any other projects they had. For Allison, this meant finishing her final essay on The Exorcist (part of this assignment had put them in groups, with the intention being that they should have discussions on the book while they read it. She had been out-voted on the choice of book, three to one).

The essay was a week late already, but she had managed to get her teacher to give her an extension, and she was determined that she would not let that go to waste.

There was a prickling feeling on the back of her neck, and she was suddenly overcome with the sensation that she was being watched. She swivelled around in her chair, and saw it was one of the new girls, the ones Lydia was always saying she didn't like (although as they'd been in Beacon Hills for over two months now, they could technically no longer be considered new).

The girl who was always wearing the cat eye sunglasses was sitting in the back of the class, staring at her. She turned away when Allison looked, and began instead staring at an empty desk to Allison's left. At least, her head was pointed in the direction of that desk—usually occupied by Cordie Summers—but since Allison couldn't see her eyes, she couldn't say for sure she was still staring at her.

"Is there a problem, Allison?" Asked her teacher, Ms. Stevens, from the front of the room. Allison turned back around, and shook her head no. "Then don't you have an essay to be working on?"

Allison mumbled yes, and tried to make herself go back to her work. She was letting herself get distracted, and at this rate she wasn't going to get any work done. She needed to concentrate.

Read, Allison, now damn it!

Allison focused her eyes on the page, trying to push thoughts of all the unpleasant things she was going to have to do today out of her brain. There was nothing she could do about those things right now, and this needed her attention.

She read a few sentences, where in the main character wondered whether a storm was coming her way. Allison underlined the passage, and put a sticky note on the page. It was probably important; in literature, a storm usually foreshadowed the arrival of the plots conflict. Storms brought evil with them, and considering

Allison frowned, thinking back to the huge storm they'd had a few months back, and the way it had rained for days and days before and after it. Hadn't that been when all the trouble had started? The nightmares, the students breaking down and crying in class, panic attacks every single day... and then Mrs. Thompson snapping, and killing herself and her husband. This was their storm... had it been brought by a literal one?

But it couldn't have been. The witches they were dealing with stole dreams, they didn't affect the weather. That storm had been massive, had built for weeks and taken forever to dissipate... even now, the weather was still strange, far too cold and grey for California.

There was no way Dream Thieves could do that, mess with nature so thoroughly. Did that make it a coincidence? Allison wasn't sure she believed in those anymore. So what did it mean?

The obvious conclusion stared Allison in the face. Tomorrow, they were all supposed to gather after school at Dr. Deaton's, to perform a test that would show them if they were dealing with Dream Thieves.

Allison could not help thinking that she already knew what that test would say.

At lunch time, Allison found Isaac in the hallway at his locker. "Hi,"

Isaac jumped a foot in the air, and slammed his locker closed. When he turned to look at her, he seemed to press himself back against it, as if trying to get away from her. "What?" He blurted.

Allison tried not to let his reaction hurt her. She was the one who had stabbed him, it only made sense for him to not want to be around her. It was her fault. "I need to talk to you."

Isaac frowned, and glanced to his side. She thought he was looking for an escape route. Or maybe just considering bolting, since he could certainly outrun her if he chose. "Uh, about what?"

Allison hesitated. "It's… complicated," She said.

Isaac raised his eyebrows. "Well then uncomplicate it," He crossed his arms over his chest.

Allison sighed. How could she phrase her question, to see if Isaac knew about Jackson and Derek, without actually telling him what she was asking about, in case he didn't know? "Well..." She began. "I was wondering, if you knew about..." She pursed her lips, and then tried a different approach. "Packs are close, right?" She asked.

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"So, if two people in the pack were… say, sleeping with each other—"

Isaac laughed. "Is this about Derek and Jackson?" He asked.

Allison felt a moment of relief. "So you do know about them?"

"Come on, everyone does,"

Allison raised her eyebrows. "Everyone?"

"Well," Isaac amended. "The whole pack, I mean."

"Oh, alright…" Now that her suspicions had been confirmed, she wasn't sure what she felt. A little nauseous, actually. Despite what she'd seen, some part of her had still been hoping she'd been wrong. That it had been just a coincidence.

But then, she really didn't believe in those.

"How long have you known?" Allison asked.

Isaac shrugged. "I dunno, the whole time, I think. It's hard to hide stuff from us. There are uh… indicators,"

"Indicators?"

"Smells and stuff," Isaac looked away, obviously uncomfortable. "Jackson's sort of everywhere, in the loft. It's kind of gross, actually. And not just the loft, in our training space too. They're like animals—"

Allison held up her hand to stop him from continuing. Isaac chuckled. Obviously her discomfort put him at ease.

"It's other stuff, too," Isaac continued. "I mean, they're not exactly subtle. I think they think they are, but they're seriously not."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, the way they act around each other. And the way Derek looks at Jackson sometimes, like he's a piece of meat he'd like to rip into." Allison's nose crinkled at this, and Isaac grinned. "He treats him differently, too. When we're training and stuff."

"Different how? Like, he goes easier on him?"

Isaac shook his head. "Harder." He said. "He's harder on Jackson than any of us." Isaac studied her for a moment, tilting his head back. "Look, if you want to talk to them, we have training after school today. It's usually over around five, so if you show up a little after that, sometimes they hang around after we leave," Isaac grinned again. "For, y'know, extra training."

Allison grimaced. "Thanks, I got that."

Isaac chuckled again, and once more glanced off down the hallway. "So uh, are we done here?" He asked.

Allison nodded. "Yeah, we're done," She said. "Thank you," She said, sincerely this time.

Isaac scratched his head, and looked away. "Uh, don't mention it," He mumbled. He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows. "Really though, don't mention it. I want them to know it was me who told you—not that I told you, exactly... I mean you knew already, right?" He suddenly looked concerned, as if just now realizing he had divulged a very private secret to her.

"Yeah, I knew," Allison said. Isaac let out a breath. "I just needed someone to confirm it for me."

"Well, don't tell them I was the one who did the confirming," Isaac said. "Seriously, they've both killed people before. I still have a lot to live for."

Allison sighed, and promised Isaac that she wouldn't throw him under the bus. They parted ways, and Allison spent the rest of the period thinking unhappily about what she was going to have to do now.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Jackson didn't feel like screwing. He just didn't have the energy for it. His dreams had kept him up all night. They were getting worse. He was no long just reliving memories of being the kanima. No, now, in his dreams he was the kanima once more. His skin would turn scaly, and his mind would darken until it no longer belonged to him... and then he would be forced to kill everyone he cared about, one by one. His parents, Lydia, Danny... Derek. They all fell before him, paralyzed by his venom. Then he'd rip out their throats.

And on top of this, or perhaps because of it, the pain in his side was growing steadily worse. It was constant now, dull and aching. Jackson had tried to draw it out, but apparently he was unable to get rid of his own pain. Worse than the pain was the worry. What was happening to him? What did this pain mean? It wasn't lost on him that the pain had formed in the exact place Matt's corpse had touched him, when he'd visited him at the bottom of the pool.

Jackson had told Derek none of this. Hadn't told him anything, really. They were alone together in the basement, having both hung back after training, and usually by now they would be ripping each other clothes off. But when Derek had kissed him, Jackson just stood there. He was so tired. And even though he hadn't said anything, Derek seemed to understand.

So they sat on the floor together, Derek leaning back against the wall, Jackson between his legs, leaning against Derek's chest. Derek was going back and forth between running his fingers through Jackson's hair, and kissing his shoulder and neck. Not in a demanding way, like the way Jackson's kisses always demanded more. These kisses were just... soft. Easy. Comfortable. Jackson was even considering letting himself fall asleep like that, in Derek's arms, with Derek's lips on his shoulders.

Then Derek stiffened and sat up, suddenly alert. "Someone's here," He said.

"Pack?" Jackson suggested. He looked around, but he couldn't see anything left behind, that would give one of them a reason to come back.

Derek shook his head, untangling himself from Jackson and standing up. "Someone else..."

Jackson stood up as well and watched Derek silently cross the basement, and approach the door. He pulled it open, and then froze in the doorway. Jackson couldn't see who was there until Derek raised his hands and backed slowly out of the frame.

Allison came into view, a crossbow pointed at Derek's throat. Jackson jumped to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. She wouldn't really shoot him, would she? What was she even doing here? "Allison, what the hell?!"

"Hi, Jackson," Allison said, not taking her eyes off of Derek. "Don't worry, this is just a precaution. So he doesn't try anything. I'm here to talk." As she spoke, she and Derek slowly eased down into the basement; Derek walking backwards, his hands still raised in front of him, and Allison following... or perhaps she was pushing him forward, and he was backing away from her.

"Talk!?" Jackson asked, staring at Allison as if she'd lost her mind. "Allison this isn't how you talk to people. It's how you threaten them."

"Then maybe I'm here to do that, too,"

Derek growled. "You point that arrow at him, you lose the arm holding it."

Jackson could feel a wave of potent disgust roll off of Allison. What was she so disgusted by? Derek's threat? Or Derek defending Jackson?

Jackson suddenly felt quite sick. "Why are you here, Allison?"

"I think you both know why," Allison said. Her voice was steel. "I know. About everything. I know what you two are doing."

Jackson thought he might pass out. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't.

Derek lowered his hands. So far, he had been calm, despite having an arrow pointed at him. Now Jackson could feel his anger rising. "So?" He demanded.

"You mean besides the fact that Jackson is underage, and you're a murderer?" Allison's eyes flashed, and Jackson saw her hand tense on the trigger. He felt himself tense up and lean forward, as if his body was instinctively preparing to throw itself in front of the arrow. But she didn't let it fly. "Lydia doesn't deserve this," She said. For the first time, Allison took her eyes off of Derek, and she looked Jackson in the eye. "You remember Lydia, right Jackson? Your girlfriend?"

A large lump had formed in Jackson's throat. "Of course," He said, his voice barely audible. "Allison, please, I never meant—"

"To hurt her?" Allison demanded. "To betray her? Because that's what you did, Jackson. She deserves better than this."

"I know she does." Jackson looked at the floor, shame flooding his mind. Allison was right, and if she shot him now, he wouldn't be able to blame her. He deserved that, and so much more. "Are you... going to tell her?"

Silence. Jackson slowly lifted his eyes back up, and saw Allison lowering her crossbow. Derek took the opportunity to take a few steps backwards, until he was standing just in front of Jackson, a little to the side. Not directly in front of him, but close enough that he could guard him from Allison, Jackson figured.

The righteous indignation was gone from Allison's face now. In it's place, Jackson thought he could see something almost like the shame he felt. "I've thought about that a lot," Allison began. "But no, I won't." She gritted her teeth. "I don't want to hurt her, and if she knew..." A look of disgust, again. "I want to protect her from that."

Even through the shame he felt, Jackson still managed to be relieved. He thought that Allison may have picked up on that, because she suddenly narrowed her eyes. "But you have to break up with her. I won't let you keep cheating on her, it's vile." Her eyes turned to Derek when she said this. "You have to end things with her."

Jackson swallowed. He nodded.

Having said all she came to say, Allison left them in the basement, slamming the door behind her.

Cordie Summers was not crazy. She was sure of that, just as she was sure of what she had to do.

And just as she knew she wasn't crazy, she also knew that they would say she was. Out of her mind, insane, psychotic. And they would take her away to some bright shiny hospital with smiling nurses in clean blue scrubs and a psychiatrist in a tie and glasses with a quiet voice and too-calm look on his face, and he would diagnosis her with things like borderline personality disorder, and purely obsessional OCD, and give her lots and lots medications until she believed them, believed that she really had been crazy all along.

But she wasn't. It seemed important to remember that, to stress that fact to herself over and over again as she crouched in the bushes outside of that bitch Lydia Martin's house, and waited for her opportunity.

Cordie had been waiting in the bushes for a good two hours now, cursing Lydia's name and the name of her 'roided up ex-jock pretty boy boyfriend Jackson Whittemore. He was the reason she was waiting in the damn bushes like this, like some common criminal staking out a house they wanted to rob for drug money. Cordie was no common criminal, and she hated having to act like one. What she was after was justice. She had to be here, in these bushes, brushing ants off her 200 dollar boots and sweating like a pig despite the freezing wind that had whipped her hair up into a blond birds nest. But soon Jackson would get in his fancy ass rich boy car, and she would make her move, and all of this would be worth it. Because she would finally have what she deserved. And Lydia would have what she deserved, which was a big fat nothing. And perhaps a concussion. And some disfigurements to that pretty little face of hers.

A voice in her head chuckled, and Cordie chuckled with it. After everything she took from you, it's only fair that you take something extra from her, whispered the voice. Cordie had to agree.

This will be justice.

Lydia should never have been gotten in her way. She had her time in the spotlight, and she'd lost it. She was the crazy one, Lydia was. Who spent two days running naked in the woods and then claimed they couldn't remember doing it? Crazy people. Who began inexplicably crying and screaming in the middle of class? Crazy people. Who spent every single Trig class drawing the same damn things over and over and over again, the same messed up pictures of a bloody dagger and freakin' mutilated people? Lydia Fucking Martin, that was who.

But somehow, despite all of that crazy bullshit, she'd still managed to take back her place as the popular girl, queen supreme of the school. Snatched it right out from Cordie's grasp like it was fucking nothing to her. How dare she?

Well, Cordie was going to show her that she never should have. That popularity had been hers. She had earned it. And she had earned that crown too. And she was going to have it, even if she had to rip it from Lydia's cold, dead fingers.

From her spot in the bushes, Cordie saw the front door of Lydia's house open. Jackson came out, his eyes red. His hand shook slightly as he got out his keys, and it took him a minute to be able to get them into the door of his Porsche. Cordie chewed her lips, watching him. Did they have a fight? Did they break up?

Jackson drove away, and Cordie grinned. This was too perfect. Now that she'd lost her perfect boyfriend, Lydia was one step closer to losing the popularity she'd stolen. Together, Lydia and Jackson were a power couple. Apart, they were nothing but a couple of attractive, messed up losers.

After crouching in the bushes for two hours, standing up was a painful experience. Cordie fell over twice, snagging her skirt on a branch and tearing it. She cursed, realizing that she was covered in mud and twigs. No matter, it wasn't as if she cared what Lydia thought of her.

Walking stiffly, Cordie went up to Lydia's front door and rang the bell.

Lydia yanked the door open immediately, tears streaming down a red face. "Jackson, you—" She froze when she saw who was standing there. Her eyes grew wide. "Cordie? What the hell happened—" Lydia broke off as Cordie lunged for her.

"What happened?" Cordie shouted, knocking Lydia to the ground. Lydia tried turning over onto her stomach, to crawl away, but Cordie grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the ground. "You happened you little demon bitch! You took everything from me!" Cordie shoved her face into Lydia's. "And I want it back."

"You're crazy!" Lydia shouted. Cordie swelled furiously, and was in the middle of telling her that she was not crazy, when Lydia used her moment of distraction to shove Cordie off of her and clamber to her feet.

She's just made everything worse for her, the voice said. Now you'll really have to hurt her. "You've just made everything so much worse for yourself, Lyds!" Cordie shouted, stumbling after her. "Now I'm really gonna have to hurt you!"

She had heard Lydia run up the stairs, and she heard a door slam as she made her way up. At the top of the stairs, she saw a bedroom door was closed. She barrelled through it, and just as the voice in her head began to whisper it was a trap, what felt like a million volts of electricity shot through her body, and she crumpled to the floor.

The voice in her head sighed heavily. It sounded so much like her mother sometimes. Pathetic, the voice told her. Cordie started to cry. "W-why—why—" She sobbed. Her vision blurred, and she looked up at Lydia, who still had the taser pointed at her. "You... have everything..."

Through bright black and white stars, Cordie saw Lydia lower the taser. Before she passed out, the last thing she heard was Lydia telling her she was wrong.