Stiles, Lydia, and Finstock made their way to the front entrance of the temple and out into the city.

Finstock was suspiciously familiar with the city, leading them unerringly throw crowds of people. Regardless of their steady pace, Stiles noticed something amiss.

"We're being followed, aren't we?"

Lydia nodded.

"Really, if they wanted to hide, they shouldn't wear those stupid gowns."

Finstock corrected him. "Holy Tunics of Piety and Faith, Stiles."

"Nightgowns," insisted Stiles firmly.

They walked on.

"I counted six. What about you both?" Stiles spoke in a low voice, although their followers were still a considerable distance behind them and well out of earshot.

Lydia pursed her lips. "Yes, about that many."

"I don't suppose we can get away from them."

"I doubt it."

They arrived at a post office. Lydia assured them that Melissa would have sent their things there. After days without anything of his own, Stiles was glad to have his things once again. Stiles made to sign for them when the clerk looked down and made a face when he read Stiles's name.

"Stilinski?"

"Yes."

"Here." He shoved a letter into Stiles's hand.

The letter was not, as Stiles had originally suspected, from Melissa. It was from Erica, of all people.

Stiles grinned. "Just goes to show that Erica will always find me."

Finstock rolled his eyes.

Inside, besides a short letter from Erica with no substantial news (well, to Stiles. Apparently she started a new shoe trend which had Lydia blanching), there was another small scrap of paper.

It wasn't signed, but Stiles recognized the writing.

I was afraid to call. I've been told you're in danger. Your favorite named agent wants you to know that there is a bite edict out. Be careful. I would be there now, but my sister is missing. I think it is connected to you. I know you can take care of yourself and I'm trying to give you space to do that. I know you're angry at me and you have every right to be. I was wrong and then I handled it wrong. I will do whatever I have to make it up to you. I hope you'll forgive me. I love you.

If anyone really wanted to figure out who the letter was referencing, it wouldn't be hard. But to a casual observer, the identities were vague enough.

Stiles wasn't very concerned about that.

"Oh," he said, because that was all he could think to say. "Dammit."

Stiles stared straight ahead, willing himself not to start crying right then and there. There weren't a lot of people who could make him cry, but the ones who could made him cry easily.

"Stiles, what's wrong? Isn't this a good thing?" asked Lydia.

"Bastard," choked out Stiles.

Lydia was at a loss.

"I was doing well angry at him. I'm still angry at him! But he admitted he was wrong. I can count on one had the number of times he's admitted he was wrong, much less wrote it down somewhere permanent. He knows he's fucked up and he's actually sorry. He's actually sorry! Bastard."

Lydia still looked lost. Finstock shook his head.

Stiles realized he was making a spectacle of himself and took a deep breath to calm himself.

They headed outside. Finstock's attention shifted.

Stiles followed his gaze. Four young men were headed their way.

"Those are definitely not Templars," said Lydia with conviction.

"Drones?"

"Drones."

This time the drones looked to be taking no chances – each man held a long knife and walked with purpose.

The drones attacked. Stiles whipped out his baseball bat to deliver a blow, only to be deflected by a knife. Lydia hit one of them with a bag. Finstock dodged a knife slicing down toward him and punched one of them in the stomach.

Quicker than Stiles would have thought possible, though, the drones had him disarmed, bat rolling away. Lydia was thrust to the ground. Stiles thought he heard the woman's head hit the ground and she certainly didn't look to be moving anytime soon. Finstock kept struggling, but he was not as young as he once was and was certainly older than his opponents.

Two of the drones held Stiles between them, while the third, having determined Lydia was no longer a threat, brandished the knife with the clear intention of slitting Stiles's throat.

"Tell us where the kid is or you're dead. No torture, no bargaining. This is it. This is your only chance."

Stiles writhed in the grip of his captors, kicking out and wriggling as much as possible, making it difficult for them to steady him for the knife. Finstock, seeing his imminent peril, fought harder, but death seemed inevitable. Or at least a great deal of pain.

But then a very odd thing happened.

A tall masked man, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up despite the heat, leapt into the fray and appeared to be on their side.

The unexpected champion was clearly quite strong. He was quite liberal in use of his fist and Stiles's captors were feeling the brunt of it.

Finding the drones distracted, Stiles jerked a knee into a very sensitive area of one, while twisting violently and trying to shake off the others' grip. The one he kneed backhanded him across the mouth and Stiles felt a burst of pain before tasting blood.

The masked man reacted swiftly to that, jabbing at the man's knee. Stiles heard a wet crunch and guessed the man's knee had been dislocated. He crumpled.

The drones regrouped, leaving only one holding Stiles while two went back on the defensive, facing off against the new threat. Stiles liked these odds much better. He went limp, throwing his captor off balance. Stiles then braced both feet and thrust backward, knocking both himself and the drone to the ground. Once there, they proceeded to roll about gracelessly on the stone. Stiles finally had reason to be grateful for his husband's fondness for rolling around in bed (well, other than the obvious), because it gave him practice in wrestling a man stronger than himself.

Then, like the knights they had once been, the Templars were upon them. The drones were forced to flee. Stiles had to admit Templar attire looked less ridiculous behind flashing blades.

Stiles struggled to his feet just in time to see his hooded defender run off. Clearly he liked being mysterious, or disliked Templars, or both.

When they finally arrived back at the temple, they parted ways. Stiles was bored, though, and didn't want to be alone with his thoughts about Derek. Instead, he decided to explore.

It was, he admitted, probably not the most intelligent decision in his life. But how often is one given the opportunity to investigate ancient passageways in sacred temples in Italy?

He took steep and slightly wet stairs and ended up in an undecorated hallway that ended in a small room.

The only piece of furniture in the room was a small pedestal which held a jar. The door was locked, but it was glass, so Stiles could see through. He shifted around till he could tell what was in the jar and then became rather queasy.

The jar held a severed human hand. It was floating in some liquid, probably formaldehyde.

"Stilinski, what the hell?"

Stiles jumped in surprise.

"Finstock!"

"What are you doing down here?"

Stiles ignored the question. "Come look at this. They have a human hand in a jar in the middle of an empty room. Isn't that odd?"

"Yes." Finstock didn't come over, only nodded as if he were used to such a phenomenon.

"Is it common? To keep a jar full of hand?"

"For the Templars."

"Uh, why?"

"It is a relic. Should the temple come under serious threat from the supernatural, the preceptor will break the jar and use the relic to defend the brotherhood."

"Is it the body part of some saint?"

"They have those too, I think. In this case it is an unholy relic – a weapon. The body part of a preternatural."

Stiles shut his mouth. He was surprised he hadn't been drawn to the hand as he had to the mummy. They proceeded the rest of the way to their rooms in silence.

Finstock stopped Stiles before he entered. "Your mother was fully cremated. I made absolutely certain."

Stiles swallowed silently and then said, "Thank you."

He nodded once, his face oddly impassive.