27th December
"How do you always get into these situations?" Derek asks wryly from where he's crouched behind a perfectly pruned hedge.
"I have no idea what you're talking about…" Stiles mumbles as he peeks through the foliage at the dark blue sedan across the street.
Derek rolls his eyes fondly, "Why am I helping you with this again?"
"Because you get caught literally every time you try something sneaky. You catching the heat gives me time to escape," Stiles winks cheekily.
Almost like clockwork at 8:25, the Daehler's enter their sedan and reverse out of their drive.
"Thank you, Jesus…literally," Stiles smirks as he watches the car turn right down a street towards the Beacon Baptist Church. Their dedication to attending Sunday services was well known, and thanks to some snooping from his dad, left them a two-hour window to investigate.
Stiles slips his battered phone from the front pouch of his battered leather satchel and taps out a message to his dad.
Stiles | 8:27 am | The Eagles have left the nest. Balto and Little Red preparing for retrieval.The reply is swift.
Dad | 8:27 am | You had better not be wearing that red hoodie. I warned you about going incognito. Stiles| 8:28 am | The tide is high. The waxing moon is beautiful tonight. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain."Stiles!" Derek says impatiently, brows raised. "Enough of the spy talk – we've got a problem," he tilts his head at the Daehler's neighbor.
Damnit. One of the neighbors, a miserly old man notorious for being a nosy busybody is reading his newspaper on his veranda. He's supposed to be on his way to the weekly lawn bowls competition. The perks of his dad being on the force means that he's familiar with the people on his patrol route. They'd gotten lucky that the Daehler's happened to live on a quiet street, but there's no avoiding the neighbor's watchful eyes if they approach from the front.
Derek growls softly under his breath, keen eyes darting as though looking for possibilities. They're unwilling to go over the back fence which borders an alleyway – it's far too high to comfortably climb. It's better to escape down the back and hastily exit out the alley rather than be seen skulking there doing recon on the house.
"Don't bother trying to stealth your way out of this one," Stiles whispers to the frustrated wolf. "Here, clip this on…" Stiles fumbles through his brown leather satchel and shoves a plastic clip-on name tag at him. Derek looks at him helplessly, unsure what ill-conceived plan Stiles has concocted now. His eyes linger over Stiles' long-fingered hands deftly attaching his own name tag to his left top pocket.
Stiles huffs at his inaction and snatches it from his hand. He dexterously clips the tag onto Derek's leather jacket pocket and studies him for a moment.
"Well, it's a bit Grease, but it'll have to do Danny Zuko."
"Stiles—" Derek ekes out between clenched teeth.
Stiles tuts at him, "Nuh-uh, it's Elder Robinson now. You're Elder Mitchell."
Derek's furrowed eyebrows scrunch even further, "No."
"Uhh, yes," Stiles says insistently, rummaging in his satchel for something. "Have a little faith, DerBear," he teases, shoving a handful of pamphlets into Derek's hands.
Derek rolls his eyes, "This is stupid. It's just going to draw more attention to us."
He hums at him, shutting the bag and rearranging the strap over his shoulder. "You'd think that, but it's a clever trick I've picked up from Dad." Stiles reaches out and grips Derek's shoulder, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "You have to walk like you have authority. A uniform, a clipboard – whatever. But you have to walk like you're on a mission. We can't go in there as ourselves – Mr. Neighborhood Watch there and all the old biddies looking out their curtains at us would question it. But who questions two door knockers?"
Derek still looks doubtful, eying the pamphlets with unease. "What if he wants to talk to us? Where did you even get these, Stiles," he huffs disbelievingly.
Stiles waves away Derek's concern. "I used to sign Mr. Harris and Jackson up to all their monthly newsletters…all 37 of them. And he won't want to stick around and watch us – no one will want to talk to us with these," he playfully flicks Derek's nametag. "Just follow my lead – smile obnoxiously and look ready to hand out those pamphlets at the first sign of weakness."
He gives a strange sort of wiggle on the spot as though preparing to go on stage. Stiles stands up from their absurd crouch behind the hedge, brushing stray leaves from his pants. Pasting the widest, most disconcertingly fake smile on his face he gestures at Derek to copy, and together they step out onto the sidewalk. Stiles though, immediately veers to the right, away from the Daehler house to the low-set red brick house adjacent to the hedge. Stiles strides confidently to the door but doesn't knock. Instead, he takes a notebook from his pocket and pretends to peruse it, scribbling a note to himself.
"He noticed us yet?" he hisses out the corner of his mouth.
Derek surreptitiously tries to glance over Stiles' shoulder under the ruse of reading his notebook.
"What are we doing at this house?" Derek murmurs, shuffling close enough that his chin brushes Stiles spiked hair.
"Allaying his suspicions…and provoking his fear," Stiles shrugs guilelessly. "If he sees us approach another house he'll get a sense of who we are…and start making a plan to avoid us. Even if he doesn't, he won't think twice of us going to Matt's house – he'll just be grateful we've left him alone."
"Smile, he's watching us over the top of his newspaper now," Derek breathes out. Stiles can't help the faint shiver that races down his spine at the huff of warmth that ghosts his cheek with Derek's exhale. Derek sends him a questioning look he hurriedly ignores.
Not now danger boner.
Stiles turns on the spot, fake customer service smile firmly in place. He deliberately locks eyes with the Neighborhood Watcher and strides across the street to halt at his letterbox, Derek trotting along behind him. He's the epitome of youthful eagerness, bag strap tightly clenched at his chest in one hand, notebook in the other.
"Hello! My name is Elder Robinson, and this is Elder Mitchell." Derek smiles beatifically, showing that wolfish smile that seems to have too many teeth… "Do you have a few moments to talk about our Lo—"
"Oh, I'm so sorry boys, but I just remembered I left the stove on. Another time, perhaps!" he says hurriedly, eyes shiftily looking anywhere but at Stiles.
"No problem, sir," Stiles says cheerily, "We'll be on this street for a while. If you're out here again later we'll be sure to drop by!" The man visibly hesitates before snatching his newspaper up and shutting his door firmly behind him.
Derek ruthlessly shoves a pamphlet in the letterbox anyway, shrugging when Stiles looks at him questioningly.
"What?" he shrugs. "Just maintaining my cover," he smirks.
They maintain the ruse all the way up to the Daehler's, feigning confusion and heading to their back porch instead.
Derek keeps a lookout, casting his eyes over the perimeter. Luckily for them, the Daehler's yard is surrounded by high fences – too high for any but the most dedicated window peeping neighbor to see into. Stiles fiddles with the lock a moment before—
A dull grating click lets him know they're in.
Stiles shoves his tools back into his bag, snatching the pamphlets from Derek too.
"Does your Dad know you're a criminal mastermind?"
"Who do you think I learned it from? He had to take me into work sometimes after Mom died…you can learn a lot from the people in the holding cells," he grins. "We were lucky – an old house like this? Rear doors don't tend to have the deadbolts front doors do and it was a piece of cake to get in to."
Derek halts him at the threshold, head tilted toward the house. Stiles panics for a second, thinking they've been sprung.
"What are you doing?" he hisses at Derek, "We're out in the open!"
"Listening for the hum of alarms or cameras, genius," Derek replies, slowly letting go of the firm grip he had on Stiles' bicep. "We're good to go."
Stiles sneaks his way through the dining room to the living room. He's so preoccupied with avoiding creaky floorboards that he jumps a foot into the air at the sound of Derek's unrestrained laugh.
"Why are you sneaking like a third-rate spy?" he smirks, mirth glittering in his eyes.
Stiles shrugs expansively, "We're breaking and entering, I thought I should be subtle!"
As they head up the carpeted stairs to the bedrooms, Stiles' heart flutters like a trapped bird. He desperately hopes Derek can't hear the rapid pattering of his pulse or see the rising blush coloring his cheeks. Stiles has always been able to wring a smirk, a reluctant chuckle, or fond eye roll from Derek. They've shared quiet moments together during the search for Erica and Boyd and after their deaths. But since they started texting and calling, a barrier has fallen.
There's trust now. Shared secrets. Swapped jokes.
Derek gently nudges him forward with a hand to his lower back…he'd been lost in thought for longer than he realized. Stammering, Stiles mumbles out, "Yeah. Yep. This way. Uh-huh."
Cautiously avoiding being seen through the windows, they reach the closed door at the end of the hall.
It almost feels like they're entering a sacred space.
A quiet tomb.
A time capsule forever preserving Matt at sixteen years of age.
…Almost.
With a shrug, Stiles twists the doorknob and swings the door open. Fuck it, Matt was a Grade-A certified douchenozzle.
Besides, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Again. Can ghosts even be hurt? Is he even a ghost? Is he a ghost kelpie?
"Are you humming the Ghostbusters theme?" Derek asks incredulously.
"Uhhh…yes. Yes. I am. Just needed to…assert my dominance over this," he gestures at the general vibe of the room.
The corner of Derek's mouth twitches ever so slightly. "Calm down, Ray," he smirks, turning his back on Stiles' shocked (and delighted) expression. "Don't look so surprised. I wasn't raised by wolves, you know. I have seen movies. Now get to work," he teases.
It's a risk they're taking here, but they need to rule out Matt as a suspect. Or rule in. The idea is to attempt a tracking spell Stiles had found in Practical Rites and Runes. He's not sure it's going to work. No one needs to track a dead person after all. He's going to give it a shot, though. Magic is finicky, Peter says. Deaton mostly says vague metaphors about belief.
The issue with tracking spells (besides being used for finding, y'know, real live people, or objects) is they need some sort of connection. A DNA connection to be precise. Which is why Stiles is elbow deep in Daehler's underwear drawer. Looking for something…anything he can use in the ritual. He just hopes he won't have to resort to pubes, he grimaces, shutting the drawer with a snap.
Stiles is not keen to have to dig up a grave for this little bastard.
…Not that he'd do it.
That's Isaac's job.
Serves him right for missing the clue train for so long and being a dick.
Derek is combing (ha!) through the bedding looking for stray hair. Turns out wolfy super sniffer powers aren't good enough to locate single strands of hair though. Derek shakes his head wordlessly, carefully tucking the bedding back in. It was too perfectly straight when they came in – someone had already changed the sheets and made the bed again. Probably so they didn't have to see a bare mattress and be reminded.
Stiles steps into Matt's adjoining en-suite. Lucky bastard. Stiles has to share a bathroom with his dad. That's not a great thing when the man goes through so much terrible police station black coffee. Stiles has heard some terrible things from behind that locked door. Things he can never unhear.
It looks like a bust though – no toothbrush, no bar of soap. There is a comb, but it's woefully empty. Not a strand to be seen. This must be the cleanest bathroom he's ever been in…he never thought he'd want to be in a dirty bathroom…but here he is.
He's holding a razor up contemplatively, wondering if the tiny stubbly hairs left behind in the disposable shaver would be enough when Derek steps up behind him and makes eye contact in the mirror.
"Anything?" Derek asks, raising a brow at Stiles' intense study of the razor.
"Just this," he sighs. "I knew it was a long shot – it's been a year after all. But I hoped..." he swallows thickly, "we kept a lot of Mom's stuff…after."
Derek lays a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. "You'll find a way. You always do."
He riffles through his satchel and takes out a snap-lock sandwich bag, shaking the razor inside. He grimaces – it's a paltry DNA sample at best.
They stare glumly at the bag.
"I mean, at least it's not a pube?" Stiles attempts at levity.
Derek reaches over Stiles' shoulder to rummage through the mirrored medicine cabinet. He retrieved a mostly used tub of hair gel, the lid almost glued shut with sticky-fingered remnants.
Stiles barely holds back a snarky tease about Derek's hair, now softer than his previous Danny Zuko gelled fringe days. I mean…he assumes it's softer. It isn't like he wants to run his long-fingered hands through it or anything—
With a (frankly disgusting) slurping crackle, Derek prizes the lid from the jar. Stiles goes up onto his canvas sneakered tiptoes to peer into the gel, face growing a blotchy red as he feels Derek's exhale caress the back of his neck, his jean-clad rear brushing tantalizingly close to the crotch of Derek's jeans. He silently sends a prayer to the wolfy gods that Derek doesn't hear the hitch in his breath or the racing of his pulse at his proximity.
"Got you," Derek softly rumbles, the vibration in his chest sending sparks through Stiles.
Stiles awkwardly coughs to clear his throat, "Uh…you sure do."
Derek meets his eyes in the mirror, brow quirking, smirk…smirking. "The jar, Stiles."
Face flushing, Stiles averts his eyes to see an inch-long brown hair glued into the grooves which twist the lid on.
"Dibs not touching that," he blurts out.
"You wanted a DNA sample, detective. Collect your sample. We don't have all day…"
Stiles grimaces and pulls a face at Derek before he snatches one of his pilfered sandwich zip lock bags masquerading as evidence bags. He turns the bag inside out around his hand and gingerly scrapes the hair from its gluey prison. He shoots a triumphant smirk at Derek's exasperated yet fond look.
"So…back to my place?" Derek asks, carefully replacing the tub of hair gel into the cabinet.
Stiles stammers, "Uhh, what?", his mind (and elsewhere) still hung up on their closeness in the shared space of the bathroom.
"For the spell," Derek clarifies, Impatient Brows Look #3 on his features. "I don't think your dad would want you trying out an experimental spell under his roof."
"Wow, way to be a fun ruiner," Stiles snarks cheekily then sobers, the reality of what they're doing setting in as they take one final look around Matt's bedroom. The Matt who used Jackson to kill people. The Matt who stalked Allison. Who still is stalking Allison if their hunch is right. "You're right though. Matt knew — knows— where I live. Perks of being the sheriff's kid I suppose. If this tracking spell alerts him somehow I don't want him to follow it there."
"Maybe we should make the loft the base of operations," Derek muses as they make their way downstairs, "I can shut off the water to the whole building…do you think that would stop it using the pipes? Does it need a constant connection to water to move?"
Stiles' eyes blow wide. Holy shit. That's actually a great idea they'll have to test out. If they can isolate it from a water source, they could trap it. Though, it did use Daniel Ellis as a portable source of water to force him to the creek…
"You're a genius, Sourwolf. We'll put it on the board when we get back – see if we can rig a way to test that out."
"I do have my moments," Derek says wryly, keeping a lookout for the neighbors as Stiles fumbles to relock the door behind them.
Stiles heads for the front of the house but has barely taken more than a few steps before Derek is gripping his upper arm, holding him back.
"What? Are they home already?" Stiles hisses.
Derek's head tilts ever so slightly towards the front of the house. Stiles manfully resists the urge to make a Lassie joke. But only because the grip Derek has on his arm is inspiring other urges he's forcefully repressing.
"Not the Daehlers, no. But the people across the street are saying their goodbyes to some relatives getting in a car," he grimaces, "it's getting messy…they're going to be a while. If we walk out the front they'll see us and we'll have to do the pamphlet thing the whole way up the street to keep our cover."
"Old guy next door?" Stiles questions.
Derek tilts his head, listening, "Watching tv," he concludes. He jerks a thumb at the rear fence, "Laneway instead?" he asks.
Stiles eyes the high fence speculatively, honestly worried he'll tear the crotch of his pants. His hesitation must show on his face because Derek sizes him up, eyes glittering with mirth and says, "I'll give you a boost."
Stiles gapes indignantly and marches over to the fence. "I don't need a boost," he scoffs, fumbling for grip on the two horizontal supports of the fence. Even standing on the bottom strut leaves him at only eye level with the top of the fence. He tries to fling a leg up to the top beam for leverage but his sneaker just slides pathetically down the timber fence. Readjusting his weight, he tries again, ignoring the feel of Derek's judgmental brows staring at him.
He's doing a valiant job at trying (and failing) to get a leg over the fence when suddenly two broad hands, hot even through the denim of his jeans, grip the back of his thighs firmly and with a grunt, lift him up until he's precariously balanced on the top of the fence. Stiles hurriedly checks the coast is clear before jumping down the other side to land in the weed-filled narrow laneway that acts as a walking path for all the pyramid scheming, legging wearing, and protein shake drinking middle-aged moms.
He takes a moment to catch his breath and slow his pounding heart. The residual imagined pressure from Derek's broad palms and the dull points of pressure from his fingertips are a brand burning the sensation into his memory forever. He'd suspected he had a slight manhandling kink after Derek pinned him to his bedroom door so long ago, but this just confirmed it.
Derek lands with an almost choreographed thud next to him, looking nonchalant at his own acrobatics.
"Show off," Stiles mutters mutinously.
They walk side by side down the ill-kempt laneway, their name badge disguises once again tucked into Stiles' satchel, hands occasionally brushing in their closeness.
Stiles very nearly takes Derek's hand to scare off a badly bleached blonde jogger who eyes Derek a little too speculatively on their walk back to the Camaro parked at a strip mall a few blocks away.
(Why can't we take the jeep?
Everyone knows your jeep, Stiles. Do you even know the meaning of the word subtle?
Oh, like that overcompensation on wheels is subtle?)
Derek starts up the Camaro and slaps at Stiles' hand when he reaches over to change the radio station.
"Spoilsport," Stiles pouts.
Stiles | 9:07 am | Mission success. Going to loft so don't blow up the house. Dad | 9:09 am | Please tell me you're joking. That's not a real risk is it? Dad | 9:15 am | Stiles. Answer me. Am I going to get a call out because of this magic stuff? Dad | 9:21 am | If you blow yourself up, you're grounded.Derek side-eyes the phone in Stiles' hand, "Are you going to answer him?"
"Nope," Stiles replies, popping the p. "It's more fun this way."
Derek disagrees if the look on his face is anything to go by. He seems to show more fear of Stiles' father owning a gun than he does of Chris Argent and his garage arsenal.
They make a quick stop at the vet clinic for some supplies Deaton had set aside. Derek was not impressed that the herb bundles made him violently sneeze and tossed them in the trunk with a little more force than necessary.
Stiles unsuccessfully attempted to get Derek to make another stop, (no, we're not stopping for curly fries, Stiles. It's not even 10am) much to his disappointment.
He's beginning to regret wheedling Derek for fast food now that he's faced with the marathon of stairs to reach the loft. Derek, having power-walked into the lobby and up the stairs to avoid helping carry any of the bags (and to escape Stiles' pathetic pleas for fries), leans over the railing from two floors above and raises an impatient brow.
Ok, so maybe there is some tactical advantage to the loft. The elevator being permanently out of order means the bad guys have a hell of a lot of stairs to conquer first. He spares a moment to wonder how Deucalion went tapping his way up and down here. The image certainly seems to take all the mystery out of the alpha pack's dramatic entrances and exits. Maybe if Derek installed a fireman pole…?
Stiles hurriedly jogs up the remaining stairs and into the loft, where Derek has left the door wide open for him. Lucky for him – that door weighs a ton and he heard Isaac snigger at him the last time he tried to open it.
Derek is sweeping a pile of papers and books off what Stiles has started affectionately calling 'The War Table' after spending that summer looking for Erica and Boyd. On the now clear surface, he unrolls out his copy of the Beacon Hill's map. This one is slightly different from the park ranger's map, or even the Sheriff's department map. This map has soft blue lines like tree roots which wind their way underneath the unsuspecting town – the ley lines. There's also the border to Satomi's territory marked out.
Derek waves his arm towards the table, beckoning Stiles' forward to take over as he heads up the spiral staircase with a "be right back," tossed over his leather-clad shoulder.
It's a little bit strange, Stiles thinks. To be trusted so implicitly in Derek's space. In making the plans. In doing magic. Honest to god, attempting a tracking spell. He's determined not to stuff this up.
He takes a deep breath, centering himself. Take that year of school mandated guidance officer therapy after Mom died – you were useful for something after all.
Slowly releasing the breath between pursed lips, he opens his eyes, focusing his gaze and energy on the bag still tightly gripped in his hand. Almost as though in a trance, he meticulously and carefully lays out the mortar and pestle, the veterinary specimen jars acting as magic herb containers, a small penknife, rough twine, a pointed crystal, and his zip lock bag containing Matt's slightly gummy hair.
Stiles tries not to overthink it – he maintains his steady breathing and just goes with his instincts. He's read this spell a thousand times since coming up with the plan of attack last night. He could do it in his sleep. He almost is with the smooth way his hands are fulfilling his every instinct without conscious thought. Before he knows it, he's looking down at a mortar full of finely ground herbs, flowers and, he shudders, what was once an insect of some kind. He starts carefully winding the twine around the blunt end of the crystal in the overlapping pattern the grimoire sketched, Matt's hair delicately threaded throughout the wiry strands. He picks up the penknife and… hesitates.
"Stiles?" Derek enquires from his spot on the arm of the couch – present enough to be watching but unobtrusive enough that Stiles could shut him out of his focus zone.
His hand trembles ever so slightly.
The next step is the caster's energy. Life-force, Deaton said. Blood.
He technically could use semen but he's not that desperate…yet.
It wouldn't be a problem normally. Needles are a huge hell no, but knives he can do.
Could do, before the sense memory of his own traitorous hands gripping the hilt of the katana embedded in Scott, hot blood dripping sickly to the floor, struck him the moment he picked up the knife.
Derek's socked feet softly pad the floor behind him as he approaches cautiously. His warm, slightly calloused hands enclose the trembling one holding the knife. "I can do this part," he says softly.
Stiles slams his eyes shut, shaking his head vehemently, "No, I need to get over it. I can do this."
"You don't have to do it alone though. I know you faint at the sight of a chopped off arm…but there's no shame in asking for help as you so wisely told me."
Stiles scoffs eyes still screwed shut against the memories. "You can't help me with this. It's gotta be my blood."
"That doesn't mean you have to get hurt while doing it," Derek murmurs, drawing him closer by the shoulders into a hug.
"Uhh, pretty sure the whole point of the knife and the blood is that I do have to get hurt, y'know?" Stiles snarks into Derek's shoulder, still refusing to look at the knife.
"No, you don't. Not if you ask for help," Derek says.
"Oh yeah? How are you gonna—"
Derek pulls back from the embrace, wiggling a little vial with the teaspoon's worth of blood Stiles needed in his face, "already done."
Stiles sighs, "I told you, it has to be my blood."
Derek's smirk deepens, his eyes crinkling at the edges, "It is."
He looks at himself, confused, only to find a tiny slice in the back of his forearm – a slice bisected by minuscule black veins running from the cut into Derek where he's pulling the pain with a clawed hand still wrapped tightly around Stiles' trembling knife holding fist.
"You scratched me with your wolfy claws!" Stiles barks indignantly.
"And you never felt a thing," Derek boasts. "Told you I was right. You don't have to do everything yourself. You can ask for help."
But Stiles is more distracted by something else. "Does your sweater have thumb holes?!" Derek looks at his own burgundy sweater, bewildered.
"Uhh, yes? I was getting changed upstairs…? You're deflecting again."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Derek rolls his eyes fondly, "Look if this emissary gig involves more blood-letting here's a tip," he says, hand sliding down to hold Stiles' hand, palm up in his, inky tendrils fading now. "Never slice across your palm." He drags his thumb across the crease bisecting his palm. "I don't care if you saw it on Buffy or Supernatural," he preemptively interrupts Stiles, "its thin skin covering important parts with a lot of nerve endings. You'd reopen the cut every time you moved your hand. Outside of forearm only, ok?"
Stiles can't do anything but nod, his hand tingling with the pain drain and the mere sensation of someone holding his hand. It hasn't happened outside of a life or death situation in…well, more than a while. He's missed human (or wolfy) contact in the last month, to an almost embarrassing degree.
Derek presses the now filled vial into his hand, point made, and gently shepherds him back to the table.
Time to focus. You can have your crisis over Derek later.
Stiles pours the blood into the mortar mix, swirling it all together. Then, he carefully lifts the crystal by the twine and dips it into the admittedly gross chunky blood mix. He soaks it for ten seconds – just enough time for the life force part of the spell to absorb into the hair.
Derek watches with keen eyes as Stiles slowly swings the blood-soaked crystal over the map in a circular motion. He's methodical, using a grid method just to make sure they don't miss a spot on the enormous map. Stiles believes with all his might.
Show me where he is. Where is he now? Find him.
Then, a soft drop.
It feathers out from the spot it landed. A note of finality to the tracking spell. They lean over the map, impatient to read: 'Beacon Hills Memorial Cemetery'.
"Well, fuck. Guess the asshole really is dead after all," Stiles says bitterly. "Guess we're right back to square one." Stiles runs the hand not holding a bloodied crystal through his hair frustratedly. "Reckon we could still get Isaac to dig him up, just to make sure?"
Derek's eyes, however, are fixated on the map. The drop is spreading rapidly, stretching further than it should. Another drop falls from the pendant where it hangs limply in Stiles' hand. This one lands on the other side of town – just on the edge of the preserve.
From there, it's like a dam has broken. The lines flow like an overwhelming flood – barreling down waterways in the preserve, kinking around corners in man-made plumbing, and branching off at the water treatment plant.
He's…everywhere. The smudges are faint- there wasn't enough blood to trace Matt's paths. It's clear from the spell that his body still resides in its graveyard plot judging by the still ruby gleam at the cemetery. He must have died at the second drop – he checks – it's not too far from the police station. But the rest… The rest just confirms what he already knew. There's no escaping it. His spirit…aura…bad juju – he doesn't even know — has taken the time to hunt down his victims. There are smudges all around Ellis' house, the Argent house (before he warded it, ha!), the hospital lot, the Daehler's house, the school, and…the Hale house?
Stiles nudges Derek with an elbow, directing his attention to the area of the preserve where he knows the Hale house lies.
Derek's growl echoes around the loft. "That fucker."
"Why would he go there?"
"He must remember the night at the police station. I'd never met him before but he sent Jackson to paralyze me. Could be curiosity in the supernatural? You did say he stole a copy of the bestiary – and he was trying to find out why he was taking on the kanima's curse that night."
Stiles scans the map intently, trying to discern a path or a pattern – "He was in my house."
Derek leans in to study the faint, copper smelling pathways left behind by the poultice. "You said you put up protective runes? How long ago was that?"
"Three days ago, why?"
Derek's finger traces the line, "This one is fainter…I wonder if that means it's an older trail. Have you felt or seen anything?"
Stiles hesitates, "I…don't know. I wasn't really paying attention. I've been…really struggling since— I've been so caught up in feeling paranoid like I'm being watched, like it's not over yet, that I don't know if it's a me problem or a Matt problem."
A heavy hand reaches out and squeezes his shoulder in support, "I know. I was the same…after. Every woman with blonde hair I saw out the corner of my eye was her. It takes time. You'll get there, I promise." Although Derek has released Stiles' shoulder from his comforting grip, the heat and the imagined pressure remain. Stiles clasps his own hand against the spot, smiling faintly.
"I was right though," Derek says, taking his phone out to take a photo of the map. "He hasn't been here – he doesn't know about the loft. He hasn't been anywhere near this side of town. If we're careful and avoid being seen we can use this as our base. I'll let the pack know."
"Are you gonna tell Isaac he still has to dig up the grave?"
Derek looks bemused, "Why would I do that?"
Stiles shrugs, "For kicks. He's been a bit of a douche lately circa when he first turned."
"Stiles."
"Alright, fine," he huffs.
They both take photos of the map just in case the blood mixture damages it too much to be legible. They work together in companionable silence to clear the spellcasting ingredients from the table while Stiles internally freaks out. I cast a spell! Holy shit! Why didn't Deaton let me do this stuff earlier?
His mind is elsewhere, riffling through the remembered pages of the Hales' books in his memory, wondering what else he can try when the quiet is broken by a buzzing noise and the muted chorus of the 'Cops' theme song.
Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles, holding the phone up to show 'Dad' calling. "Really, Stiles?"
"C'mon, that's a great ringtone!"
Derek scoffs and tosses the phone to Stiles who somehow manages to catch it despite fumbling desperately and answers with a breathless, "Sup, Daddio?"
"Stiles," the sheriff begins patiently, "how do you get Lydia to stop doing…that vacant stare thing?"
Derek's head whips to face the phone. There's only one reason—
"What happened?" Stiles demands. He can hear the faint sounds of a car door slamming shut in the background of the call.
"I got a call from Lydia about twenty minutes ago telling me to come to the pool. She didn't sound like herself and I was already on patrol with Parrish near there anyway. He's convinced she's some type of psychic thank god," he mutters. "She was at the gate waiting for us— it was one of the lifeguards, ID in purse says a 'Stacey Caldwell' – you'll have to cross-check it against the swim team to make sure but she's the right age."
Derek swears under his breath. "Are we sure it's one of ours?" Derek asks.
"Well, the girl was a lifeguard at the pool. Coroner's only been here a few minutes, but his best guess is she died the day before Christmas Eve – that was her last close shift before the holidays. She's been here about four days by that reckoning."
"Wait. Was she in the pool?"
"No, in the locker room showers. There's evidence of aspiration so the coroner suspects she'd had a near-drowning incident and succumbed before she could get help. We know differently though."
"Aww, man. That's the second lifeguard to die there. They're gonna shut it down, mark my words. This is why we can't have nice things," Stiles says exasperatedly.
Derek calls out from where he'd been tapping away at his phone, "She was on the swim team, just confirmed with Scott. He's going to pick up Danny and come over so they can compare the potential victim's addresses to our map."
"Ahh yes, your hacker friend. That's another thing – I took Daehler's laptop out of the evidence locker first thing this morning. Listen to me carefully – you will not tell anyone you have this. You will wipe it down and return it to its sealed bag when you are finished with it. You don't know how much trouble it was to sneak the damn thing out."
"Sir, yes, sir."
"Now how do I fix…this," his dad says, referring to Lydia's fugue state.
"You can't. She has to let out a banshee wail to…I don't know – clear the aura of death away? It's better to do it as close to the body as you can – that's how she's always done it and how we've found them before. But I guess it'll raise too many questions if the place is riddled with cops…"
"Bring her here, Sheriff," Derek adds. "Maybe the map will spark something and draw the scream out. Worth a shot anyway. I'll ask Peter, he always knows more than he's letting on."
Lydia stands expressionless in front of the war table. ('It's not a war table, Stiles.'… 'Oh, yeah? What else do you use it for?'). Her hands tremble slightly at her sides, eyes staring vacantly out the wall of windows opposite.
"Is she…alright?" his dad asks, both concerned and out of his depth.
Stiles hums, "Should be…just a waiting game now, I think. Text Scott to bring a large skim milk extra shot latte with him for after she snaps out of this."
They stand in strained silence watching Lydia listen to things they can never hear.
"This isn't working," Derek says, pacing impatiently.
Stiles casts his eyes around for a trigger, a stimulus, or something.
Bingo.
He races over to the kitchen faucet. "Have you turned off the water to this place yet?" At Derek's negative head shake, Stiles twists the tap gently, letting a slow steady drip echo into the basin.
Lydia seems to shake with every high pitched plink of water on metal. Her perfectly polished hands slowly rise over the map, hovering, almost caressing the air above it as though feeling the topography like braille. Stiles scrambles to get the voice recording app on his phone open, just in case this scream for dispelling leftover energy is useful in the future. Finally, Lydia's head snaps up as her eyes screwed shut and she lets out a deafening wail – the windows juddering in their frames, Derek crouched behind a pillar, hands clasped tightly over his now pointed ears.
A rapid pounding noise echoes from beyond the corridor. The heavy-set door slides open to reveal a glowing-eyed Scott, an out of breath Danny, and moments later, a frazzle-haired Allison, carefully supporting the surgical scars on her abdomen.
Lydia takes another deep breath and releases it slowly, awareness back in her laser-focused eyes. "A) that coffee better be for me McCall, and B) Allison, what do you think you're doing running in your condition?" She takes charge immediately, shepherding Allison to the low set sofa and bolstering her with cushions, whirling around to snatch the Starbucks cup from Scott's still slightly clawed hand while they stand there awed in the wake of Hurricane Lydia.
"What are you all looking at?" she snaps, "We've got work to do."
"Lydia," Allison implores, "are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"
Lydia's blinks rapidly to dispel the growing tears in her eyes. "There's nothing to talk about. This is what I am now and I'm going to conquer it just like everything else. No point getting upset about something that can't be changed."
There's a tense silence as the rest of the pack side-eye each other, urging someone to placate her but unwilling to risk her wrath.
It's Stiles who breaks first.
"That's not the advice you gave me a while ago. Pretty sure you'd have hit me if I said that shit about everything."
Lydia looks dumbfounded to be called out like that. "That's— It's not— it's not the same…"
"Isn't it?" Derek asks from where he's reclining against a pillar, arms folded. God, he really does look so attractive without even trying. Does he realize that? Does he do it on purpose?
Allison says firmly, "Lyds, it's not a weakness to need help. You showed me that. You think I haven't felt vulnerable after the surgery? Letting you, Stiles, and the pack help me? Getting support makes you stronger."
Lydia hesitates, clearly holding her words back, but nods in acquiescence. "I went for a walk this morning. Just, straight out the front door. I didn't know where I was going, just that I had to be there. I ended up at the pool, staring at the locked gates. I remembered what you said Stiles, so I called your dad. The pool was due to open in an hour's time, so Parrish cut the lock with bolt cutters. She was in the locker room. She'd…been there a while. I was so caught up with Gerard and you, Allison that I missed this. I can't help but wonder if I'd just listened, if I could have prevented it instead of just finding the bodies when it's too late. Parrish probably thinks I belong in Eichen and I don't blame him."
"We can't save everyone," Derek says somberly, "no matter how much we'd like to," he adds with a glance at Scott.
"You can't help the lifeguard right now. But you can try to help the next person," Scott says.
"There are five swim team members left," Danny says. "I did a little digging and none of them live in California anymore. So unless it…he…Matt…?"
"—it's definitely Matt according to the tracking spell," Stiles chimes in, gesturing to the map Lydia is scrutinizing with interest.
"—then unless he can cross state lines there's nothing else he wants here?" Danny shrugs.
"Except for me," Allison whispers, wringing her sweater sleeves in her fingers.
"Can he go that far?" Scott asks.
"I don't think so…" Lydia says, marking locations on the map. "Look, he's stayed strictly within this zone here. You can see where he tried," her finger traces a path south out of Beacon Hills which abruptly stops, "but he can't. And here, too," she trails past the place of Gerard's death only to hit an impassable point not far beyond it.
"What could be keeping him here?" Allison asks. "Territory boundaries? The nemeton?" she directs at Derek who is frowning at the map.
"I don't know. I'll have to ask Peter when he gets back."
Lydia can't hide her grimace in time. "He's collecting some books for you," he adds, which seems to improve Lydia's mood a little if the gleam in her eye is anything to go by.
So, he seems to be trapped in the territory for some inconvenient reason (because Beacon Hills is a Hellmouth, dude). And he's fresh out of targets. Great.
"All those opposed to ganking this guy once and for all?" Stiles asks the pack.
Shockingly, even Scott's hand stays by his side. Guess even some people aren't redeemable. Or maybe just the people who threaten Allison.
"I think that sounds easier in theory than it does in practice," Derek says. "He's had the upper hand so far – he can outmaneuver us, and we just don't know enough about his weaknesses to make a plan yet."
"Which weaknesses though? Matt or the kelpie? I mean, I know they're the same thing, but, like, how are we coming at this?" Scott asks.
"Both," Lydia and Stiles say decisively at the same time, glancing at each other in surprise.
"Lydia, you were Queen Bee – what do you remember about Matt from school?" Stiles asks.
"Not much, to be honest. He was beneath me on the totem pole. But I do remember that none of the girls would touch him with a ten-foot pole. Remember when he had that crush on Eliza in middle school?"
Stiles and Scott exchange puzzled glances. Danny, however, sits up straighter from his spot on the arm of the sofa. "I do! He was a jerk. Sabotaging her art project, messing with her locker – I'm pretty sure he started that rumor about her being pregnant and her parents pulled her out of school over it."
"So…you're saying he's petty, jealous, and possessive?" Derek asks with a wry brow raised. "That's…good – for us. He can be manipulated easily."
"Don't forget – he stole that footage of Jackson turning into the kanima. It's how he found out about everything in the first place. He's a skilled liar, I'll give him that. I had no idea he was the one who had messed with the video. So he's sneaky, and can't resist the temptation to put his nose where it doesn't belong."
"That fits his whole spying in the shower schtick. Even dead, he's still a pervert." Stiles scoffs as Allison crosses her arms discomforted.
"I'm not letting him spy on me in the shower," she insists. "I'm pretty sure he's already had that chance a few times. I'm not sending him an invitation."
"No one will ask you to do that, Allison," Lydia says. "But we can use his interest in you to our advantage. After all, you can't have a trap with no bait."
It's clear none of them like the idea of using Allison as bait – even if it's the best (only) plan they've got so far. He's pretty sure Chris Argent will like it even less.
"There is one small issue though," Stiles says wryly, "a tiny, insignificant issue…in that we have no idea how to spring this trap besides throwing more mountain ash at it and letting Kira's mom try to Kill Bill him."
"I had a thought about that, actually," Lydia interjects, eyes cutting to Danny. "We've been drowning in outdated books and new age mysticism websites… I think we should digitize everything and make a database we can use to sort out fact from fiction (propaganda! Stiles fake coughs). As much as I love a good research montage as the next Buffy fan, we're wasting a lot of time going through books that don't even have an index page."
"But the bestiary is on a USB already?" Scott asks, confused.
Danny takes pity on him and pats his shoulder condescendingly. "She wants to make Werewolf Wikipedia." Scott's slow ohh of realization really undermines his confidence in Scott's ability to be in charge sometimes.
"So let's split the jobs up," Stiles suggests, "Ally: you, Derek, and Lydia get a start on compiling the Kelpie research. You know what your dad has started looking at – go from there. We can make a database once this big bad is dusted. Any luck on the silver bridle tale?"
Allison shakes her head, "No. They all mention a silver bridle, but there's no record of one that I could find. Pure silver is expensive – a bridle made of straight silver would be expensive…not to mention pretty difficult to make. Silver is a soft metal – it's an Argent tradition when we come of age to create a silver bullet. But they're symbolic only – silver doesn't work well as a bullet. I can't imagine there's such a thing as a real silver bridle that magically tames a kelpie. I think it's more likely that there's a great-great-great grandparent who hunted one once and it's all just hunter misinformation."
Lydia adds, "But there are different ways of using silver – like silver nitrate spray. We'll come up with a few options to try out when we confront him again."
"I can tell you which ideas are hunter lies or creature spread misinformation," Derek offers.
It's interesting. The nogitsune will always be one of the worst times in his life, but without it – Derek and Allison would never have voluntarily worked with each other. Small miracles, after all.
Lydia imperiously shoves Danny from the arm of the sofa and makes space for Derek.
"Danny and Scott – we need to find out more about Matt. Dad took his laptop from the evidence locker – reckon you can hack into it so we can snoop around in his files?"
Scott sidles over to the table where Danny is studiously unpacking the evidence bag.
"You really think he'd be stupid enough to have evidence on there?" Scott asks doubtfully.
"He was stupid enough to have his creepy stalker photos pasted up all over his bedroom," Danny says scathingly. "Sounds like he didn't think he'd get caught."
"He knew about the kanima by copying Gerard's bestiary. I want to know what else he has on there."
It's well past noon and the detritus of Thai takeout cartons litter the coffee table and floor where the pack has spread out. Stiles is slouching against the leg of the table, legs akimbo, and seriously contemplating a mid-day nap. He's rudely interrupted from his attempts to take an unnoticed siesta when the rolling door to the loft slides open to reveal Peter Hale.
It's the first Stiles has seen of him since they left on their road trip and a small part of him can't help but worry that the snarky banter they'd developed in the last week or so will be different in person. Theoretically, Stiles knows Peter is a lot more stable after his resurrection…but another part still remembers him crouched over Lydia on the lacrosse field, her blood a slick film over his fangs.
Shaking his head to dispel the image, he sees Lydia, hands compulsively adjusting her outfit – a nervous tic she'll deny until the day she dies. Her chin tips up as he approaches, but her eyes linger on the battered, leather-bound book in his grasp.
"Stiles," Peter greets, "good to see our intrepid detective is on the case," he teases, eyeing Stiles' chaotic seating choice. He greets the rest of the pack – their reactions a mixed bag of wariness (Lydia, Allison), complete ignorance (Derek and Danny), and suspicion (Scott…also Lydia again).
"I've outsourced," Stiles says, jerking a thumb over at Danny who is typing furiously on his own laptop he's had to retrieve from home when Matt's proved more of a challenge than anticipated.
Peter doesn't give him the one-sided smirk of mirth or the eye roll he's expecting though. Instead, his attention is entirely focused on Lydia. He looks contrite. An odd expression on Peter for sure.
"Lydia," he begins, "I must apologize for my behavior when I was, let's say delusional, after my coma. I must also apologize for the sense of invasion you must have felt when we shared dreams before my resurrection. I wrongfully presumed you were aware of your heritage and I feared I have inflicted damage upon you, my dear. I can't fix that. And we both know pretty words aren't worth the paper they're written on. But what I can offer you is knowledge." He holds the leather-bound book towards Lydia, who eyes it suspiciously.
"This was your grandmother's. Lorraine's journal. It was not easy to get, I'll tell you that. I had to bribe several night shift workers to get access to her file at Eichen House. Deaton has to escort me just to get past all the goddamned mountain ash. I expected him to tase me and leave me there to be honest."
Lydia looks shell-shocked.
"One does not simply become a banshee. It's hereditary. Contained in this journal are your grandmother's writings. I haven't read them and they might not all make sense…but your grandmother once attempted to scientifically decipher a banshee's abilities. You might choose to do the same. To use your abilities to regain some of the control you feel you've lost with your awakening."
The second's tick by before Lydia responds with a quiet, but sincere thanks. Peter nods at her and drifts over to study the map, still laid out on the table.
Danny meanwhile, has finally managed to get access to Matt's laptop – though judging by the scattered pieces of hardware all over the table he was smart enough to hide it."
Scott and Stiles crowd around behind Danny, but so far it's all disappointingly normal. Nothing in the browser history — he's had a pact with Scott ever since they were 13 and first discovered how the internet worked to delete each other's browser history in the event one of them dies.
"I have found what I'm assuming is the bestiary," Danny says, opening up the files. At Allison's confirming nod he scrolled through the pages, "no notes on any of these pages," he mutters, scrolling past the Kanima page to get to the Kelpie page the next one over. Danny snorts a little to himself, "Couldn't become a kanima right so did the next best thing I guess," he jokes, gesturing at the illustrations on the adjacent pages.
"I've also found a disturbing amount of porn hiding in his 'Health Class' homework folder," Danny says, looking slightly revolted.
"That's it," Stiles says. "You're a genius – if I was Matt and I wanted to hide shady murder plans from my nosy, churchy parents where's the first place I'd put it?"
"I don't know," Scott shrugs. "In a folder named 'Porn' because I know they'd refuse to open it. Win, win." He shrugs.
"Speaking from experience, Scott?" Lydia asks airily from where she's poring over each and every word of her grandmother's journal meticulously.
Scott's face heats up and he avoids making eye contact with Lydia and Allison. Stiles silently vows to hide copious amounts of porn all over his phone and laptop now under innocuous names just to mess with him a little. Keep that alpha ego in check and all…
His prank plans are thrown into disarray when Danny interrupts with a strangled sigh. "Guys, I think I found something."
In a folder labeled Photography Project – Pool Party there is photo after photo. They're all candids — of Daniel Ellis getting into a car, Stacey Caldwell on patrol at the pool, Ashley Cook on the phone, Chris Coleman walking a dog.
There's more.
Of Allison - at her locker, waiting on the bleachers during lacrosse practice, getting into her dad's car. There are also photos of the kanima – some are screengrabs from the stolen video he doctored, some are close-ups – the sickly yellow eyes gleaming at them even through a screen. As Danny scrolls through each of the photos though he starts to become more concerned. There's Jackson with Danny after lacrosse practice. Jackson sitting at a lunch table with Lydia and Danny…
Scott, waving goodbye to his mother from the front porch.
Derek, shoulder hunched defensively in the local supermarket.
Danny, and a human-looking Jackson at Jungle. The night he was paralyzed, he realizes.
Lydia and Allison at the mall.
Derek and Stiles in waterlogged clothes after the pool.
Isaac lingering with Derek near the Camaro.
Lydia and Jackson having an angry conversation post-break-up.
A photo of him with Erica and Isaac from the rave.
His dad, out the front of the sheriff's station date stamped two days before the attack.
Fuck.
Melissa in scrubs unlocking her front door.
"Well, I think I can safely say we've worked out who his new potential victims are…"
Us.