"There was something about the atmosphere of this place that took the heart out of you and made you no good." —Salem's Lot
Stiles and Derek are pleasantly occupied when the mist seeps under the door, curling in the air like a beckoning finger. Stiles thinks of cartoon pies and misbehaving bears. Derek hasn't noticed their visitor yet, has his teeth around a tendon in Stiles' throat, gnawing on it until it's painful.
"Der." Stiles' voice is hoarse and lust-deep, matching the rest of him; hair made messy from long fingers, pupils blown and dark, red marks littering the spaces between moles along his neck and shoulders. "Der, we've got company."
"Let the old perv watch," Derek growls. He bites down on a new piece of skin, blunt teeth growing sharp with anger. Stiles can practically smell the testosterone in the air, sickly sweet, marshmallows left too long over a campfire.
(stiles and derek had never camped together, but they each had memories tied to woods and open skies and roaring fires)
"Watch your tone, Mister Hale." The words fill the room like smoke, like mist. God, Stiles is so fucking tired of the mist being everywhere. He misses fresh air; it's fall now, isn't it? He could see the leaves changing colors from the attic window just yesterday afternoon. He misses the crunch of leaves under his sneakers and the reds and burnt oranges Lydia would insist he wore for photoshoots.
"I didn't know—"
"Obviously," the Darkness says. The Darkness is standing over by the bathroom, watching the pair like they're less than dirt. There's a sneer curling their lip upward, baring one sharp canine. They're wearing Blake's face today, the body's long hair pulled up in a messy bun just to keep the shit off their face. Stiles briefly wonders how possession feels to the other hosts. Do they feel themselves being pushed farther and farther down until they fade out to nothing like the end of a song?
"Do you need Stiles' body?" Derek is still straddling Stiles' lap, obviously comfortable. He's always been the little spoon in this relationship no matter what his impressive ego says.
"I need the both of you." Even in Blake's body, Darkness' eyes glow a tarnished silver. Stiles thinks of an old book he'd read back in middle school about a man who had a heart black as ink and eyes like silver dollars in a colorless face. That's who Darkness reminds Stiles of, Capricorn in his ruined church with his murder of crows.
"What do we have to do," Stiles asks, resigned. You don't tell the demon no, you just do what they say and hope you do the job well enough. Once, just weeks ago, Stiles had failed to get Lahey on their side and the Darkness had flayed him expertly. He still remembers the raw, burning sensation singing through his nerve endings.
"Kira is trying to escape using a pair of twins. They're already in the basement, but Derek will divert them." The Darkness is studying their red-lacquered nails, sharp things that could rend someone to pieces if they were just a little more solid. They still have one more sacrifice before they can retain their form.
(nine pitch black tails that swish and flick sharply through white vapor, tarnished silver eyes that gleam in the dark, a broken-glass voice that echoes through nightmares)
"What about me," Stiles asks. Their smile is wickedly sharp, eyes flashing dangerously under the harsh lights. Dread pools low in his belly, drowning out the lust. Whenever the Darkness smiles like that, bad things happen. Last time it had preceded Stiles being thrown into one of the padded cells with a deranged cannibal named Frank.
"You're going to lure our mercenaries into the basement. I'm going to ensure Boyd is killed."
"You're going to possess Theo?"
"That's the idea." Stiles has his doubts, it'd weakened the Darkness considerably when they'd possessed Stiles the first time. Stiles still remembers the burning sensation of his veins freezing, feeling himself evaporate away so completely like a puddle of water in the summer. If they possess Theo, would it weaken them again? Would they even be able to finish the job? Maybe it would kill them and allow the spirits to wander the earth. Stiles might be a psychopath, but he misses his dad.
"Fine. I'll send Theo a text from Donovan's phone."
The twins pause in front of the basement steps, neither one itching to go where the mist is thickest. They can hear faint sounds echoing down there, screams and pleading and hissing; it's anger, pure and simple. All of Peter Hale's hatred coalesced into a physical being.
"Are you sure the crematorium is down there, Kira?"
"Yep."
"Fuck."
They move slowly through the basement, following slow curves to the left and sharp turns to the right and endless halls. Ethan thinks of all the horror movies he's watched and how so many characters have died in basements like this one, never ending mazes literally made to swallow people whole. How many patients have died down here? How many of them are stuck because of one lunatic's obsessive need to keep killing? He thinks of Bly Manor again, one quote in particular. It used to comfort him, but now it feels like a threat: dead doesn't mean gone.
"Be careful down here," a voice whispers, cold air drenching Ethan's cheek. It smells rancid and old; a room shut up for far too long, rotting insulation, moldy ceiling tiles. He turns, but he can only make out a faint shadow. It sinks into the wall, but no mold is left in its wake. There are more voices the farther they go, patients warning them away from the house. Ethan wishes they'd shown up sooner, back when there was actually a way to get out. It's the thought that counts, he supposes.
"This way," Kira says, passing around a corner into another room. Ethan vaguely recognizes this one from an article, a giant monster of a machine that had been painted in Jackson Whittemore's blood. No sign of a body to go with the blood, though. There hadn't been any bodies whatsoever. "There's another door on the far side—"
"They won't need to go any farther." The twins and the ghost turn as one, finding a looming figure behind them. The man fills the doorway with a mix of muscle and shadow, eyes glowing a neon blue in the gloom of the hall lights.
"Holy shit, you're Derek Hale," Aiden gasps. "I know this is, like, really bad timing, but can I have your autograph?" Derek blinks a couple of times, a dumbfounded expression breaking through the earlier malice. Ethan and Kira have the same expressions as they stare at Aiden. "What? I said it was bad timing."
"You…. You want my autograph?"
"Yeah. You're an amazing engineer, people really seemed to like you, and your autograph would make a pretty penny on eBay." Aiden half-turns to look at his brother. "I found a really nice necklace on this website that Eri would love for Christmas." The plan seems to click in Ethan's head after a brief widening of Aiden's eyes.
"Dude," Ethan whines. "I thought we agreed on tickets to that Supernatural con with the photo op and all that jazz."
"Oh right. Yeah." Aiden looks back to Derek with the charismatic smile that melts their English teacher. "We're getting our mom tickets to ogle Jensen Ackles." Derek looks offended, his thick brows drawn down low over his eyes. He opens his mouth and closes it, opens it one more time, and lets out a low growl like a warning before the pounce. He lunges forward, but Aiden must have been expecting it, letting Derek's chest meet his shoulder in a vicious block that would have made Coach proud. Derek drops to the floor with a wheeze, more surprised than hurt. "Run, you idiots!"
"Run, run as fast as you can," Derek laughs. He flickers once and then he's suddenly back in the doorway, fingernails grown long and sharp. "Please, run, kiddos. I need the exercise." His smile is more threatening than anything, teeth white and shining.
"Pick on someone your own size, asshole!" Aiden keeps his knees bent, ready for pretty much anything. He's been picking fights since pre-K, so he's learned a thing or ten. Derek moves with the fast grace of a natural athlete, but there's only one of him. Ethan steps to the left and forward, ducking low to get his shoulder against Derek's middle. The ghost lands with a hard thud, the breath going out of him with a faint wheeze. Do ghosts have to breathe or is it habit?
"Why are you doing this, Hale," Ethan demands. He glares down at the spirit, heart thumping hard against his ribs. He's never been so terrified before, adrenaline pulsing through his veins with every breath, every staccato beat of his heart. It narrows his vision, tunnels it like a tough practice with Finstock sometimes does.
"Do you think I have a choice," Derek growls up at them. He sits up slowly, not yet getting to his feet. He looks tired, a little like Kira had the first time she appeared; translucent, wavy, a picture starting to fade and curl at the edges.
"I think you like tormenting people. I think it gets you off." He grins now, sharp canines practically dripping with hatred.
"I like tormenting my husband." He gets his long legs under him and stands again, feet set and ready for another tackle. Ethan thinks of a book he'd read far too young and the recurring theme of a monster under a bridge. Will the monster be bested or will it feed? "And, you know what? I think I'll like tormenting the two of you after I've killed you."
"You don't have to do this, Derek," Kira says. She floats rather than walks, passing between the twins to stand in front of them. Her eyes are hard and such a dark brown they could pass for black, but there's a spark of something there. Hope. Ethan doesn't understand at first, but then Aiden tilts his head to the left and Ethan follows suit. "You can fight."
"Fighting got me tortured for three weeks. It's easier to cooperate." There's a shadow moving behind Derek, growing into the wiry form of a man. The guy is dressed in a high-end suit you'd see on TV, blood circling his thick neck like jewelry. The man flickers and grows stronger under the twins' attention, becoming almost solid.
"What if you don't kill us," Ethan asks. "What if you just lock us in that chamber thing until everything's done? Then you can sneak us out and the Nogitsune will never know." Jackson looks at the chamber and grins, his laugh little more than a whisper of sound.
"That's not—"
"They're going to leave once they kill Boyd," Kira says, matter-of-fact. "They really wouldn't know that you betrayed them. I could stay down here and let the twins out when it's over." Derek looks conflicted, ready to tear his hair out, but Kira's already moving. She pulls the door to the chamber open, revealing the metal supports and faded cutouts that run in a circle around the edges.
"Two less deaths…." Derek looks at the chamber with a deep unease, like he doesn't trust it not to snap him up and eat him whole. He takes a tentative step toward it and that's when Jackson moves in. He plants his foot against the small of Derek's back, knocking him off-balance, then he's got him by the scruff of his neck and throws him into the chamber. Kira slams the door shut and locks it as Derek throws himself against it, howling.
"Go fuck yourself, Hale," Jackson snarls. He turns slowly to face the others, something like victory flashing across his face. He still flickers, a candle flame in a light breeze, but he manages to turn the machine on before he disappears. Inside, lights begin to flash and the cutouts move, the overwhelming sensations sending Derek to his knees.
"Why's he stuck in there," Aiden asks. "Can't he get out?"
"There are spaces in the Institute where even ghosts can get stuck. The saturation chamber is one of them," Kira explains. She shrugs one thin shoulder and turns back toward a nearly invisible doorway. "The crematorium is this way." Ethan thinks one last time of Bly Manor, its faceless ghosts that have forgotten themselves.
Dead doesn't mean gone.