A/N - Thanks for your patience everyone. I hope you enjoy this chapter


xi. void

Stiles spends the next few days withdrawing from his friends and preparing for the full moon. He ignores texts and shuttles himself back and forth between his apartment and the Order of Illysium store, collecting supplies and delivering the strand of Kara's hair, as promised, which he procured before he cut her out. He refuses to answer the door when the others knock, and he lets all calls go to voicemail. He crafts spells, brews potions, does everything he can think of to get ready.

At some point, Cat Grant threatens to fire him.

He ignores that email, too.

The day comes. The day of the full moon. Every hour, Superdouche sends him a barrage of messages, demanding entry to his apartment, asking to know what the hell is going on, urging him not to do anything rash. Stiles knows that both Superdouche and Kara are listening in on his every move, but he warded his apartment against their ears long ago. Someone—it alternates between Kara, Alex, and Superdouche—waits outside his door, but he's found another way out of his apartment.

Two hours until sunset, he begins to prepare. Black jeans, with two packets of powder in each back pocket. A black button up, faint lines of grey shot through it, the cuffs worn and a smidge too long. A dark hoodie, then Derek's leather jacket on top, like armor, vials stashed in every pocket Allison's knife goes in the sheath he made for his arm, a greave that lies under his layers. He slings his satchel across his shoulder. Mountain ash and other spells bits are nestled inside.

He leaves a note on the kitchen counter. For if he doesn't come home. It only says I'M SORRY.

A few days ago, Stiles made a short range portal rune, connected to a second stone he hid in an alley just outside the building. The rune is painted on the back wall of his closet, and he activates it with a trace of his fingers. The rune glows maroon, his teeth buzz, and then he's standing in a dark alley, behind a dumpster.

Stiles starts to walk, hood over his head, silent buds in his ears. If he knew how to pray, now would be the time, but he was never a godly man, even before the monsters and the magic. Hard to believe in an all powerful, benevolent being when he had to watch his mother disintegrate before his very eyes and wait in the dark for his father to come home safely every night. And then he met real all-powerful beings and realized that they aren't benevolent. Not at all.

Derek, I don't know if you're listening. I don't know if it works like that. I do know this is exactly the sort of thing you would tell me not to do. Don't be a hero, Stiles. Let someone else do the dirty work. Keep yourself safe. Where did that get us, Derek? Just where the fuck did that get us? With Allison stabbed through the stomach with a sword. With you dead and burned to ash. So I'm doing it my way. I'm going to kill these motherfuckers. Scott and his naive little True-Alpha-we-don't-kill-people bullshit can go to hell.

I'll see you soon.

He arrives at the park around 10:30. The night is quiet and the benches empty, the grass silver in the light of the full moon. As Stiles enters the park, he pulls one last thing from his bag. He rolls the mask over in his hands. It's an oval of black onyx, cut smooth with a simple spell, no eye or mouth holes to mar the surface. He slips it onto his face, and the world goes grey. A second later, color bleeds back into the park, more vibrant than it has any right to be. The ley lines sparkle white beneath the grass, and the intersection by the fountain explodes into rainbows. He can feel the power tingling against his spine.

After a few preparations, Stiles sits on the fountain ledge, one leg propped up beside him, an elbow resting on his knee. He's perfectly still. That's a rarity. The buzzing energy is gone—has been for a while, honestly—and in its place, he is carved of volcanic rock after all the heat has drained away. His edges are sharp. They spare no one who gets close, not even himself.

He doesn't have to wait long for his prey. At about a quarter till eleven, the Alpha Pack arrives in full force. Aiden and Ethan in matching leather jackets, Kali with her long claws digging into the dirt, Ennis, stone-faced as always, Deucalion leading the way, and his strange warlock hiding in the shadows at the back.

"Stiles," Deucalion says, hands wrapped around his cane. "Dramatic enough?"

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Or whatever."

Stiles stands and takes a jar from his pocket. It breaks when he casts it to the ground, and the park lights up in a series of bright flashes, moving in concentric rings from the fountain. Deucalion reaches out, his hand repelled by the barrier. He smiles. "Mountain ash. Cute. You know my friend here can break it." He gestures, and the warlock glides forward a step.

Stiles shrugs. "Be my guest."

The warlock stoops and sweeps their hands through the first line of mountain ash they come to. The barrier flashes and breaks, but before Deucalion can advance more than ten feet, he smacks right into another burst of light. Stiles smiles, a tight, barren thing. "Have fun."

All the false pleasantry falls from Deucalion's face. "You don't know what you're messing with here, Stiles." He bites off Stiles' name. "There are forces at play here you can't possibly understand."

"Don't give me that bullshit, overdramatic villain line," Stiles snarls as the warlock breaks another mountain ash barrier. "Why don't you just fuck off back to whatever dark hole you crawled out of."

Another barrier breaks. Three of the five he set up.

"Your entire Pack—your 'True Alpha'—couldn't defeat us. What makes you think you can, all by your little lonesome?"

Stiles releases any remaining hold he had on past-Stiles, good-Stiles. He draws himself upright off the fountain, gliding forward to the nearest line of mountain ash. "Do you know what happened after you left? Do you know what I became?"

The warlock parts the fourth barrier, and Deucalion and Stiles stand face to face, inches apart. Stiles can see his black mask reflected in Deucalion's blind eyes. "What did you become?" the Alpha sneers, bored.

Stiles pauses. "Void."

When the final mountain ash barrier fails, Stiles breathes out, and the world shifts. Deucalion staggers back a step. "What have you done?"

"Given you sight."

Even an Alpha Pack has fears, and Stiles can see them, if he pushes deep enough. He draws them out, watches the visions of them laid over the real world. Aiden and Ethan see each other's dead bodies, savaged, torn, pained. Ennis stands alone in a forest, abandoned by Deucalion as hunters prowl on his trail. Kali is human again and powerless as a shadowy, too-masculine figure stalks her. Stiles gives Deucalion the most beautiful vision, a sunset spilling across a deep blue lake, and then it all fades away to blackness over and over again. In the real world, Deucalion's blind eyes fill with tears.

But Stiles can't touch the warlock. Fire surges where their mind should be, and Stiles can't get close without being burned. A fiery arm lashes out from the roiling mass and smashes into him. Stiles flies back, slams into the fountain, and splashes into the water.

You've got power, but you're untrained, a voice whispers in his head. You won't win this.

But Stiles doesn't need to win, just stall.

He drags himself out of the water, dripping, panting. Half his traps have shattered, Ennis and a twin still stuck while the other struggles to snap his brother out of it. Kali gouges her claws into the ground, free but rattled. Only Deucalion has full control of himself, and his eyes burn with rage. He roars and shifts fully. Coarse side burns sprout down his cheeks, and his brow thickens, animalistic. His eyes glow completely red, from the whites to the iris to the pupil. Claws erupt, lunging at Stiles' face, and only his carefully drawn reflex rune allows him to jerk out of the way in time.

He can hear the warlock murmuring under their breath, fist alight with crackling witch-fire, and they hurl the blue-white ball at Stiles. As he dives out of the way, the last of his concentration fails, freeing the rest of the Alpha Pack. Stiles leaps out of the pool as the witch-fire explodes above him, showering his back in sparks that prick and burn and burrow under his skin, and he rolls across the ground. He comes up in a crouch, glaring at a unified Alpha Pack as it stalks towards him.

"Who's your sacrifice?" Stiles asks as he stands.

"Why, you, of course," Deucalion growls.

At least that's one less thing to worry about. If he can just not die for the next 15 minutes, he'll stop the ritual.

And there's the irony.

"Be a good boy, and I'll make sure its painless," Deucalion promises.

Stiles strips off his three layers and lets them fall to the ground. Even the warlock's step falters when they see the mosaic carved there. Before leaving his apartment, Stiles cut power runes into his very flesh. Strength, speed, and agility on his chest, great, sweeping lines that have dripped tracks of blood down his skin. Wards protect his arms, and spells wait to be activated by a touch of the fingers.

Deucalion sniffs, scenting blood and power, and holds out a hand for his Pack to stop. They stand in a half-moon around Stiles. "You really have gone insane."

Stiles shrugs. "That's one word for it."

He activates one of the runes on his knuckles and punches. Dark red energy explodes from his fist as the rune glows like fire—and burns like it, too. The Alpha Pack scatters. Deucalion ducks under the burst and rolls towards Stiles, surging to his feet with his claws swinging, but Stiles catches them on a shield ward, power roaring through him to up his reflexes.

This must be what the werewolves feel like every minute of the day. Every tendon, every muscle, every line of bone doing just as it is told with the utmost efficiency, power coursing like electricity through wire. Stiles has never really had power before—he only watched the Nogitsune wield it. He's always stood at the sidelines, maybe swung a bat a time or two, but he never had the same raw power as anything they fought.

Now, God, he's alive with it.

He blocks a punch, wards flaring, and activates a second knuckle, launching it at Deucalion's face, his sense rune warning him of a presence at his back, so he drops and sweeps his leg, calf connecting with calf, the aim of his blast thrown off so that the red energy flies off into the sky. A twin hits the ground with a grunt. Stiles rolls away from Deucalion and grabs his knife, driving the blade deep into the twin's shoulder. A hand seizes his jacket, flings him back. Wards flare across his back and shoulders to protect him from the fall, but when he hits the ground and rolls to the stop, he can feel the runes beginning to weaken.

He climbs to his feet, panting, ready for round two, just as the twin rips the knife free and throws it in the fountain. Stiles grins, feral. The twin's face falls a second later when he realizes that the simple wound isn't healing. Faint wisps of purple smoke rise from his shoulder.

"Wolfsbane," the twin growls and rushes Stiles, but gets a faceful of powder for his trouble, pulled from a little baggy in Stiles' back pocket. He shrieks and stops as if he's run into a wall, clawing at his eyes. Stiles throws a second fistful of powder and traps the twin in a circle of mountain ash. It won't last long with the warlock around, but at least it will be a distraction.

Four werewolves lunge at Stiles, but he dive rolls between them. His runes leave faintly glowing afterimages in his wake. He scoops up his leather jacket and pulls a vial from his pocket. Eeny, meany, miney, moe. He flings it at Ennis. The vial erupts in a cascade of green fire and completely envelops the werewolf. For a silent man, he sure knows how to scream. The sound rises higher and higher, anguished, terrified, tortured. Kali gasps, a hand flying to her mouth at the sight of the human torch, the other stretched out to help her packmate.

"I wouldn't touch him," Stiles advises. "That's Greek fire."

Kali snatches her hand back.

Deucalion's whole face contorts as the green flames and Ennis's wretched figure are reflected in his blind eyes. "I take it back. You will die painfully."

"You'll have to catch me first." Stiles presses the invisibility rune near his hip and disappears. It will only last thirty seconds, but that should be enough time to wreck some more havoc. The world goes blurry around him, the colors fuzzing and blending into each other whenever someone moves. Wolven shadows surround the Alphas, though Ennis's spectral shape is more skeleton than beast, tipping its head back to howl at the moon even as Ennis collapses.

The warlock's shadow is as large as a megalodon, blotting out everything around it. Navy blue lines flow through it, pulsing, following what Stiles' imagines are veins. Its shape changes between human and bear and wolf and octopus and dragon and hydra and on and on and on. Stiles has to tear his eyes away because he can feel its mesmerizing power.

The warlock flickers, one moment freeing the twin from his prison and the next right in front of Stiles. A shadowy bear paw the size of Stiles' torso bats him in the chest, knocking him to the ground and into visibility. Power rushes from him in a painful cascade. He lies on the ground and gasps. Three deep cuts mar his chest, destroying several of his runes.

At least Ennis has fallen silent. The green flames flicker merrily at the edge of Stiles' vision, and the stench of burning flesh fills the air. Kali howls, heartbroken and enraged all at once. Stiles grins.

A shadow falls over him and blots out the full moon. Deucalion's wolfed-out face snarls down at him, all coarse fur and jagged lines. "Time to die, boy."

"But it's not midnight yet," Stiles quips.

Deucalion drives his claws into Stiles' shoulder and drags him to his feet. Stiles barely feels the fresh pain; there's too much input from the mosaic he carved himself. Deucalion drags him toward the ley line intersection, and Stiles lets him. He'll play the weaker part, let Deucalion think he's won, strike when the moment is right. Derek didn't teach Stiles that. Derek taught Stiles to run and hide and stay alive. Stiles had to learn this all on his own.

The moment comes when two figures in red and blue slam to the ground before the fountain.

"Luka!" Deucalion bellows at his druid, and Stiles smile. Got you. "Now."

The warlock begins to chant, but Stiles anticipated this and draws a small glass bauble from his pocket. He throws it so it breaks at Luka's feet, murmuring, "Shut the fuck up." The spell is homemade—he can say whatever trigger phrase he wants. A spectral cat leaps from the broken glass and into their mouth, catching their tongue and cutting off the flow of words. Stiles almost can't believe that actually worked. While Deucalion is still trying to work out what he's just done, Stiles punches him in the face with the third of his four energy blasts. Deucalion flies back, feet lifting off the ground, and drops Stiles.

All this happens in the two seconds between when the Supercousins and their green companion land and when Kara opens her mouth to speak.

"What's going on here?" she finally manages to splutter as Stiles stands and takes stock of his remaining runes. The situation is not good.

"Leave, I've got this handled." A rune carved into the inside of his mask distorts his voice.

Kara and Superdouche's eyes widen as they take him in. The green-faced alien in red and black beside them seems less surprised. "Who—who are you?" Kara asks.

Stiles spins and kicks a rising Deucalion in the face, the power rune hidden by his boot giving the blow an extra jolt, before the werewolf can try and out his true identity. "Nobody, really. Now, if you don't mind, I've got some business to attend to."

"Did you do that?" Superdouche points to Ennis's merrily burning corpse.

"No less than he deserves." Stiles activates a light spell on his left palm and holds it up so the features of the Alpha Pack are displayed in all their glory. The transformation is stark enough that you wouldn't be able to see the person beneath the wolf unless you knew them intimately, like Stiles does. Deucalion doesn't attack, simply stands and moves so that his Pack flanks him. "What are they?" Superdouche asks.

Stiles bares his teeth, though the expression is lost behind his mask. "Come now, where's the fun in me just telling you?"

"And what are you?" The green alien steps forward, and Stiles recognizes that ancient mind from the DEA building and Kara's apartment. A shapeshifter then. Interesting. "You've been stalking us."

"I wouldn't call it stalking. You simply had information that I wanted." The alien tries to get inside his head, but Stiles bats the probe away.

"Enough talking," Deucalion growls. "You and I have business to finish. Your spangled friends can join, if they wish, though I doubt they'll be of much help."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you sound worried." Stiles checks the time on his imaginary watch. "Ten minutes left 'till midnight, is that right?" From the look on Deucalion's face, it is. "And I don't need their help. Need I remind you that I've already kicked your ass several times, flambéed one of your lieutenants, and silenced your warlock?" But even as he boasts, Stiles knows he can't go another round with the Alpha Pack. Most of his runes have been drained or destroyed, and his other wounds cry out for attention, setting his chest and shoulder on fire. He feels ready to collapse. He just needs to find another way to stall—though if the warlock can't speak, they can't complete the ritual, so perhaps he has already stopped their plan?

"Just what happens at midnight?" Kara demands.

Superdouche inhales sharply. "I don't believe it. Stiles was right. He said there were people trying to enact a…magic ritual tonight."

"Ding-a-ling-a-ling, Superdouche gets a prize!" Stiles cheers mockingly.

"Super-what?" Superdouche sounds offended, but the alien behind him smirks just a bit.

"Stop stalling!" Deucalion bellows. "Kill them!" He orders his Pack forward with a sweeping gesture, but the three hesitate, Kali still crouched by Ennis's remains and the twins clustered together.

"Maybe it's best to just call this off for now," a twin suggests, and Stiles helps the idea along, sending wiggling worms of fear his way. "Ennis is dead, it's ten minutes to midnight, and we can't perform the ritual without the warlock." He points at Luka who is still struggling with the spectral cat. "Face it, we've lost this one."

Deucalion slashes at the twin's face, drawing blood. Kara gasps, and the twin lifts a hand to the four, deep cuts. "I said kill them." The full power of the Alpha coats Deucalion's words, forcing the others to nod and roll their shoulders, preparing claws and teeth for the attack.

"And I say leave," Stiles says and overpowers the Alpha command. The order rolls off him in waves, finding his targets, worming its way through chinks in armor, using grief and fear and pain to make Ethan, Aidan, and Kali realize how suicidal Deucalion's plan is.

"Sorry," Kali murmurs and leads the retreat. She can't take Ennis's body with her since the flames still form a wreath around him.

"Get back here!" Deucalion commands, but Stiles' hold is too great, and his Pack disappears into the night. "Fine, I'll deal with you myself." Deucalion starts towards Stiles, but Luka grabs his arm and shakes their head. Stiles can tell the two are having a silent conversation and sees the moment Deucalion admits Luka is right. As much as he wants to kill Deucalion now, he knows he's too weak, too tired.

"Where's the Essyolyte?" he asks instead.

Deucalion's face is blank. "The what?"

Luka opens a portal and the two disappear.

Stiles feels like he's been punched in the stomach.

He doesn't have to be a werewolf to know that Deucalion isn't lying.

His sixth sense rune flickers weakly, and he turns to find Kara, Superdouche, and the alien walking towards him slowly, carefully. "Guys, I'm tired. I don't want to fight you right now."

"Good. We don't want to fight you either," the alien says, voice calm, soothing, as if he were trying to talk down a jumper—or a shooter. "But you will have to come with us."

"I don't—I don't want to do that either." Stiles just wants to sleep for a thousand years.

"Your nose is bleeding," Kara tells him, and he runs his finger under his nose to find that it's oozing blood at a rather alarming rate.

"You have to come with us," the alien continues. The three are ten feet away from Stiles now. "You've already killed one person. We need to make sure you're not a danger to the rest of the city."

"I'm not, I assure you."

"Could've fooled us, what with that creepy mask, and…did you cut those marks into yourself?" Superdouche asks.

Kara smiles at Stiles and spreads out her hands, trying to look non-threatening. "What's your name? Maybe we can help you with whatever it is you're trying to do."

"You can call me Void."

Superdouche snorts. "Void, right. Like that's supposed to make us think you're an upstanding guy."

"You asked." Stiles shrugs, and as he finishes talking, he fires off the last of his knuckle spells, blasting the ground right in front of the trio and blinding them with the light and a spray of earth. He dashes between them, snatching up his jackets and fishing his knife out of the fountain. Before they can recover, he's gone, slipping away into the darkness, using the last of his energy to activate a miniature portal chip and spirit himself away.


A/N - Please feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think.