Erica is riding in a limousine. It's a sentence she's never thought she'd string together in that order before. She's riding in a limousine, wearing her favorite dress, and she's got her boyfriend sitting next to her digging through the tiny packets of cashews that he found in a compartment between the seats.
They were picked up around six-thirty that evening and now everything is a dark blue as the sun dips behind the hills. This is the time that Erica loves the most, when the world begins to settle down and go all soft around the edges. It makes the artist in her wake up and her fingers itch to draw the gauzy clouds and the black silhouettes of trees.
"Do you think this place is gonna be haunted," she asks, almost mashing her nose against the window. The city falls away as they turn onto an old road that leads further into the hills.
"That's what everyone says," Boyd says, shrugging. "Want some cashews?" He offers the package out, but Erica's too busy watching the scenery blur past them. She's never been this far out of town before and her stomach is doing nervous flips, but Boyd's pinky brushing against hers is soothing.
"I read that the patients set a fire back in, like, the thirties or whatever and almost everyone died in it. The head dude was some psychopath that did experiments on them like that guy from that one episode of Supernatural."
"Asylum, it was from season one and the bad guy was James Ellicott." Of course he knows that, they've only watched the first two seasons religiously a thousand times now. Anything after that makes Erica too sad. "They might have gotten the idea for that episode from what happened at the Hale Institute."
"Maybe…." She leans back in her seat, chewing on her bottom lip as her thoughts begin to wander.
It takes about an hour to actually make it to the institute, the road a curving black thing like a snake until it dead ends at a metal gate. The limo comes to a stop, slow and without the squealing brakes that Erica's little car has, the headlights illuminating a skinny man near the gates. He's tall from what Erica can tell, waving his arms and yelling something that she can't make out.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
"We can go back home," Boyd says, like she's an open book and her thoughts have been underlined and bolded.
"I'll go home when I have that million dollars in my wallet." She's the first one out, two other limos parking behind theirs as Boyd follows her up to the spaz that's standing next to a beat up old truck. "Are you Derek?"
"No, I just own this place," the man says, glancing around anxiously even after the others have joined them. The road doesn't connect well to the driveway, smooth asphalt transforming roughly into gravel that crunches under the thick heels of her boots. "My name's Isaac Lahey." He holds out a hand, wincing whenever someone actually shakes it. Erica files that away for later, wanting to make sure she doesn't touch the guy unless he instigates it.
"Is it really haunted," asks another woman. She's average height, but she's gorgeous in an old Hollywood sort of way; dark blonde hair and a curvy figure that borders on Marilyn Monroe standards. If Erica wasn't in a relationship and the woman next to her didn't set off warning bells, then she'd climb her like a tree.
"No idea."
"Any idea why Hale invited us all here? I haven't seen him since he was sixteen." Lahey looks exasperated by all the questions, too pale and too skinny for Erica's liking. That could also be the mother hen in her sparking to life. She tends to adopt strays the way most people collect shot glasses.
"Does it look like I regularly hang out with a guy that gives away a million bucks like it's nothing? All I know is that he wants me to get you guys inside for the night. Can we move now? Is that a thing you're all capable of?"
"Can't exactly make it up that driveway without falling on my face if there's no light, bud," Erica points out. Lahey nods his head quickly, reaching through the opened window of his truck and pulling out a heavy duty flashlight. He's basically frazzled nerves shaped like a human and Erica has to fight the urge to hug him.
"Come on," he's grumbling under his breath, slapping the flashlight like it owes him money. Behind him, far up on a cliff that overlooks a private beach, lights flicker on brightly from the institution, a couple of spotlights moving in slow circles near the top that illuminates the entire driveway.
"Neat trick," says the white guy standing near Boyd. He's arrogant, the type of guy that joins a frat house and lives off his inheritance maybe. Erica's not quite sure, but she knows that he's not the kind of person she'd willingly associate with. She doesn't like assholes.
"I know, friggin' magical." He tosses his flashlight back into his truck and moves to push the gate open, the hinges protesting with a loud shriek of rusted metal-against-metal. Boyd takes pity on him and opens the other section of the gate himself, his bulk helping him better than Lahey's lack thereof.
"That million dollars better not be a joke," the woman mutters, watching the men work to get the gate opened fully. "I'm Kate, by the way." She holds out a hand and Erica shakes it, no sweat and a firm grip. Erica can appreciate that if nothing else.
"I'm Erica and that's Boyd." She doesn't appreciate the once-over that Kate gives Boyd. She's gone for the eyes for less than that before.
"Single?"
"Engaged to be married." That's a total fucking lie considering that neither of them actually believes in the sanctimonious crap show called marriage, but it makes Kate back off. "Hey, didn't you used to have a TV show? Something about hunting, right?"
"Yep."
"I bet you were pissed when it got canceled." Maybe it's a low blow and petty, but that's basically ninety-percent of Erica's personality by now and she's learned to roll with it. Kate's mouth tightens and the ugly frown makes her look more her age, closer to forty than thirty. "You coming, sweetheart?"
Erica saunters away, looping her arm through Boyd's as they all start up the long, winding driveway. It's surrounded by scrub brush and weeds on either side and Erica can hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the sand, maybe a mile or so away from them. The institution itself is ridiculous, differing layers and squared edges that should clash in the worst possible way; the tallest part has to be at least two hundred feet and even the shortest part is at least seventy.
It takes Boyd and the Dude Bro to get the front door shouldered open, revealing a lobby that might have looked beautiful once upon a time ago. It's rectangular with black and white marble carefully arranged into diamond shapes inside a border of slightly upraised floor that separates the lobby from other parts of the first floor; at the far end is a massive staircase that leads up to the second level, and there's a stained glass mural installed in a rectangular skylight over a table made of dark wood.
Erica moves closer to get a look at the mural, Kate following behind her with her phone raised up to take a video. It's beyond creepy, something more suited to a Vincent Price movie rather than real life with its mashed-up faces and bright, primary colors.
"Jesus, someone call the Ghostbusters or something," Erica remarks, looking around with wide eyes. It's opulent considering how long it's been closed up, a few work lamps set up on the left side beyond the square pillars that signals renovations being done.
"Hill House itself, not sane, stood against its hills, holding darkness within," Boyd says, the quote familiar. It's one of his favorite books, Erica memorized it with him in third grade. "It had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, its walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut…."
"Silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone." Derek looks unimpressed at Stiles' ability to quote the entire last chapter of The Haunting of Hill House, possibly because that's the only thing Stiles has said the entire trip here. All two hours. Stiles likes seeing the little vein in Derek's temple throb.
"We walk from here." Stiles nods, busy counting the surprising lack of limousines and fancy cars. There are three limos to be exact, and no bright red Ferrari that Lydia insists on driving everywhere. "Come on, Stiles. I'm not carrying your shit for you this time." Stiles scowls at his husband but grabs his bags all the same, following Derek up the long driveway towards the institute.
Stiles has done his research on this place, can recite important dates from memory, so he knows that there's all kinds of juicy secrets locked away inside the Hale Institute. Maybe even records that survived the fire and were left to rot in some office hidden in the belly of the place.
The walk doesn't bother him much, gives him time to plan revenge if this night doesn't happen exactly the way Stiles has planned for the past two days. To say he's obsessed doesn't quite do it justice. He's got too much riding on this to fail now, and his little sidekick had better not screw the pooch. His thoughts come to a screeching halt the second he has the front door open.
Stiles looks around him at the strangers gathered in the lobby of the old mental hospital, thoughts going ninety miles a minute as he tries to figure out what happened to the nine page list of people he'd emailed to Derek two days ago. Shredded probably, but the confusion on Derek's face means that he didn't invite these people either. So much for this being a halfway decent birthday.
He drops his bags to the floor, watching with slight satisfaction as the group all jump and turn almost in sync. They're dressed nice, he supposes, but not black-tie like Stiles had specifically requested in his email. Then again, he'd also requested that Derek not attend so the disappointment isn't exactly a new thing.
"Who the fuck are all of you?" No one gets the chance to answer, a thick slab of glass crashing down from the skylight in a shower of colors. Stiles locks up, knows he should move, but part of him is wondering if Derek has lost his touch in the last few years. Killing Stiles with glass? At least come up with something creative.
Then someone is tackling him forward, Stiles ending up bent over the table with a body shielding him and a jagged piece of glass slamming into the table just half an inch from Stiles' cheek. He takes a minute to breathe, letting himself relax before elbowing the person that kept him from dying.
"Get off me," he growls, struggling back to his feet and spinning to glare at Derek. And really, is he getting sentimental in his old age? What's the point in attempting a murder-disguised-as-accident and then saving his intended victim? Just sloppy and unprofessional is what it is.
"Congratulations, Stiles," Derek says, rubbing his thumb over the cut on Stiles' cheek. "You've been marked as the first to die tonight."
"What the hell are you talking about?" He brushes off his jacket, frowning as slivers of glass fall to the marble floor with small flashes of light. Overhead, the middle portion of the stained glass mural is gone and the skylight looks almost barren without it.
"Ask Lahey, it's his family's old superstition." Stiles eyes the caretaker suspiciously, the curly-haired blond fiddling with his scarf instead of gawking like everyone else. "Isn't that right, Lahey?" The other man's lips twist into a scowl as he meets Derek's gaze, long fingers still tugging on the handknitted monstrosity around his neck. The green and purple clash almost violently with each other and the rows aren't even, probably done by a child.
"You'd have to ask someone else about that," he shrugs. "My father is the only family member of mine that died here and that was ruled accidental. Out of everyone here, you're the only one with a relative that was murdered on the premises, Mister Hale." Stiles has to bite back a smirk as he glances over at Derek, taking satisfaction in the way that he rolls his eyes. "I hear devastating fire is more of a family curse than a wall collapsing."
Derek clenches his jaw so tightly that Stiles is almost surprised when it doesn't shatter, silence falling over their uninvited guests like a blanket. Even Stiles doesn't bring up the fire, too much of a sore spot for both men since it happened just days before Claudia passed. Lahey doesn't back down, though, steel forming around his backbone if only for a moment before blue eyes flick away.
"And on that note," Derek says, voice as hard as his gaze. "I suppose the party should begin."
"Call me crazy, but didn't the party start when I nearly got beheaded," Stiles asks dryly. Derek's gaze flicks up to the ceiling and there's something there, something that makes green eyes go soft for just a millisecond that has Stiles wondering if Derek had a part in that accident at all. Then he shakes that thought away because of course it was planned, Derek is too meticulous to not have factored shattering glass into his games.
"Come now, dearest, beheading is too impersonal for me." When he looks to Stiles again it's with the familiar dislike that's been growing like a weed for years now. It's familiar ground, Stiles can handle it. "You know I like a more hands-on approach to murder."
"Before we get to that, let's have a word in private."
Stiles marches up the stairs with Derek hot on his heels, not stopping until he finds the room with a sign hanging off the doorknob, Hale written in an untidy, cramped script. He tears the sign off the door and storms inside, throwing it down on the four-poster set against the far right wall. It really is a nice room considering its location in the middle of bum-fuck California, but Stiles isn't in the mood to ooh and awe over furniture.
"If you really wanted to ruin my birthday, you could've just invited Theo to the party," Stiles sneers, not even waiting for the door to be closed before letting loose.
"I did invite Theo. I figured you'd be comfortable hanging around with another little gold-digger. Hell, I invited an entire list of people that matched your personality and my ambitions, but none of them have shown up. I don't know where you drug up those social rejects gathered downstairs or how you hacked into my computer, but congratulations, Stiles. This is a new low."
"A new low? Danny made sure I couldn't hack your computer even if I wanted to, Derek! This is all your doing!"
"It really wasn't you?" The look Stiles sends him suggests he was dropped on his head one too many times as a baby. "Then who the hell did it? Ghosts?" Stiles straightens and a muscle in his jaw twitches as realization hits home.
"Matt did it."
"Matt?"
"Yeah, your stupid ass secretary that can barely tie his shoes without falling flat on his face. He's pissy that we never invite him to shit, so this is him getting payback. If I were you, I'd consider it his letter of resignation."
"He's too scared of me to try this."
"Is that what keeps your ego nice and big? I hate to burst your bubble, Der, but Matt's as scared of you as he would be a bunny. You have angry eyebrows, sure, but the rest of you is all Disney fucking Princess. You're about as threatening as Luke Skywalker before R2 showed up." At Derek's blank expression, Stiles rolls his eyes and flops face-first onto the bed. "You still haven't watched the movies, have you?"
"Would it make you happy if I did?"
"Exceedingly."
"Then I won't." And, really, Stiles should have seen that coming. He rolls onto his back, watching as Derek comes closer, one leg between the two that Stiles has dangling off the bed. The position, the power play, used to get Stiles all hot and bothered, but now he's just tired.
"You want to know something that would make me just ecstatic? Find a way to drop dead in three seconds so I can skip off into the sunset with your family fortune." Derek smirks, running his fingers up the in-seam of Stiles' pants, tantalizingly close to his dick.
"I thought finding ways to kill me was your specialty, Princess. I'd hate to take all the fun out of it." His fingers press gently into Stiles' abdomen, undoing a couple buttons and untucking the shirt so he can feel warm skin. Part of Stiles wants to buck up into the touch, see what happens.
Stiles sits up and runs his nose along his husband's happy trail, the dark hair hidden by a pressed shirt and gray waistcoat. "Remember last Halloween," he murmurs, hands going to the backs of Derek's thighs. "The Kool-Aid you couldn't stomach?"
"You mean the Jim Jones Kool-Aid that was a bit too literal for my doctor's liking? Yeah, that one is hard to forget." Derek lets out a sharp hiss when Stiles begins to mouth at his cock, hardening inside perfectly tailored trousers. "I think my favorite little attempt was that Halloween store knife with the not-so-retractable blade."
"Mmm, that one even had you crying." Derek twines his fingers in Stiles' hair, yanking harshly until his husband is looking up at him. "What's wrong, Der? Worried that Matt's gonna see what you look like when you come?" Stiles pulls loose and stands up, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt.
"What makes you think that Matt is watching us?"
"Because one of his little hidden cameras is in plain view in the crown molding over the bedroom door." He gestures at the little black spec that's just a little too out of place, a little too out in the open for Stiles' keen eyes to miss. "I'm going to take a shower. Tell your trained rat that I'll skin him alive if I find a camera in the bathroom."
"And what about your guests downstairs? Shouldn't you be entertaining them?" Stiles pauses with one hand griping the doorframe, looking at Derek over his shoulder. The man really is gorgeous, sharp angles and hard muscle and green eyes. Stiles should love him or at least feel something that isn't a deep hatred burning low in his belly.
"You shredded my guests, Derek. This is your sick little scene now."