Lahey is almost spastic when Derek makes it back to the lobby, twitchy fingers pulling on his jacket cuffs. "Mister Hale," he calls, chasing Derek past the columns and over to the bar. Derek had sent Matt over early to stock the place and set up a few scares. Surprisingly enough, everything looks competently done so far. "Mister Hale, I got your guests up here and I'd like my money now."
"Calm down, I'm getting it." He pulls out his wallet and a handful of checks to match the number of guests that have bothered to show up, waving them in the air tauntingly. "I have enough bank drafts in my wallet to pay every single one of you a million apiece. All you have to do is make it through the night without getting slaughtered by a ghost." He turns hard green eyes on Lahey and waves the checks once more. "You could get a million as well."
"No thanks, I'm not that greedy."
"Very well then." He stuffs the drafts into an envelope and slides it in his pocket, tapping it twice with his fingers. "Fair warning, you die and the remaining money gets split between those still alive."
"How very generous. I'd like my money now."
"You'd willingly turn your back on a million bucks that you can cash at any bank?" Lahey just arches his brows and wiggles impatient fingers. "Fine, just let me sign the damn thing." He seats himself on a barstool and then spins to face the others. "While we're on the subject, what are the rest of your names?"
"Kate Argent," says the busty blonde, stepping forward. Derek has a vague memory of her hanging out with his uncle Erik and a slightly less vague one of her failed seduction techniques. Derek's fully committed to men, so Kate never really stood a chance.
"I'm Erica and this is Boyd," says the other blonde, her grin positively feral as she rests a hand on the shoulder of a very bulky black man. Now that is someone that has a chance of seducing Derek, muscular without it being too much, stoic, and a pair of brown eyes that you can get lost in.
"I'm Jackson Whittemore, MD" says the only other man present. He's average height with good cheekbones, blond hair fading slowly to brown and a body built like a lacrosse player. Derek knows he's seen him somewhere before, some fundraiser or another that he and Stiles were required to attend so they don't seem like snobs. Don't get him wrong, they are snobs, but their press crew like the Hales to seem like approachable snobs.
"Well, I can safely say that I've never heard of a single one of you." The lie rolls off his tongue easily and part of him is satisfied when Kate deflates like a popped balloon. If she thinks she has a snowball's chance in hell of sinking her claws into his family fortune then she's shit out of luck. Stiles already has his claws sunk into it and it'll take a friggin' werewolf to make him fuck off back into the woodwork.
"Then why the hell did you invite us?"
"I didn't." Jackson scoffs and shakes his head, a tic in his jaw. "In fact, my little guest list and the one my husband made were both thrown in the nearest trash bin. I'm pretty sure this is supposed to be some amusing joke, but who can say. In the meantime, we're stuck with each other and you all may as well make some money off of it."
"Hell, I'll be your best friend if it gets me a million bucks," Erica states, teeth looking too white in contrast to the bright red lipstick she has on. It's a good color on her, something not a lot of people can say.
"I'll keep that in mind if I ever need someone to say how generous and kind I am on camera." Which, actually, could come in handy at some point.
"Okay, I'm sorry for interrupting, but I want my money," Lahey says with more force than Derek's seen him use so far. He's angry and anxious, almost vibrating out of his skin. "Give me the goddamn money right now, 'cause I want it." He's wiggling his fingers again and Derek wonders what he'd do if Derek were to nibble those fingertips.
"Keep your shorts on." Derek signs the check with a flourish and holds it up, Lahey snatching it like he's afraid Derek had been lying about the five hundred dollar payday.
Lahey gets two feet away when the noises start up, groaning of metal against metal like a ride that's not had enough maintenance done to it. "Oh Jesus, no." And then Lahey's off like the devil is nipping at his heels, full-on sprinting back towards the entrance while the others look around for the source of the noise. Derek has studied at the blueprints of the old place, there shouldn't be any gears at all in the building and definitely not ones that can make this sort of racket.
"What the hell is that," Boyd asks, drawing everyone's attention to the windows. Metal sheets are sliding slowly downward from the very top of the institute, different layers for different floors, all of them slotting into place with a loud clank. The ruckus only stops when all the windows and doors are shuttered, no cracks between the metal and the windows for moonlight to enter.
"Boyd," Jackson calls. "Help me with this." The two men move over to a window, one of the few that hasn't been repaired and had been letting in a nice breeze until the metal came down. "We'll try to lift on three." Boyd nods and counts down, the both of them heaving with all their might against the small shelf built into the sheet, but it doesn't so much as budge.
"This isn't moving anytime soon." Boyd lets out a grunt as he steps away, rubbing at his shoulder. "We're gonna have to find out what triggered this." Jackson turns to look at Derek, striding over so that he's barely a foot out of Derek's personal bubble.
"Is this some sort of sick joke?" There's the sound of shattering glass next, followed by a series of rather impressive curses.
"Lahey's certainly not laughing," Derek says, nodding to where the other man is punching and kicking at panes of glass in a fit of rage. Once he's torn the glass out of its frame, Lahey starts pulling at the iron bars meant to keep inmates inside, smacking the pane of metal and leaving bloody handprints behind. "You're the doctor, Jackson. How about you go and check on our new buddy?"
"If I find out that you pulled this stunt, then I'm gonna hire that guy the best lawyer in California to sue your ass for whatever trauma you just brought to the surface." And then he's off, the others following behind to check on the resident spaz until it's just Derek and Kate left behind.
"I take it you're not the motherly type that has to make sure all her ducklings are okay."
"Not in the slightest," she answers, wandering over to the bar and digging through the bottles. "I'm more the type to watch wayward ducklings wander into oncoming traffic." She laughs, a dry sound that makes Derek uncomfortable. She used to laugh like that when he was a kid, too. Now he doesn't have his uncle around to fend her off.
"Jesus, you're still creepy." He walks over to the others at the end of the hall, glad to put distance between him and the ex-TV star. Jackson has one of Lahey's hands held up to see better, the knuckles busted and bloody, but salvageable. "What the fuck just happened?"
"It's something meant for riots to keep patients from escaping," Lahey says, voice cracking. "This is why people burned to death in '31. Hale threw the switch because if he was gonna die, then so was everyone else. I'll bet he was real pissed off when his wife and those other four made it out with just a few burns."
"His wife worked here," Erica asks, a crease forming between her brows as she looks around.
"Yeah, she was the unofficial head of electroshock therapy. Turns out Corinne was just as insane as her damn husband."
"Why wasn't that machine in the blueprints," Derek asks. "Actually, more pressing, why the hell hasn't it been disabled?"
"It was on my dad's to-do list before the house decided to kill him."
"Don't be ridiculous. Houses don't kill people." Lahey turns on Derek with a ferocity in his glare that almost makes him flinch back, blue eyes bright with a fevered rage. "I read the police report, it said your father was killed when a wall he was working on collapsed." The others send him unsure looks. "My husband's friend is the Sheriff of Beacon Hills and a hacker on top of that. It's not exactly difficult to get background information on weird old sanitariums and the families that own them."
"Yeah, well, that report was a crock of shit. The house is alive, we're all going to die." Lahey stalks off back to the makeshift bar, falling into one of the armchairs with blood dripping from his hands to the floor.
"This is ridiculous. You're obviously scared shitless and hurt on top of that. I'm calling for help and I'll pay for your medical bills." Derek pulls out his cell, but there are zero bars and a neatly displayed No Service message at the top of the screen. "The metal plates are fucking with my signal."
"It's not the plates, it's the house." He hisses as Jackson douses his knuckles in vodka, trying to jerk his hand away and failing miserably. The doctor is stronger and he doesn't let go until a cloth napkin is wrapped firmly around Lahey's hand. "The cleaning crew will be here at 9:30 in the morning. They can let us out if we haven't already been brutally murdered."
"Why does this feel like someone's trying to cheat us out of a shitload of money," Boyd asks, a rhetorical thing that Derek doesn't deign to reply to.
"Because it probably is," Stiles says as he comes down the stairs. The suit is gone, replaced by Batman sleep pants and nothing else. His dark hair is still damp from his shower, sticking up at odd angles from rubbing it with his towel. "Congrats, Derek, you got me for once. Nearly made me fall right out of the shower."
"Wasn't me this time, Princess," Derek replies, almost smiling when Stiles rolls his eyes at the pet name. "I didn't even know the house had that lovely little feature until just a moment ago."
"Then who did it? Last I checked, you're the only person here with an engineering degree." Stiles casts doubtful looks at the others, dressed in their best clothes that don't come close to comparing to Stiles' high standards. Jackson comes the closest to that, a nice tux that's dark blue and almost shiny.
"My engineering degree has been used to cushion our bank account, but it's never been used to fix up any part of this building. Just ask Lahey." The man in question raises his head, using an extra napkin to wipe the blood off his hands.
"Didn't even know who he was until a couple days ago," he grumbles. "And this whole…. Thing can only be switched on in the basement as far as I know. That's where the control room for this whole place is. Creepy as hell down there. I only go when I don't have a choice and never by myself."
"Well, then it's a good thing you have us," Erica states, hands on her hips. The high-heeled boots have been ditched and the nails have been painted cherry red, chipping in places. "Lead the way."
"Oh no, nope. No way in hell am I going down there in the middle of the night after all this weird shit has been happening."
"You can get up willingly or I can drag you down there by your hair. I try not to threaten people, Lahey, I really do, but you're tapdancing on my last nerve right now."
"She'll do it," Boyd confirms, pride bleeding into his tone. Lahey seems to realize that the woman will, in fact, make him regret saying no a second time because he stands up and throws the napkin down on the little side table next to the armchair.
"Atta boy." She looks like she wants to clap him on the shoulder but refrains, sensing his aversion to touch. "Let's get going before anything else decides to malfunction. Erica sends a distrustful stare in Derek's direction, which is entirely fair if he's being honest.
"Before you go," Stiles starts, long fingers plucking up a box of candles from the bar. "You should probably be aware that Derek has this house rigged with all sorts of delicious little surprises. It's best to be armed. You never know when one of those tricks will turn deadly."
He steals a Zippo out of Jackson's suit pocket and lights one of the candles just to blow it out and watch the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. It draws Derek's gaze upwards, towards the gap in the mosaic above the table where a sheet of glass had nearly decapitated Stiles. Derek certainly won't cry on the day Stiles finally dies, but he'd like to be the one to pull the trigger.
"Don't you think it's time to break out the party favors, babe?" Green eyes flick back down, meeting brown across the room. Stiles is still holding the red candle, relit now with hot wax dripping down over his fingertips like drops of blood.
"Well, I suppose there's nothing better to do at the moment," he concedes. He gestures for the others to follow him to another section of the front lobby, revealing a wonderfully carved coffin set up on a low table that's draped in red velvet. "Jackson, give me a hand with this lid." He steps up and they lift on three, the lid itself at least ten pounds and making a hollow thud when they set it on the ground next to the table. Inside the coffin are six miniature versions, floating on water and the white fog from dry ice in the bottom.
"How spectacularly spooky." Stiles says it deadpan, reaching out to flip up one of the lids and pulling out a pistol. It's the real deal, the magazine loaded with blanks and welded in place. They won't kill anyone, but they'll hurt like a bitch. "A Nine Millimeter, really? The exact replica of the one my dad gave you the shovel talk with. And here I was thinking you weren't sentimental."
"What can I say? I'm full of surprises."
"Is it loaded?" Stiles holds it with the same skill as a professional, the son of a cop and therefor well-trained in gun safety. Curiosity kills cats and Stiles is definitely curious.
"What kind of idiot would I be if I actually handed you a loaded gun? It's just blanks, I loaded them myself." He brings it up all the same, pulling the hammer back once it's leveled with Derek's face. He doesn't flinch, doesn't react beyond blinking once, and all the amusement seems to drain right out of Stiles.
"Maybe the wildcat should have the gun instead. After all, she's the one going into the basement." Stiles hands the gun off to Erica, who quickly passes it to Boyd. "I hear that's where old Uncle Petey did all his really crazy shit."
"Mostly electroshock therapy," Lahey mutters. "The basement door was half-hidden by a charred old bookshelf when my grandpa started the reconstruction and he told me it's basically storage." He shrugs and avoids eye contact, anxiety rolling off him in waves so thick that Derek can almost smell it. "It's a fucking maze down there, Erica."
"Then it's a good thing you can lead us through it," Erica states confidently.
"I got lost in a parking garage last week just trying to find my car."
"Then we'll use something to keep us on track. Anyone have any breadcrumbs?"
"I've got some yarn in my bag," Boyd says. He looks completely unfazed when most of the group turn surprised looks on him. "I work in a craft store and I bought it for this kid that comes in weekly. I figured giving it to him instead of his brother stealing it will keep them both out of juvie for a while."
"Uh-huh, well, that's a mystery solved," Derek quips dryly. "I'll meet you all downstairs in a bit." Stiles grabs his arm, digging blunt nails in to keep Derek in place. He can break out of it easily if he wants to, but he allows himself to be held in place for the moment.
"And where do you think you're going," Stiles asks, arching a brow. He waxes them at least twice a month, keeping them from getting too bushy. Sometimes Derek will come home from work to find his living room completely taken over by his husband and sister-in-law for all intents and purposes, Lydia outlining Stiles' eyes in plum liner while he works on not fidgeting. Derek learned a long time ago that he's not welcome to those little parties after he made a comment and Lydia threatened to skin him alive and turn him into shoes.
"Just thought I'd take a leak," he says, jerking his arm free. "You're welcome to tag along if you're afraid of the big bad house." Stiles scoffs, totally disbelieving. "Can I go now or would you like to chat some more?"
"Nah, go ahead. Tell Matt I flushed his waterproof mic down the toilet." Derek doesn't reply as he heads back to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he's in the little HQ that Matt set up a few hours ago. He'd texted Derek directions before he and Stiles left their house, the little room just off the main hall on the third floor.
Matt is sitting in front of a row of monitors, munching absently on baby carrots and tapping his foot along to the beat of a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. His build is similar to Stiles', similar features and brown hair; maybe there's a reason he picked this guy out of fifty other interns.
"Nice work with that scare earlier," Derek praises, clapping a hand down on Matt's shoulder. "You even made me jump when it started."
"Oh, that wasn't me."
"Then who the fuck was it?"
"Just the house as far as I could tell. I've been watching these monitors since two o'clock this afternoon, I've got cameras in nearly every nook and cranny, and I can tell you with ninety-nine percent certainty that no one in this place triggered those sheets falling down. My guess is that this place is finally falling apart."
"No, that's not right. That shit was timed. Stiles had something to do with it and I'm gonna figure out how he did it without ever leaving the bathroom."