Derek paces the room like a caged wolf, tense and all too aware of everyone crowded in with him. Kate's disappearance leaves a lot of questions up in the air, most of them having no reasonable answers other than Lahey's mumbled ghosts, goddammit after they found a pool of blood soaking into the carpet upstairs.
Either Kate really has been butchered, which is almost believable given the sheer amount of blood, or it's all an act that will somehow end with Derek dead and Stiles in charge of Hale Industries. Which, no, fuck all of that. Derek will kill Stiles before he lets the family fortune fall into his hands.
"Good news," Erica says after more than two hours of absolute silence. Her voice is jarring, breaking the quiet like a rock through a plate glass window. "I got Kate's phone up and running again."
"I helped," Jackson grumbles, sitting on the floor beside her. They've had their heads together since everyone made it back downstairs, handing the dropped phone back and forth with no words exchanged in the interim. Boyd is across the room, nursing a glass of scotch that he's barely touched.
"You were one of those kids that had to be the center of attention no matter what, weren't you?"
"When you're this good-looking people tend to pay attention." He adjusts his jacket sleeve, the diamond cufflink catching the light and winking. Erica snorts good naturedly, shoving at his arm. She acts like they've been friends since high school instead of total strangers that were locked in a house together for going on five hours.
"The phone," Boyd prompts, words slurred from having the glass pressed against his cheek.
"Right, the phone. Check this out." Jackson gets up with a faint grunt heading over to the bar and propping the phone up against a jar of olives. The others migrate over and there's an uneasy feeling making Derek's gut clench. "This was taken right before she…. Disappeared."
The screen is cracked through the middle and the audio is fuzzy from blood seeping into the speaker, but the video plays fine other than that. It's the office, dark and dismal without any lighting, Kate's voice coming out garbled. "Hello? Who's there?" The video shifts suddenly as Kate spins in a jerky circle, like she's trying to keep someone in her line of sight with little success. "Jesus, I'm losing my mind." The phone drops to the ground with a clatter, Kate's hand twitching against the ground followed by a violent spray of red and the scream that had everyone running up the stairs.
The screen goes black after that, her phone completely dead after being used almost constantly.
"Well, that was pretty useless," Stiles says, tapping blunt fingernails against the bar top. It's a peculiar rhythm, one Derek knows matches Stiles' erratic heartbeat. It happens when he's nervous or when he needs a dose of Adderall, when Stiles is feeling twitchy and caged. His gaze locks on Derek's face, scrutinizing.
"What," Derek snaps.
"Just wondering how you managed to pull this off since Matt faints at the sight of fake blood."
"I didn't do this, Stiles."
"Sure, and you also didn't try to electrocute me à la Addams Family Values."
"That was accidental." Derek feigns innocence, though he can't help the little smirk that turns up the corner of his mouth. "I thought you'd want to listen to the radio while you were in the bath and I tripped over the cord." He moves away from the bar and resumes his pacing, stretching the muscles along his shoulders. "Who's to say that you aren't behind this?"
"I was down here the entire time. Jackson can vouch for me."
"And Lahey can vouch for me." Stiles' lips twist into a scowl, unattractive and nearly authentic. Derek would buy it if he were a different man, if he'd never met Stiles before today. "One of us is lying."
"Or one of our guests is a closeted serial killer." Derek sweeps his gaze over the room's occupants, considering for a moment. Erica and Boyd had disappeared down in the basement, but he doesn't think either of them are actually capable of cold-blooded murder. Lahey might be persuaded, but he was with Derek the entire time that Kate was traipsing through the old asylum. That just leaves Stiles and Jackson.
"Doesn't sound plausible."
"You're right about that." It's pure disdain that shadows Stiles' face now, observing their guests like they're bugs under a microscope. "None of these losers has a truly malicious bone in their body, which brings us back around to you." Stiles rests his elbows on the bar so that his fists can support his chin, smiling like he's interested. "So, did you and Kate sign some kind of contract or did you just flat out kill the bitch?"
"Neither one, darling mine." The smile drops away and his eyes go cold, a predator through and through. It's an expression Derek has become familiar with over the years, like a shark scenting blood.
"Cut the shit, Der. We all know the goal tonight is to have me dead."
"Just going off the numerous times you've tried to kill me, I'd say you've got it backwards." Stiles shrugs and grabs something from under the bar, bringing out one of the pistols from the casket in the next room. Derek can tell even from where he's standing that the safety's off as Stiles chambers a round. "What, you think you're going to kill me with blanks?" The crack of the pistol is enough to set his ears ringing, his instinctive jerk allowing him to narrowly dodge a bullet that buries itself into the wall next to him.
It would have gone right between his eyes otherwise.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Erica shouts.
"What the hell are you thinking," Boyd asks, yanking Erica beside him and out of the way. Stiles just smiles coldly, every inch the calculating sociopath that Derek knows he is. There's a reason why John Stilinski stopped taking his kid to the range to practice.
"Sure is a funky old house," Stiles says, voice even. "Ain't it?" Derek can't answer, busy trying to urge his thundering heart out of his throat. For one fraction of a second, he nearly pukes all over the pristine marble. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in my room for what remains of the night.
"Hey, Stiles," Derek calls, voice a harsh rasp. He stops near the stairs, one hand on the banister when he looks at Derek over his shoulder. "Don't stay up thinking of ways to get rid of me, it makes wrinkles."
"Same to you, babe."
"Sleep tight, Princess. Don't let the ghouls bite." Stiles cackles as he starts upwards, trailing long fingers against polished wood almost obscenely.
"The only ghoul in this house is you."
Lahey is hunched in his chair, shoulders up around his ears and blue eyes glazed over. He's breathing too hard and too fast, but Derek seems to be the only one to realize how deep in some sort of flashback the man is.
"I'm gonna go find a way out of this place," Erica says. "Screw the million dollars." She and Boyd stride out of the room, backs straight and shoulders squared like a couple of tin soldiers. Something tells Derek that this house is a whole lot meaner than some Jack-in-a-box, though. Jackson heaves out a sigh and grabs his phone, sliding his finger over the screen until his flashlight is working on the back.
"I guess I'm going to find Kate," he says. "If you hear any more ominous screams it's just me." He shuffles out of the room, shouldering past Derek much harder than he needed to. Derek casts a glance in Lahey's direction and relaxes when he realizes the man's breathing is evening out. He'll be fine.
Derek practically sprints to the third floor, tearing the door to the control open and speaking before his hand even hits the cold knob.
"What the fuck is going on," he demands, face hot with anger. "Where's Argent hiding?" When Matt doesn't answer, Derek grabs his shoulder and spins him around in the chair, falling back against the wall in horrified disgust a moment later. "Oh, merciful God in Heaven…."
Matt's face is gone, a red gash of jagged muscle and teeth left behind.
On the monitor a man in a stained lab coat is standing outside Stiles' door, smirking up at the camera and waving with a surgical saw dripping gore.
Stiles is slow to wake, feeling a broad hand running over the smooth skin of his chest. It's cold, almost like being caressed by an icicle. "Mm," he moans, rolling to get away from the touch. "M'sleeping." The hand is insistent, pulling him onto his back and groping along a thigh.
"Relax," a man says, confident. "This is just going to sting for a second."
Stiles' thoughts are hazy and sluggish, barely realizing that his sleep pants have been shoved down enough to bare the skin of his upper thigh before the pain of a shot registers. His eyes fly open, making out a flash of blond hair and streaks that might have been blue eyes before it feels like his heart is ready to burst inside his chest.
And then Stiles falls away into cold blackness.
Erica glances up as the overhead lights begin to flicker erratically, dropping the poker she'd been trying to wedge under the metal plating. "What the hell is that?"
"No freaking clue," Boyd says, wincing as a high-pitched buzz fills the air. It's worse than tinnitus, a constant whine that has Erica grinding her teeth. "I think it's coming from the basement."
"All the more reason to stay up here." Boyd looks torn, glancing at the sliver of black between the basement door and the jamb. Erica doesn't want to go down there, not after what happened the last time. Something bad is hiding in the basement, something strong enough to drag two hundred pounds of struggling muscle without a hitch.
"It could be Kate." Erica lets out a heavy sigh, running a shaking hand through her tangled hair.
"Why did I have to fall in love with fucking Lancelot?" She bends down and grabs the poker, liking the cold weight of it in her hands. Erica's watched enough Supernatural to know that iron will make a ghost wish they'd never died. "I'm not going unarmed."
"Neither am I." He lifts his shirt to reveal the pistol from earlier tucked into his waistband, patting the grip. "Let's get this over with." Erica nods grimly, the pair moving in tandem down into the heart of the house. No, not a heart, a stomach. She remembers the show on Netflix, revolving around the Crain family and the grief a single house caused them. "You okay?"
"Is the basement like the Red Room?" Boyd goes rigid next to her, his thoughts jumping to the Haunting if Hill House episode that had made them bawl like babies. "Do we keep going down there so that this place can digest us?"
"I'm not going to let it swallow us whole," Boyd promises, taking her hand in a tight grip. She's never seen him look this serious before, this absolutely dedicated to a cause. "We're getting out of here no matter what." And Erica believes him with her entire being, like she believes in the magic of shooting stars. Boyd's love for her is an absolute, just like her love for him. The rest is confetti.
"Let's go rescue a TV star." He cracks a smile that makes her warm all over, and they go down the stairs together, never letting go of each other.
Jackson and Derek are already downstairs when Erica and Boyd make it there, standing between the glass cases of yellowing plaster sculptures. Lahey joins them a second later at a dead sprint, shouldering his way past the group and yelling "electroshock" over his shoulder.
The halls seem to have changed since the last time they were down here; dead ends where there had been turns, doors where there had been smooth, soot-blackened walls. Lahey doesn't hesitate even once, like he's got a map built into his head, internal GPS that tells him exactly how to navigate the maze of halls until he's skidding to a stop just past the doorway of a room.
It's the room they'd explored two hours ago, complete with the heart drawn in the dust by Derek. The noise is louder in here and the lights seem fit to explode, but what makes Erica's stomach churn is the person on the table. Stiles is flailing uncontrollably, arms and legs strapped into place so that his torso is thrown into convulsions and raspy screams of pain are torn out of his throat.
"Turn it off," Derek yells. "Turn the goddamn thing off!" He lurches forward, Erica and Jackson catching him before he could touch Stiles. "Get him off that table! Turn it off!" Lahey and Boyd are flipping switches along the wall like a couple of mad scientists, working desperately to turn off the current running through Stiles mercilessly.
The noise and the flashing lights stop so abruptly that Erica doesn't even realize until black spots invade her sight and the ringing in her ears fades away. Stiles is limp on the table, head covered with a leather helmet and a guard in his mouth to keep his teeth from breaking.
Derek moves slowly, fingers hesitating before unstrapping the helmet and pulling it off, the guard coming with it. Blood seeps from between Stiles' lips, a dark ooze that gathers in a small pool next to his head. Jackson is the one to check for a pulse, lips pulled down into a solemn frown when he meets Derek's gaze.
"No," Derek says, shaking his head. "No, you just have to get his heart pumping again. You're a doctor, do your fucking job!" But there's nothing to be done and Jackson emphasizes this by taking a step back, hands going into the pockets of his suit jacket. It's covered in dust by now, a speck of red staining the white cuff of his shirt. Did he touch that side of Stiles' mouth? Erica can't remember.
"It's the house," Lahey says, softly apologetic. There are tears in his eyes and Erica can taste her own on her tongue. "I'm so sorry, Derek—"
"It's not the house! This is good old-fashioned homicide and one of you bastards is responsible!" His jaw is twitching spasmodically, teeth bared in a snarl. "The second I find out who's responsible, they're getting the same treatment Stiles got."
"The only one here that wanted Stiles dead is you," Erica accuses, taking a threatening step forward. "You made that very clearly several times in just the past few hours, Hale. Why should we believe this wasn't your fault?" She flings out a hand to gesture at the corpse, anger burning in her chest.
"Why would I kill my husband when we're locked in a house and surrounded by witnesses? I like to think I'm a little smarter than all that. Besides, I caught someone on the cameras that hadn't come through the front door."
"What'd they look like," Lahey asks, scratching harshly at a wrist. Erica doesn't even think he's aware of doing it, a tic that appears when the poor guy is stressed beyond his limit. "The intruder, I mean."
"Short guy in a white lab coat, he had stubble and this grin that would make anyone wanna punch him in the mouth."
"Yeah, that's Peter." Lahey rubs a hand over his jaw, tears sliding down his cheeks.
"It's not a ghost, it's an asshole!" Derek brings his own pistol out of his jacket, waving it wildly as he gestures at everyone in the room. He doesn't move from Stiles' side the entire time, not once. "Who the fuck hired this guy? How'd you sneak him past my man watching all the cameras?"
"Put the gun down," Jackson demands, thick brows drawing together over his eyes.
"I'll put it down when we get some cops here to read you freaks your Miranda rights."
"Put it down," Boyd says. "Or I'll make you put it down." Erica meets his eyes for a flash of a second, tightening her grip on the poker as the idea dawns on her. Like they'd both expected, Derek turns to face Boyd fully and keeps the pistol even with his head, finger hesitating over the trigger.
"I'd like to see you try." Erica doesn't give him a chance to squeeze the trigger, batting the pistol out of his hand and then bringing the poker up and to the left to connect with his head. Derek drops like a sack of bricks, crumpling to the ground with a low moan.
"Ladies and gentlemen, that is why you don't piss off my girlfriend."