Locking a concussed Derek Hale in the saturation chamber probably wasn't the smartest decision to be made that night, but Boyd can't bring himself to actually give a damn. As far as he knows, the guy is totally off his rocker and should stay locked up for the next ten to twenty years for the murder of his husband.

"I think we took a wrong turn," Boyd says, frowning as he looks behind him. He and Erica have been wandering the basement for twenty minutes now, trying to find a way out and not having much success. Lahey had disappeared around a corner mumbling about a hidden stash of booze in a supply room, feet shuffling noisily against the rough concrete.

"Our wrong turn was getting in that limo this evening," Erica says, stopping and turning her flashlight left and right. She's looking for a map, a thread of red yarn, anything that will lead them back upstairs where it's slightly safer. The beam of it catches on chipped white paint covering a door to her right, a smudge of writing catching Boyd's eye.

"Wait, shine the light on the door again." Erica turns it the way he's pointing, the smudge turning into semi-legible words. The black paint has nearly vanished over the years and the words seem like gibberish—r. Cor ne ale ffi. He draws in a sharp breath when he puts the pieces together, fills in the blanks like he does in the weekly crossword puzzle.

"What the hell does it say?"

"Dr. Corrine Hale's Office."

"As in creepy electroshock lady?"

"The same creepy electroshock lady that might have a map of the basement hanging up in her office." Erica shoves the door open with barely more than a grunt, leading the way inside with her teeth bared in a smile. "Alright, you crazy bitch, where'd you hide your goodies?"

"I'll check over here." Boyd sticks to the front half of the office, shoving yellowed papers and all file folders out of his way as Erica empties desk drawers onto the surface of the desk. Unlike the rest of the house, there's no presence of the fire in here, just an old room that's been closed up for too long.

There's a scent that hangs heavy in the air, like old books mixed with mold that makes Boyd want to gag whenever he digs through a new stack of papers. He ignores the way Erica begins to curse after a sneezing fit, only arching an amused brow in her direction after she throws a child's teddy bear on the desk and a plume of dust hits her square in the face.

"Not a word," she grumps, pointing a red-polished nail in his direction. "I took my allergy pills this morning just like the doctor said to. This place is just filled with dust, is all." He hums in response, smiling as he turns back to his pile of old junk.

Sitting on top, like it belongs and has always been there despite having not been there five seconds ago, is a frame. It isn't a large thing by any means, the glass intact and covered in a thin layer of grime that's easily wiped away on his jacket sleeve. What stares back at him is a group photo near the bottom and seven individual faces above the group shot with names and titles printed beneath them.

"Check this out, Eri." She tosses a pen to the side and comes over to him, shining the flashlight down on the picture. "Class of 1931."

"They look exactly as nuts as I thought they would." Boyd studies the picture, taking in faces and names and realizing at about the same time as Erica that he knows how that damn guest list was made.

"Holy shit…."

"Corrine Blake-Hale, head of electroshock," Erica reads, the disbelief coloring her voice so explicit that it could be used the explain the phrase what the entire fuck to a group of old people. "Peter Hale, Director. Joseph Boyd, pathology. Marie-Jeanne Argent, lobotomy. Marcelina Stilinski, electroshock. You all have a relative that was connected to this place."

"The five who didn't die," Lahey says, and he smirks when Boyd jumps so badly that his elbow slams into the wall.

"Damn, man," he complains, rubbing his elbow. "I'm gonna put a bell on your ass." Lahey leans against the doorframe, the liquor from earlier loosening him up just enough to make him look less like an anxious mess. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out in one big gust of air, the smell of bourbon washing over Boyd and making his stomach curdle.

"The house made the friggin' guest list or the ghosts did. My money's on Peter since he's a vengeful, stupid whore." He kicks at a chair, the old wood collapsing onto its side in a pile of broken limbs and splinters. "It got its five victims here, plus me because my family is fucking cursed or whatever. The house wants a complete set for the staff photo of 2018."

"No, that can't be right," Erica says, shaking her head.

"Why not? It's as good a theory as any."

"But there were seven of us altogether. Why would Whittemore get invited if the house didn't want him here?"

The halls of the basement have that unsettling presence of changing, of shadows writhing in the corner of your eye and statues jeering from behind their glass cases. He grits his teeth and keeps going, though, encouraged by the thought of being half a billion dollars richer. Eventually he lands in familiar territory, the hospital's old morgue holding a steel table with Stilinski's body laid up on it.

Jackson thinks of an unlit pyre, an interrupted funeral.

Jesus Christ.

As he steps up to the table and pulls a black kit out of his pocket, he wonders how this became his life. He hated this kid back in high school, used to bully him, and now he's helping Stilinski—because he'll always be Stilinski in Jackson's mind, never Stiles. Stilinski, the Sheriff's little delinquent who talks too much and crashes around three o'clock after his Vyvanse wears off.

Somehow, miracle of miracles, the smartass little shit lands the hottest guy in Beacon Hills—second to Jackson, of course—and ends up able to buy Jackson's allegiance when, only fourteen years ago, Stilinski could only dream of having enough money to get his crappy Jeep working. To top it all off, he still has that crappy Jeep and talks to it like it understands him.

And now here they both are, thirty years old and locked in an insane asylum.

He reiterates—Jesus Christ.

Scowling, Jackson pulls down Stilinski's sleep pants until the plush flesh of his thigh is revealed, a tiny little pinprick showing where he'd shot Stilinski up an hour ago. He feels around, finding a good spot before opening his kit and setting to work. A quick swipe of an alcohol pad and a relatively small dose of Physostigmine later, Stilinski is trying to jerk upright off the table.

Jackson grabs him and pins him down quickly, holding him in place until he realizes what's going on. Stilinski relaxes after that, lying boneless on the table and letting Jackson do a quick check-up.

"How's it look, Doc," he asks, hoarse. There are dark bruises under his eyes, but his pallor is returning to normal and his heartbeat is in a steady rhythm again.

"Healthy as a horse." Jackson puts his kit back in his pocket, making a mental note to dispose of the needle when he gets a chance. "The Atropine worked like a charm." Stilinski sits up slowly, pulling his pants back up where they settle low on his hips. "According to all the others, you are a very dead man."

"Speaking of the dead, how's my husband doing?"

"Still alive. We've got him locked in a saturation chamber and I turned it on before I came to check on you. Makes a hell of a light show." Stilinski smirks at that, the expression not reaching his eyes. They look darker all the way down here, dead. "I've got five bucks that says Erica will be the one to knock him off."

"That's a good bet. What about that TV chick? The one that basically eye-fucked Derek when we first met her?"

"Kate's still missing." Remembering that scream, the way it seemed to fill the entire building with nerve-wracking terror, makes a violent shiver race through Jackson's body. How could anyone even produce a sound like that without tearing their vocal chords in the process? How could anyone hear it and look as unaffected as Stilinski had at the time? The way he does right now?

"So she could be spying on us right this very instant?"

"No, I don't think so." Stilinski arches his brows and makes an impatient gesture for Jackson to continue. "All that blood we found, nobody could live long without it. There had to be at least two pints of it on the walls alone. Kate's dead and I'm pretty sure Derek's responsible."

"Except the police won't believe that for an instant if they can't find her body." He slides off the table, his bare feet making an obscene sound when they smack to the floor. "It's gonna be hard enough to convince them that me faking my death was just a prank I was pulling on my husband, Jackson. And what if those idiots out there don't ever pull the trigger?"

"They will—"

"They locked him in a goddamn chamber! They're on edge around him, suspicious, but they're not scared! They have to believe they're in actual danger before they'll shoot Derek." He lets out a sharp hiss of air, nimble fingers playing over the surgical tray facing away from Jackson.

"Then what do you want to do, Stilinski? I'm all out of ideas here. I'm just the medical knowhow." Stilinski doesn't say anything for a long while, content to play with the rusted equipment left behind. As far as Jackson's concerned, he's done his part in all of this. He's earned his half of Derek's life insurance policy and intends to take Danny on that honeymoon they didn't have time to take five years ago.

"We need another body…." Stilinski turns slowly, all relaxed grace with something in his fist that winks in the low lighting. "And we need to paint Derek as a crazed serial killer in the process. Any volunteers?"

And then Stilinski's arm is swinging, and a burning pain erupts in Jackson's belly.

Peter Ian Hale is a man of very simple needs, and fuck Corrine if she snorts and rolls her eyes whenever that sentence leaves his mouth. He is, dammit. All he needs in life to be happy is his baby girl, a willing person in his bed, a sharp scalpel, and somebody to torture. Two out of four isn't bad.

Stiles Stilinski is a master with the scalpel Peter had left in the morgue, skillfully turning the Whittemore man's torso into a gory mess of dark red blood and pink muscle, flaying him open with a serene smile turning up his lips. The boy looks uncannily like his great-grandmother, a near perfect replica in all the most wonderful ways.

As if sensing Peter's presence, Stiles pauses in his work and turns brown eyes in the ghost's general direction. They're the color of old whiskey, of sunshine catching on honey with flecks of darker brown caught in the irises. Peter wants to devour him and hold Stiles' power inside him.

"I know you're there," Stiles says, eerily calm. "Why don't you come out and play?" Peter steps further into the room, still invisible and achingly curious. Will this boy scream like the Argent girl had? Or maybe he'll be intrigued, maybe those wonderful eyes will glow like fireflies in summer.

"You're trying to make your husband look guilty," Peter asks, appearing flush against Stiles' back. The boy tenses for the briefest of seconds, but then he's all relaxed muscles and beautifully, heartbreakingly warm. God, Peter misses being warm. Not the flames, though, never the flames that melted his flesh off his bones and made the Darkness thrive.

"Uh-huh." Stiles presses against the phantom and Peter growls low in his throat at the feeling. "Any ideas, Doctor Hale?" Stiles is looking at him over the smooth curve of his shoulder, dark lashes tickling Peter's cheek. The boy is the tall one in this dynamic, but so is Corrine. Peter finds height doesn't much matter when it comes to taking the person apart piece by piece.

"Remove the head. The torso will make transport awkward and it'll make an unseemly mess."

"But the police will need the body, too. How else will they know Derek is totally responsible?"

"The police don't matter, sweetheart." Stiles shivers as Peter's breath fans over his ear, a barely there reaction. Interesting. "Your companions only need to see him bloody from cradling a severed head before they're ready to start shooting. Trust me, I'm a bit of an expert in these matters." Stiles makes a considering sound, blood-slick fingers leaving four trails of red where they brush along Peter's cheek.

"Help me with it." Peter nods at the surgical saw and Stiles grabs it, letting out a shaky breath when Peter's cold hand covers his and guides the saw to Whittemore's thick neck. Stiles' breathing grows heavier as they start to saw, the fingers of his free hand coming up to dig into Peter's hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp.

Peter leans into the touch, grinding against Stiles' ass like a teenager. Cory used to joke that his self-control was the worst trait about him, and he can spot her just over Stiles' shoulder, hand brought up to smother her laughter. He bares his teeth at her, a vicious smile that she returns wholeheartedly.

Stiles will be a fun little plaything once he's been devoured by the house. A bloodthirsty heathen to keep the boredom away until the real Jennifer Blake shows up. The Reyes girl is entertaining, and her boyfriend is exactly the one Peter wanted, but four out of five survivors isn't nearly enough right now. Peter wants the whole set.

Whittemore's head comes free with a sickening tearing of ligament and their joined hands are covered in gore, but Stiles is arching against Peter and it's taking all of the spirit's control not to bend the boy over the corpse and drive into him, prep be damned. He manages though, grinding his teeth as he releases the saw and steps away, materializing next to his wife.

"Go and put that where it belongs, Stiles. My wife and I will be a bit…. Occupied for the next hour or so." Corrine smiles when he pins her to the wall, the skirt of her dress lifting when it catches on his wrists, legs smooth and cool to the touch.

Peter barely registers Stiles leaving or the inky shadow following just a little too out of sync to belong to him.

"You know," Lahey says, shuffling along behind Boyd and Erica. "I'm really wishing I had just bricked up the basement door when I had a chance last week. Our lives would be so much simpler right now if I had."

"Not gonna argue with you there," Erica says. They've been searching for Jackson for an hour now, calling out his name and just generally cursing the idiocy of ex-frat boys. Lahey takes the next left that brings them into the morgue, coming to a jolting stop in the doorway.

"Well, that's certainly not a good sign."

"What?" Erica's flashlight illuminates the room better than the halogen light flickering weakly overhead. The table where Stiles had been laid is a bloody mess, a surgical saw discarded in the leftover gore. There's nothing else, no body to have made such a mess, only a pair of bloody footprints leading out of the room.

"Holy God," Boyd mutters behind her, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. "Please tell me this is just some weird hallucination from breathing in mold."

"Wish it was, babe." Erica sucks in a deep breath, sudden realization hitting her like a boot to the stomach. "That blood's really fresh, right?" Lahey and Boyd both nod, the former gagging at the coppery scent invading the room. "Too fresh to have come from a corpse?"

"Oh Jesus…. You don't think—"

"That Derek used his engineering degree to bust out of an old metal chamber and then beheaded Jackson? That's exactly what I think."

"You're gonna make us go find him, aren't you," Lahey asks, looking exhausted beyond all measure. He's already sprinted past his breaking point and dove headfirst into a fuzzy sort of resignation. Erica knows the feeling well by now, her feet aching in her boots and a migraine eating away at the space between her eyes. "What even is my life?"

"I'll let you know when I get it figured out, bud," Boyd says, clapping a hand on Lahey's shoulder. The slighter man flinches away from it at first, but slowly relaxes when he realizes that Boyd means no harm. "Lead the way to the saturation chamber."

Lahey frowns and stalks ahead of them, shoving his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. It's a hand-me-down made from cheap material in an ash gray that doesn't suit him and clashes horribly with the scarf he refuses to take off, the left shoulder fraying and one of the buttons on the front completely missing.

When they get out of here—because Erica has to think in when's instead of if's—she's going to take Lahey shopping with Jennifer Blake's credit card collection.

"Hey, there's someone in there." Erica jolts out of her thoughts and focuses her gaze on the circular window set into the chamber, a face smushed tightly against the glass. "Is that Jackson? But then who got dismembered back there?" Boyd turns the hand-crank and pulls the door open, the faint thud of Jackson's head falling to the ground answering all of Lahey's questions. It bounces once, rolling until glassy eyes are fixed on where Erica is shining her flashlight on it.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," she mutters, clutching at her stomach with her free hand. She's really glad she refused those cashews six hours ago. "We have to find Derek and hogtie his ass until morning."

"This place is huge, he could hide in the basement alone for three months without being found—"

"So we'll split up."

"Baby," Boyd says, taking her arm in a gentle hold," that is the single whitest sentence to ever leave your mouth. Splitting up to search for a crazed murderer with no moral compass is a job better left to the police. I say we go upstairs, barricade the basement door closed and hangout in the lobby until help shows up."

"Derek found a way to break out of a sealed chamber and you think shoving a desk in front of a wooden door will keep him from using our skin as lampshades?"

"I never should have let you watch American Horror Story. Our lives have just gone downhill since then." Boyd runs a hand over his mouth, scratching absently at the stubble along his jaw before heaving out a sigh. "Fine, we'll go look for Hale, but we're sticking together. I'm not about to be the token black guy that gets butchered in some kind of cheesy nineties horror flick."