Cause nothing satiates me
And I don't think that I hate me
But bad or good
Seems nothing could
Take away this tasteless haze
And nothing overtakes me
And I think I'm going crazy
But bad or good
Seems nothing could
Take away this tasteless haze of mine
Haze – Tessa Violet
I liked the school at nighttime, it was calm and quiet, and not filled with walking blood bags that tempted my very strength of will with every Goddamn bloody paper cut. Of course, every time I'd been at the school at night, somebody had almost always died, not to mention I'd been more than a little bit injured.
Fucking high school, man.
"This way!" Scott called, taking a right and bolting down the hallway. I kept up with him easily, sniffing the air myself. The scent of animalistic blood filled my nose, and I cringed, knowing that we were likely far too late.
Scott was the first to dive into the room, and I followed, instantly throwing myself onto the ground beside the teenager's unconscious form. There was a painful looking scorch mark around his neck, and I took in the sound of his heartbeat, gently prodding the kid until his eyes flew open.
Another heartbeat made itself known, and I spun around quickly, snapping out, "Scott!"
But I needn't have worried. The alpha was more than capable of taking on this little wannabe assassin, taking hold of the glowing thermo-cut wire looped around his neck and ripping it lazily from his throat, slamming the girl up against the wall, knocking her unconscious. I was proud, but I didn't have time to praise the teen wolf for his actions, turning to the injured werewolf on the floor and prodding him again.
Footsteps hit the linoleum floor, and I knew from the familiar heartbeat that it was Stiles. I wanted to scold him for being so reckless and following us, but I knew that would only lead to more fighting.
He tripped into the room, but I kept my attention on the wolf on the ground. "Brett, can you hear me?" I questioned, pulling open his eyes and quickly checking his pupils.
"I think you better call your dad," Scott murmured to the human, who was breathing heavily from his run to get here.
"And an ambulance?" Stiles asked, already fishing out his phone.
"The human's already dead," I told him absentmindedly, listening as the werewolf's heart began to race as he went into shock. The wound to his neck was already healing, so I knew it couldn't be that. Bewildered, I sniffed the air, picking up the faint trace of wolfsbane mingled with a speck of unappealing puppy blood. "We need to get this kid to Deaton," I said with very little patience. "He's the only one who can help him now."
"Someone has to stay for when my dad gets here," Stiles said hurriedly, I could practically see the cogs turning in his mind.
"Well, figure it out," I ordered, climbing to my feet, then bending down to slip a hand under the unconscious kid's legs and back, hefting him up until he lay over my shoulder. He was quite a bit taller than me, so proportionally it was a bit awkward, but his weight was next to nothing for my supernatural strength. "Quickly," I added firmly. "Then whichever it is, meet me at the Jeep."
I didn't give the boys a chance to speak, disappearing from view. The werewolf over my shoulder groaned in pain as he was jolted, but my main priority was getting him to the only person who had a shot of saving his life.
Panic swelled in me as the kid convulsed, and I propped him up against the side of Stiles' Jeep, gently slapping his cheeks. "Please do me a favour and don't die in my arms," I muttered to him pleadingly, checking his pupils again and listening closely to his heart rate as it to spiked once more.
I tapped my foot anxiously against the ground as I impatiently waited for one of the boys to appear from the school. Once a full minute passed I assumed it was Stiles tagging along – Scott would have gotten there much faster.
The human was already fumbling with his keys when he burst from the building, half-sprinting over to me as I heard the sound of sirens in the distance.
"Sometime today would be great," I snapped at Stiles sarcastically, irritated by the slow rate he was moving. He didn't even spare the time to shoot me a glare, instead unlocking his car and needlessly helping me deposit the trembling werewolf into the backseat. In the next heartbeat I was sitting in the passenger seat, waiting impatiently for him to join me in the car.
The Jeep started with a familiar warm rumble once he finally settled in, and he tore out of the parking lot with a screech. I leaned over the seat and pressed a hand to the wolf's skin, noting that he was getting hotter by the minute.
"Scott rang Deaton and told him we were coming," Stiles told me distractedly, barely indicating for a second before pulling into the next lane. "Was gonna ring Derek too, tell him to meet us there."
"Well if we don't get there soon, this kid doesn't stand a chance, Stiles," I told him frustratedly.
"I'm already doing fifteen over the speed limit," he barked back, sounding as anxious as I felt. I grit my teeth and kept my attention on the deteriorating health of the boy in the backseat. There was a long, tense silence, filled only by the werewolf's staccato breathing and Stiles' racing heart. "You don't even know the guy," the human suddenly said with a frown. "It's not like you to care so much."
The words were true, but stung nonetheless. I hoped he didn't notice me flinch. I didn't answer for a long minute, trying to pull my storm of raging thoughts into something comprehensible. "I don't know," I murmured, trying to buy myself time, and reluctant to answer.
"Don't give me that," Stiles snapped, glancing away from the road to shoot me a displeased glare that lacked any real heat. "Be honest, for once," he added darkly, sounding somewhat bitter, and I bit my tongue against the onslaught of emotions.
With a heavy sigh, I opened my mouth and told the truth. "I've been responsible for a lot of people dying lately," I murmured, staring resolutely out the window at the black sky, wishing we were somewhere without light pollution so I could actually see the stars. "And it would be nice if, for once, I was responsible for saving someone's life, rather than taking it."
It sounded kind of stupid now that it was said out loud, but Stiles didn't comment on it, electing to remain silent for the rest of the drive to the clinic. I could feel him thinking hard about my words, and I longed to be privy to those thoughts, if only for a moment.
The Jeep parked with a squeal of it's tires, and in the next instant Derek was yanking open the back door, pulling the now convulsing werewolf out and holding him in a tight grip, grunting ever so slightly at the exertion, which, if I weren't so distracted, might have made me suspicious.
"In here!" the veterinarian was saying before we'd even stepped into the clinic, waving us through to the back room hurriedly. Derek dropped the kid on the examination table just as his convulsions got more violent, yellow discharge flying from his mouth with every cough. I assumed Scott had explained everything, because Deaton didn't look even slightly confused by what was happening before him. "Shirt off," he demanded, and without hesitation I grabbed onto the material at the chest of his shirt and yanked, ripping the cloth off him without the blink of an eye.
"What the hell is happening to this kid?!" Stiles demanded in a panic, struggling to keep him in the centre of the table. I bent over his legs, holding them down with only slight difficulty. He was strong, that much was certain.
"He's been poisoned by a rare wolfsbane," Deaton responded quickly from where he stood by the supply cabinet, digging in it for one thing or another. He returned with a glistening scalpel, holding it just above the kid's skin. "I need to make an incision and you need to hold him as still as possible."
"Hey, Derek, how about a bit of werewolf strength?" Stiles asked the other werewolf sourly, glaring at him across the table as together they struggled to keep the victim still.
"I'm not the only one here with werewolf strength," Derek snapped back bitterly. I held tighter to his legs, managing to keep them from kicking me in the face.
"If you can't hold him still, the incision might kill him," Deaton growled, and the pair of bickering boys fell silent.
The werewolf began to convulse more intensely, and I caught the scent of unappetising blood as he bit through his own tongue, the red mixing in with the yellow foam bursting from his mouth.
"I think he's slipping! I don't think I can hold him!" Stiles yelled suddenly, struggling to keep ahold of the seizing wolf.
In a move of unexplainable clairvoyance, I practically saw what was about to happen by the tensing of the victim's muscles. "Stiles, watch out!" I warned in a panic, just in time for the wolf to explode, shoving us away from him with one powerful swipe of his arms and legs. Deaton was pushed back into me, his scalpel jabbing through my shoulder, lodged deep inside my muscle. "Fucking fuck," I cursed, leaping away and bringing a hand up to the tool jutting out of my shoulder like some kind of low budget Halloween costume.
I spun around in time to see Peter appear, slamming his fist into the panicking kid's mouth and sending him careening to the floor in a splash of red and yellow fluids.
We were all silent, breathing heavily as we watched the ex-alpha's eye fade from glowing sapphire to regular old sky blue. "I guess I still have a little werewolf strength, myself," he said, a hint of a smirk playing at his mouth.
"Yeah, maybe more than a little," Derek replied tightly, eyeing his uncle like he was a puzzle he just couldn't work out.
"You okay, Jules?" Stiles spoke before either Hale could say anything, and I blinked at him uncomprehendingly, wondering why he would think I wouldn't. "You kind of have..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the shoulder area. I looked down at myself in surprise, realising that, in the excitement of it all, I'd completely forgotten about the scalpel jutting out from my shoulder, a small river of blood trickling down my side.
"Oh," I murmured, blinking as I wrapped my fingers around the instrument, getting a good grip before ripping it from my shoulder. It didn't hurt that badly, just enough to make me hiss, and with a grimace I dropped the offending, blood-covered object to the ground, kicking it out of the way pettily. Nothing but the sound of breathing filled the room, but with a jolt I realised something was very wrong. There were five of us in the room, and only four hearts were beating. "Shit," I growled, reappearing knelt over the poisoned werewolf, laying a hand over his skin.
"Oh crap," Stiles swore, joining me on the floor. "I don't think he's breathing!"
Deaton positioned himself to the side of me, and I shuffled out of the way to let him do his work, pressing myself unthinkingly against Stiles' side. "Pass me a fresh scalpel," he demanded of one of the two standing wolves, and a moment later Derek was handing him a knife untainted by my vampire blood. Without hesitation he dragged the end along the teenager's sternum, and like magic the kid sucked in a sharp, heaving breath.
A small cloud of smoke escaped from his chest, and I watched it dissipate into the air like a vapour.
"Is he okay?" Stiles asked Deaton after a long, tense silence.
"I think he'll be fine, but he'll probably be out for awhile," the doctor responded calmly.
A hoarse whisper filled the room, and I tilted my head to get a better listen. "Guys, can you hear that? I think he's saying something," Stiles said quietly, leaning closer to the unconscious boy in an effort to hear.
"The sun...the moon...the truth..." he was mumbling under his breath.
Deaton heard, sitting back and blinking as he realised what he was hearing. I looked over, meeting his frowning gaze. "What is it?" Stiles prompted, not understanding. I turned to look at him, realising with a start that we were still pressed together, the warmth from his body bleeding through my clothes and staining my skin.
"Three things can not long be hidden," Deaton recited pensively. "The sun, the moon, and the truth." I recognised it, and I had a feeling that the wolf behind me did too, if the jolt of his heart was any indication. "It's Buddhist," the doctor told us, turning around to narrow his eyes at Derek, who stared at the unconscious boy like he was seeing a ghost.
"Satomi," Peter murmured the name like it was a curse, and I turned around to frown at him, not knowing what this meant.
"You care to share?" I asked dryly when no explanation followed.
"Let's get this boy off the floor first, shall we?" Deaton spoke politely, but I got the feeling it wasn't quite a request. Although my shoulder now ached like a bitch, I scooped the wolf up in dainty arms, depositing him onto the table as gently as I was able. "I need to check his vitals," he said, suddenly gesturing to the door, a clear hint for us all to leave.
Peter turned and left the room, and Derek cast a final look to the injured kid before following after his uncle. Stiles made to leave after them, but paused when he realised I wasn't following behind.
"Jules?" he asked carefully, hesitating in the doorway.
"He'll be okay, Juliet," Deaton assured me quietly when he noticed my eyes trained on the werewolf's chest as it just barely rose with ease pained breath. I hated that I was being so transparent, but knew taking out my frustration on the others wouldn't help things, so I shot the veterinarian a tight smile before following after a concerned looking Stiles.
Peter and Derek were already standing in the waiting room, remaining so they could elaborate on this 'Satomi' person.
"You wanna explain?" Stiles asked the blue-eyed beta, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Satomi is a werewolf; a beta last I heard, but it's entirely possible she's since become an alpha and started her own pack," Peter told us, his arms crossed over his chest.
"And you think she's that kid's alpha?" I pressed, cocking an eyebrow at the pair as I jerked my chin back towards the exam room, where I could hear the emissary setting up an IV.
"The sun, the moon, and the truth," Peter repeated flatly, a look of vague irritation splashed across his features. "It was somewhat of her mantra." There was a pause. "She's one of the oldest werewolves alive," he added, the look in his eyes begrudgingly respectful.
"How old?" I questioned, chin tilted upwards in perturbation.
"Does it matter?" Peter drawled lazily.
"I like to know what I'm up against."
"Satomi isn't a threat," Derek told me in a growl. "She's an ally."
"If you say so," I mumbled petulantly, unconvinced.
"We need to find her," the blue-eyed wolf continued, a look of decisive resolution on his face.
"I think we can all agree that task has been delegated to you," I said, lifting a hand to my throbbing shoulder and trying not to wince. I needed to feed, it was the only way to make sure I was totally healed. Derek looked less than pleased by my comment, but the rest of the group seemed to be in agreement.
"Well then," Peter drawled, idly inspecting his hands, "you'd better get started."
There weren't any goodbyes exchanged. Peter merely turned and left the room, Derek trailing after him with something of a vague nod of acknowledgement before the duo disappeared from the clinic.
"Come on," I said to Stiles, heading for the door.
He sighed, tired as he followed me, stepping out into the frigid air of the night.
I climbed into Stiles' Jeep, the air between us still and quiet. It was chilly for my human companion, and as soon as the engine started he cranked up the heat, holding his hands out over the vent in an effort to warm himself up.
"We've gotta let her warm up," Stiles said suddenly, and for a beat I was confused, then I realised he was talking about his vehicle. "I don't wanna push her too hard in these temperatures."
I was bemused that he was talking about the car like it were alive, but I figured it was somewhat of a human trait. "Okay," I agreed with a nod, turning around to open my door, slipping outside, the cold night air fresh on my face.
The door clicked shut behind me, and Stiles exclaimed in bewilderment from inside the car, winding down the window just in time to see me slipping a cigarette between my lips and cupping a hand around the end so I could light it.
"Jules," Stiles suddenly sounded awfully whiny. I blinked at him in the glow of Deaton's outside light, the hand clutching my lighter frozen halfway to my mouth. "I thought we agreed you'd quit," he grumbled, frowning at me with frustrating disappointment.
"That was before-" I abruptly cut myself off, not sure how that sentence was going to end, but also not willing to find out.
Before he got possessed by a dark spirit? Before I became a soulless killing machine? Before we spent a month on opposite sides of the country? Before I lost my resistance to blood?
Despite not finishing my statement, Stiles still winced like he'd been struck. "It helps with the cravings," I murmured to him honestly, ashamed as I directed my gaze to the gravel beneath my feet.
"Are they still bad?" he asked, voice weak.
"The worst," I confirmed, the understatement of the year.
I lit the cigarette, though hardly enjoying it as much as I might have before. I pocketed my lighter, inhaling the lungful of smoke before blowing it from my lips in a harsh sigh.
Stiles said nothing, turning on the radio and staring down at it with a level of concentration unnecessary for someone merely adjusting the stations. I remained quiet, reluctant to be the one to break the silence that had fallen over us.
"There was another familiar name on that list, you know," Stiles spoke first, thankfully, and I looked away from the sky to frown at him.
"Which one is that?" I asked, leaning one arm through the open window and peering through at him curiously.
"Jordan Parrish," he said like I was supposed to actually recognise the name. I blinked back expressionlessly. "He's my dad's new deputy," he elaborated with an exasperated roll of his eyes. "You've met him a few times."
"Doesn't ring a bell," I hummed, pulling my death stick away from my lips and taking care to blow the smoke in the opposite direction to Stiles. "What is he, then?"
"Well, I was hoping you'd know," he admitted, scratching at the back of his neck.
I snickered, pressing my lips together as I laughed. "No such luck, handsome," I replied; how was I supposed to know what supernatural category this guy fell into if I didn't even know who he was?
Stiles' heart stuttered, then he asked, "would you know if you saw him?"
I shrugged, flicking the ash from the tip of my cigarette. "Depends, I'll need to talk to him, probably – get a feel for his energy."
Stiles blinked, and I cocked my head, curious about his confusion. "Feel his energy?" he asked incredulously, like I'd just told him I could breathe underwater. "What does that mean?"
My lips curled up at the corners, and I leaned further inside the window to talk. "Every living thing gives off an energy...a power, if you will. Vampires are better attuned to sensing it than, say, ordinary humans, are."
"...are you telling me that vampires are Force-sensitive?" he finally asked, and this time I was the one left confused.
"I don't know what that means," I deadpanned, frustrated by the reference.
"Never mind." Stiles shook his head violently, like his brain was an etch-a-sketch he was trying to clear. "Well, I think we need to talk to him anyway," he finally said. "The guy deserves to know there's a price on his head."
I took another drag, nodding my head. "Fair enough," I agreed easily. "We'll go tomorrow." I paused, an idea hitting me. "And we'll take Lydia with us."
"What?" Stiles looked surprised. "Why?"
"Well, we need the last key, right?" I asked, and he nodded warily. "This Parrish bloke is a cop, and maybe once we tell him he's on a dead pool, he'll take us seriously and help us get to Meredith, whom at this point, honestly seems like the best bet we have at getting our hands on the remainder of the list."
"That's..." Stiles trailed off thoughtfully, "actually, surprisingly smart." Offended, I shot him a hard, red-tinged look that made the human gulp noisily. "That sounded bad, I just meant that you're not usually the one to come up with the plan," he said warily, trying not to wince as he spoke, probably for fear that I'd hit him.
I eyed him dangerously for another long moment, if only to make him sweat, then my expression cleared into a teasing smirk. "Pouting because I thought of it before you?" I asked, pushing out my bottom lip mockingly.
"Ha ha," he grunted sarcastically, thoroughly unamused. "Get in the Jeep," he barked, shooting me a glare that lacked any real bite as he started the engine up once more, putting the car into gear. I dropped the butt of my cigarette, crushing it with the heel of my shoe before climbing into the vehicle. It was significantly warmer inside, and Stiles quickly wound up my window, pulling out of the parking lot and heading for the main road.
Stiles seemed content to let us fade into silence, no sound but the soft music from the radio filling the car. The quiet wasn't heavy, as it had been before. Instead it felt easy and comfortable, like nothing had changed and we were still just friends, sharing a ride home after a long, busy day.
But that was the thing, wasn't it? I wasn't even sure if we were still friends?
Overcome with shame, I stopped myself from saying anything, remaining silent as he came to a stop outside of my tall, looming house. It didn't seem like a home, not anymore, not after everything that had happened there; after all the blood that had been spilled there. By me.
"What're you thinking about?"
I was brought from my rather dark inner-monologue by Stiles' warm, comforting voice. Startled, I snapped my head away from the view of my dark house, turning to look across the car at him. "Nothing," I lied absently, frowning at myself.
"I don't believe you," he said calmly, and I narrowed my eyes in his direction. "You're wearing your 'thinking' frown," he explained simply, only serving to make my frown deepen.
At my silence, Stiles only sighed. Forcing my expression into something lighter, I cracked open the door and stepped out into the still-frigid night air. "I'll see you tomorrow," I promised him gently, leaning in through the open door and attempting something of a smile.
"I'll pick you up around nine?" he inquired, and I gave a nod of agreement before letting the door click shut and turning to head to my front porch. I made my way there at a human pace, much more interested in the racing of Stiles' heart from inside his Jeep, which sat idle on the curb until long after I'd gone inside.
I got no sleep that night, but that meant I got to watch the sunrise. I dusted my bookshelf and rearranged my large collection into order of preference for no other reason than chronic, unavoidable boredom.
I took a shower than lasted probably an hour too long, then changed into a sweet little off-cream sweater and a high-waisted black skirt. The soft sounds of an expertly played saxophone travelled through the house as I rolled on my stockings, and I was so immersed in humming along to the melody that I barely registered the sound of Stiles' Jeep pulling into my driveway. It wasn't until I heard heartbeats and the slam of car doors that I realised anyone was there at all.
I was pulling the front door open before either Stiles or Lydia could knock, smiling at them welcomingly in an effort to make myself seem less menacing and, with any luck, approachable.
"Good morning," I greeted them gently, pulling the door open wide, my stocking-clad feet slippery against my polished wood floor. Both looked surprised and somewhat wary at my seemingly cheerful attitude. Lydia held her bag tightly to her side as she entered, as though I were going to snatch it from her in a fit of thievery.
"Lydia's was on the way, so I picked her up first," he told me, sounding strangely apologetic, like I might be offended he got her before me.
"I don't mind," I assured him quickly, nodding him through and shutting the door after him.
"You look...nice," Lydia commented, sounding genuinely befuddled. I suppose it was the first time she'd seen me in a sweater with a fawn knitted onto the front.
"Not everything I own is bloodstained," I joked wryly, and although the statement may have made a lesser girl flinch, I was pleasantly surprised that Lydia seemed to see the humour in it, a small but sincere smile edging onto her lips. Her hair was down and perfectly done in subtle curls, making me realise mine was still damp, hanging limply over my shoulders. I felt suddenly self-conscious. "You guys hungry?" I asked, my tone deceivingly bright.
"I already ate," Lydia shook her head, casting a wary glance towards the kitchen, probably wondering if it was where I stored the blood. It was, but I figured mentioning that would only make her queasy.
"Well, I'm starved!" Stiles proclaimed, slamming his hands against his stomach and shooting me a wide, honest grin.
"The kitchen's completely stocked," I assured him, waving him out of the foyer and into the tiled kitchen. "Eat to your heart's content," I encouraged him, taking a step towards the stairs. "I'm just going to finish getting ready," I added, only to pause when Lydia spoke up.
"I'll come with you," she said with a gentle smile, taking the initiative and striding on up the stairs. "You can do something more fun with your hair than leaving it dangling limply in your face, like usual," she added with somewhat of a goading smirk, and my eyebrows raised in surprise at the remark.
Stiles' heart leapt from where he stood in the doorway to the kitchen. "I'll come too!" he exclaimed, a worried look clouding his features.
"You want to come help braid hair and apply lipliner?" Lydia challenged, seeing something in the odd situation that I was clearly missing.
Stiles hesitated.
"That's what I thought," she smiled again, nodding her head at me then tossing her chin in the air and striding up the staircase like the she were Queen. Stiles sighed in defeat, but I heard him cross into the kitchen and begin rooting through my cupboards, no doubt in search of breakfast cereal.
Wary but not unwilling, I led Lydia through to my room. She eyed it carefully, like it was a puzzle she was trying to solve.
"So, my bathroom's through here," I said, stepping over to the door along the far wall.
"Go blow dry your hair," she told me offhandedly, moving over to my chest of drawers, focused on the nicknacks sitting atop it. I hesitated, unsure if letting her snoop through my room was wise, but it wasn't like I was hiding anything, or that there was anything out of the ordinary to find, so with a hum of acknowledgement, I turned and headed into my ensuite.
The loud sound of my hair dryer filled the room, but I made quick work of the job, keeping half of my attention trained on the banshee perusing my bedroom. Three minutes later I was shutting the device off, laying it on my shelf and running my hands through my head of thick, pitch black hair.
"This frame's nice," Lydia said from the other room, raising her voice like she'd forgotten I'd be able to hear her whisper. I wandered back into my room, eyeing the delicate antique frame she held in her hands.
"It was a gift from a friend back in 1898," I responded gently, and if she was surprised by the casual admission of my age, she didn't show it.
"Stiles has this picture up in his room too," she noted, and I raised my eyebrows in surprise, glancing down at the photograph within. It was of Stiles and I, he'd taken it on his phone then done some kind of magic with his computer to print it out.
It was of the two of us only a month or so after we'd met. He'd surprised me with a 'selfie'. I was making a crinkled face at the camera, my eyes narrowed in bewilderment, while Stiles had a wide, goofy grin splashed across his face, beaming toothily at the camera, free arm thrown casually around my shoulders.
I hadn't remembered he had the same photo in his room too, and I felt warm inside as I recalled this fact. "It's one of my favourites," I murmured honestly, idly listening to the sound of the television from downstairs and the soft crunching as Stiles ate his cereal. "I wish I'd smiled, though," I added with a note of regret.
Lydia looked up at me with her large eyes, an odd sort of happiness in her expression that I hadn't expected. "I think it's perfect," she assured me kindly. "It's much more...you."
I smiled back, a little unsure how to respond. "Thanks?" I tried awkwardly, and she smiled back softly.
"So, what are we going to do with that head of hair?" she asked, gently placing the photo frame back where she'd found it and turning to me with her hands on her hips.
"Shouldn't you be more focused on other things?" I asked warily.
"Like what?" she seemed confused.
"Like cracking the last third of the list?" I posed, eyebrows raised in bemusement.
She hummed, staring at me as she mulled over my comment. "Just because we're in danger, it doesn't mean we can give upon our lives," she said thoughtfully, a tone to her voice that was wise beyond her years. "If we do, they might as well have already killed us."
I pressed my lips together, considering her carefully. I really was wrong about her, in more ways than one. "Come help me do something with it," I offered, wandering over to my elaborate vanity and taking a seat.
"You can't do it yourself?" she asked playfully, gently placing her bag on my bed before crossing the room to take the brush from my hand.
"Growing up, I had handmaidens," I admitted a moment later, and Lydia's smooth strokes stuttered with her surprise at my comment. "I can do it myself now, but I've never been quite as good as I'd like to be," I added, and she went back to gently running the brush through my raven locks.
We were quiet for a minute, and I got the sense that she picked up on the fact that I had more to say.
"I owe you an apology," I murmured, fiddling with my array of lipsticks as an excuse not to look her in the eye.
"What for?" she asked innocently, and I bit my lip at the thought of having to explain my impromptu apology.
"I was kind of a bitch to you over this last year," I murmured, uncomfortably tapping a stick of lipstick against the oak wood of the vanity. The motion of the brush through my hair was relaxing, and I tried not to make my sigh too obvious. "I made all of these judgements against you, and none of them were fair, nor founded."
"What kind of judgements?" she inquired, utterly unruffled, and considering I'd been expecting her to snub me, I was quite content with her calm response. She gently put down my old brush and began to pull my hair up into some kind of half-braid half-bun that looked better than anything I could do myself.
"That you were shallow and vapid," I answered honestly. "That you were an uncaring, plastic bitch."
"You can stop now," she told me exasperatedly, and I spotted her rolling her eyes in the mirror, and was further surprised by the light smirk clinging to her mouth.
"You're not mad at me?" I questioned, unable to understand.
"That was how I acted," she admitted, pulling a hair tie from the messy stack and on my counter and adjusting my hair like an expert. "It's how I still act, if I'm honest," she added in a mumble, holding out her hand. Somehow I knew she was looking for bobby pins, and I fished out a small tin from the depths of my drawer, handing it over silently. "You were also jealous that Stiles liked me," she said casually, and I spluttered in indignation at the words, making her give out a small ring of genuine laughter.
"I mean, not at first," I grumbled unhappily, trying not to pout as I caught her eye in the mirror, making her chuckle again.
"You know he loves you way more than he ever liked me, right?" she asked softly after a long minute of comfortable silence. "He liked the idea of me, but once he really met me, it was clear we were destined to just be good friends."
"And that's how you feel too?" I asked carefully.
"Yes," she swore, and her heart gave no stutter to prove it a lie. "He loves you," she assured me, letting go of my hair and leaning over me to dig in my tray of lipsticks, sorting through them absentmindedly.
"Not anymore," I muttered bitterly, taking the mauve lipstick from her and beginning to spread it on my lips.
"You're wrong," she told me simply, but I wasn't willing to listen to a spiel that would only give me false hope.
"How do I look?" I asked in a desperate attempt to force a subject change, climbing to my feet and spinning around, holding my hands out like I was on display.
"Decidedly not evil," she nodded primly, and I dipped into a joking curtsey that made her roll her eyes at my theatrics.
"How long does it take to apply some lipstick?!" Stiles shouted impatiently from below us, and I couldn't help but snicker in amusement. Lydia grinned, her smile big, bright and beautiful, and I felt a sense of kinship that I hadn't ever really felt before with the banshee.
"Come on," I prompted her, swiping my old phone from it's place on my dresser and leading her from the room. "Let's go before he starts eating the donuts and gives himself a sugar rush," I joked, grinning at her as we descended the stairs.
"Finally!" Stiles exclaimed when we came into view, acting like we'd been longer than the ten minutes we'd really taken. He strode towards the door, pulling it open as he casually spun his keys around on his index finger.
"Wait, aren't you guys missing school right now?" I asked suddenly, realising that it was indeed a school day, and we did indeed have a class starting right about now.
"Your point?" Stiles questioned dryly, and I hummed in vague disapproval that he quickly shrugged off, waiting by the door for me to lock up before he led the way to where the Jeep was parked in the driveway, behind my new old car, whose chipped red paint glinted in the sunlight. "Where'd you get that old thing, anyway?" the human asked as we wandered over the mostly dead grass to the Jeep.
"Mexico," I replied honestly.
"At least tell me you got a good deal," Lydia mumbled as we came to a stop beside it, giving it a look of the utmost distaste. I reached out and patted the warm metal fondly. It was nice to have some wheels of my own for once.
"Pretty good, I'd say," I smirked, stepping around her to open the Jeep's passenger door, slipping in the front and leaving the banshee to clamour into the back.
"What'd you pay?" Stiles asked curiously, starting the engine and pulling out of the driveway. "Tell me it was at least under 500."
I hesitated briefly, not wanting to lie, but also not particularly wanting to tell the truth either. "It was definitely under 500," I agreed, sidestepping the question like a professional.
There was a long, drawn out beat of silence, then; "you stole it, didn't you?!"
I automatically gave a gasp of indignation, turning to stare at Stiles in fake, wide-eyed incredulity.
"Oh, don't play that," he snarked with a roll of his eyes, seeing directly through my little production.
The expression dropped from my face, giving way to a grumpy scowl. "You could at least pretend you believe me," I grumbled.
"You could at least not rely on thievery to get you through life," he replied heatedly. "This isn't Oliver Twist, you can afford to buy a cheap car!"
"This was easier!"
"And illegal!"
"So is killing people, but I've done plenty of that!"
"That's different!"
"How?!"
"Because it just is! Did you forget my dad's the Sheriff?"
"Don't bring John into this!"
"Okay!" Lydia exclaimed from the backseat, looking wildly uncomfortable with our spat up in the front. "Why don't we put on some music?" she suggested through a tight grin, leaning forwards a little so she could meet both of our eyes. Stiles and I said nothing. "You guys have a lot of unresolved issues," she muttered in the quiet.
Stiles snorted in bitter amusement, "you're telling me."
We pulled up in the alley outside the police station, all climbing out and gathering at the front of the Jeep. I kept my eyes away from Stiles, whose heart was racing from beneath his ribs. "So what's the plan?" I asked cooly, arms crossed over my chest as I glanced up at the sky where the sun had just disappeared behind a bank of clouds.
There was a crinkle of paper and Lydia fished something from her handbag. "We show him this," she said simply, holding up a printed copy of the second third of the list.
"Do we bring up the fact that not only are we inhuman, but that he too is also a supernatural?" I questioned with a frown.
"No," Stiles shook his head. "In fact, it's probably best if we do all the talking."
"What?" I cried, indignant.
"You can be a little...blunt," he finished, clearly searching for the least offensive word he could find.
"Blunt?" I repeated flatly.
"Yes," he nodded, and bewildered, I turned to Lydia, who had a reluctant cringe on her face, like the last thing she wanted to do was get involved, but she clearly was in complete agreement.
"Fine," I grunted grumpily, tipping my nose in the air and turning towards the doors.
"Does that mean she agrees?" Lydia whispered to Stiles from behind me.
"It means, if we're very lucky, she'll wait to enact her revenge until after we're finished here," he sighed, and I smirked proudly, pushing the door open and sliding into the heated Sheriff's Station.
The woman at the front desk gave me a warm smile. "Can I help you, sweetie?" she asked, not seeming to recognise me, which was probably a good thing. The door creaked again, and the room filled with Stiles' delicious scent along with Lydia's cherry-blossom perfume. "Stiles!" she cried in apparent joy, beaming at him like he'd given her a gift just by entering the room. "You here to see your dad?" she asked lightly.
"I'll take them through," a new voice joined the party, and I cocked my head at the newcomer, a tall deputy that I vaguely recognised from previous encounters. His scent wasn't all too familiar, and if I thought about it, there was a strange hint of something inhuman. I couldn't identify it, so I probed at his energy, getting nothing but a warm strength in response.
He wasn't a vampire, or a werewolf, but he was something; and I sure as hell was going to figure out what.
"This way, guys," Parrish said with a smile, holding open the door and cheerfully waving us through. I looked back at the others, who both nodded back, leading the way and following him through to the offices beyond. "Your dad should be back within the hour, you wanna wait in his office?" the deputy offered kindly, sweeping a hand in the direction of the Sheriff's office.
"Actually, we wanna talk to you," Stiles said awkwardly.
"...Privately," Lydia added, and there was a long, pregnant pause.
I expected him to have more questions, but finally he merely nodded, turning and leading the way into an empty office, different awards and trophies mounted around the room with pride.
"What's this about?" he asked once the door had closed properly, looking at the three of us with unbridled curiosity.
"It's kind of hard to explain," Stiles began, nudging Lydia who held out the folded paper containing the dead pool. Hesitating only a beat, Parrish reached out and took it, peering down at it through narrowed eyes. "This is gonna sound ridiculous, but it's absolutely true," the human said bracingly, stood in front of the deputy, who only stared down at the paper in curious confusion. Everyone in the room with a working heart had a pulse that was racing, the tension in the room palpable. "Everyone on this list is going to be killed."
Again, a long pause stretched out, and I wondered how this Parrish guy was going to respond. Would he think it's a joke? Would he take us to the Sheriff? Would he try and have us committed?
"This is a hit list?" he finally asked, his voice a hell of a lot calmer than his heart rate.
"We call it a dead pool," Stiles corrected him, arms crossed over his chest. "Do you recognise any of the names?"
"Yeah," the deputy nodded. "The Sheriff had me run a bunch of these through the system last night," he admitted, and I realised that Stiles must have sent a copy to his dad as soon as he'd gotten one. "But we couldn't find any of them," Parrish finished, still confused.
Stiles nodded, "show him the other thing."
There was a long pause and Lydia was reluctant to comply. I rolled my eyes, reaching out and carelessly flipping the paper, revealing the final name – his name – printed across the bottom of the list. The cop's eyes went wide, and his heart rate doubled. He leapt up from where he'd been casually perched on the edge of the desk, swallowing loudly in the small office we were cramped in.
"Okay, that's kind of terrifying," he admitted lowly, gripping the paper so tightly that it crinkled. "What's the number?" he questioned, confused.
"That's how much you're worth," Lydia revealed slowly, clearly not wanting to frighten the man.
Parrish spun around to stare at us with wide, indignant eyes. "I'm worth five dollars?" he demanded incredulously.
"Five million," Stiles corrected with the sigh of an overworked teacher.
Parrish gaped. "I only make forty thousand a year," he blinked in surprise and consternation. "Maybe I should kill myself," he added in the hollow voice of a shocked man.
I snorted, leaning back against the desk as he had, tossing the others an amused smirk. Stiles shot me a stern look, and, remembering my orders, I mimed zipping my lips shut tight. The human rolled his eyes.
"I don't get it," the unknown supernatural exclaimed in continued confusion. "Why am I on this?"
"Honestly, that might be a question for another day," Stiles huffed. "Right now, there's still another third of the list we've gotta crack."
"We need the third cipher key," Lydia added, but if Parrish was lost, he didn't show it. "But we need help getting it."
"From who?" the deputy questioned curiously.
Lydia paused, the silence heavy. "...Meredith," she finally answered, eyeing him closely like she wasn't sure he wasn't about to commit her.
"The girl from Eichen?" Parrish's eyes were wide and disbelieving. "The last time you saw her, you almost gave her a nervous breakdown," he sighed, moving over to the door and yanking it open, a clear gesture telling us to get the hell out.
"Uh – almost," Lydia repeated pointedly, and Stiles sighed in defeat. I huffed out another laugh, standing straight and pushing my way passed the pair of teenagers who were getting us nowhere.
"Look, kid," I began to say to Parrish, shoulders squared and eyebrow cocked.
"Kid?" he repeated bewilderedly. "I'm older than you."
From behind me, Stiles gave a single bark of laughter. "Keep thinking that," I said distractedly, not in the mood for an argument over semantics. "Look, we need to see Meredith Walker," I told him honestly. "We are literally trying to save lives here."
Parrish sighed, closing the door again and leaning back against it, staring at us with a careful, calculating gaze.
"If we can get the final cipher key and decode the last list, we can warn these people that they're in danger; that gives them a fighting chance," Lydia said logically, her voice calm and measured. I nodded, punctuating the statement with a hum of agreement.
Parrish sighed a second time, closing his eyes like he could believe he was considering abusing his badge and going on three kids' word that there were innocent people in danger.
The deputy opened his eyes and met Lydia's with a decisive nod. "Okay," he relented reluctantly, grimacing at himself quickly. "Okay, you can talk to her," he said as sternly as he could. I got the feeling he wasn't a very stern guy in general. "But if things get heated again..." he trailed off, but Lydia was already nodding.
"Can we go now?" Stiles burst in eagerly, and Parrish sighed again, running a hand down the length of his face before nodding.
"Did you drive here?" he asked succinctly. Stiles nodded. "Then follow me to Eichen House; I can get you in to see Meredith."
"Thank you," Lydia said gratefully, her words overflowing with sincerity.
Parrish met her eyes, a blank sort of glint to his, but the stutter of his heart gave him away. I had a feeling things were going to get complicated, quickly.
