Derek doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he wakes up to Stiles shaking his shoulder, saying, "It's Lydia, she's at Scott's, they—"
Derek nods, stands, follows him.
"She just started screaming," Scott says, over the onslaught. "She won't tell me anything."
They've laid her out on the couch. Kira half-kneels, half-sits by her, her hand tight in Lydia's white-knuckled grip.
Derek reaches out tentatively, touches her wrist.
The effect is instantaneous and paralyzing; Derek's head feels like it's about to split open. Pain slides up his veins like a living thing, sucks him dry.
"What is it?" Stiles says, grabbing his arm. "What's happening to her?"
Derek's pulled pain before, pulled pain so bad she begged him to—But this is different. It has no one source; it seems to be coming from outside Lydia, pulling her towards it, but in half a dozen separate directions.
"I think she's getting a—feeling," Derek says through gritted teeth, his eyes watering. "But more than one, more like—" He makes an involuntary noise of agony and Stiles all but drags his hand off her.
"You don't have to do that!" he snaps. "There are—drugs, okay, I know she has a prescription somewhere—Scott, where's her purse?"
"I didn't bring it," Scott says regretfully. Stiles swears.
"Well, well call—Deaton's bound to have a, a, a sedative—"
They leave a message. Scott tries to, anyway; Stiles interupts about halfway through the first minute of courteous panic to say, "Why don't you just hire a fucking secretary and give us your cell phone number, it's not that fucking—"
"Stiles?" Scott's mother is dressed in scrubs and exhaustion, obviously just off shift. "What are you—Who's screaming?"
"Lydia," Scott says quickly, "and she won't stop, she can't even tell me—"
"Alright," Scott's mother says. A layer of exhaustion just fades into the air. "Okay, we can handle this. Can you get the bags out of the car, please?"
With Scott dispatched, Scott's mother replaces Kira at Lydia's side, puts her hand to Lydia's forehead. "You're burning up," she says, so Derek tries to explain about the splitting feeling, being pulled in every direction at once.
"You know, more werewolves should be doctors," Scott's mother says. "No more asking 'How are you feeling,' and expecting it to be an accurate—Thank you, Scott."
Scott nods and settles back at Lydia's side.
Braeden comes by about a half an hour later with a needle full of clear liquid and instructions.
"I'm not doing this again," she says, even though she's doing it now. "You can all die screaming for all I care."
"I think she has a crush on me," Stiles says after she leaves. "She's just shy. The fragile type, you know. Watches from afar. Waiting, just hoping—"
"Keep talking and I'll be the reason you die screaming," Braeden says from just outside the door.
"I bet you say that to all the guys," Stiles says.
The sedative takes a while to kick in, and even when it does, it doesn't knock Lydia out. Her screams become whimpers, which are almost worse. Derek sits by her, pulls the leftovers.
"What the hell is going on?" Stiles asks, all humor gone. "It's never been this bad. What, is the whole town dying?"
As it turns out, he's not far from the truth.
"It's a scavenger hunt," Stiles' father says grimly. Stiles puts him on speaker so Scott's mom can hear him too. "There's gotta be half a dozen at least. Different ages, races, genders... there's nothing tying these people to each other, but they just keep pilin' up. I can't do that thing we talked about, Stiles, I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Stiles says, but it isn't: he's already started shrinking back into himself. "It's okay, Dad. We can handle this."
"I've got Alan Deaton here looking at what we've got, he says it's—"
"Probably coyote," Stiles says, and goes smaller, shoulders hunching, head sinking low. His voice doesn't change. "It's fine, Pops, we'll figure it out."
"I don't want you driving off to Mexico without telling me, alright?" Stiles' father says. Stiles winces. "Keep me updated. I wanna know everything you know."
"Promise," Stiles says, and ends the call.
Rage spirals in Derek's gut, watching him, watching Lydia, watching this pack leveled by someone they trusted, someone they accepted into their family and tried to help. Maybe Malia really is feral, really is too far gone, maybe Derek set her off, with his—whatever he was doing that upset her so much.
"She didn't do it," Stiles says again, like he can read the look on Derek's face. "I know it seems like—But she didn't. I just know she didn't. It wasn't her."
"Okay," Derek says, but he's always been a bad liar.
Slowly, the pack almost settles, Scott taking Lydia's hand, Kira stroking her hair, Stiles locking in on himself, unreachable. They're all worn out, exhausted, slipping into various states of unconsciousness, when Lydia stirs again.
The scream is bloodcurdling, visceral, Lydia's eyes opening wide. When it's over, she claps her hand over her mouth and sobs, says, "It's—"
"It's okay," Scott says, still holding her hand, but she shakes her head.
"It's not—"
"Just show us where to go," Kira says, and Lydia nods very quickly, stands up shakily.
Near there, she coughs; there's blood in her mouth.
"Shit," Stiles says, and goes paler. Scott loops his arm under Stiles', helps him the rest of the way.
There's a body, of course there is. It's a teenager, a girl, facedown in the dirt. There's an arrow piercing her through the spine, pinning her to the ground, blood flowing sluggishly around it.
Derek goes still.
Scott passes Stiles to Kira, kneels down by the body, and curls his hand around the base of the arrow, trying to stem the blood flow without pulling the arrow loose.
He goes still, too.
"It's her, isn't it," Stiles says, low.
Derek kneels next to Scott, lifts the girl's hair just enough to show her face.
Stiles makes a horrible sound. Derek stands up too quickly, gravitates towards him. The world spins.
It doesn't make any sense.
If, if Malia's the one killing all those people—
Then who did this?
Who killed Malia?