"Are you sure we shouldn't wait for Boyd?" Stiles asked, putting his Jeep into park.

"No, it's better if there are fewer of us," Scott responded, looking determined as if he were preparing for battle. "Too many people would just weigh us down."
Stiles gripped the steering wheel tightly as Scott got out of the car and into the damp dusk. A chorus of early crickets and late cicadas seemed to be working in the pair's favor, providing a little coverage for the noise they were sure to make. After an entire day of indecision, Stiles and Scott had agreed to find out exactly how much of a risk they were running. However, they disagreed about how to go about it. Stiles simply wanted a logical and civil conversation with the Argents about their safety since finding out about the death of the Archmage, especially if they were in any danger of witch hunters. Scott agreed on using the Argents to find out the hunters' activity, but was far less confident that they would be willing to help. Instead, he proposed that they do some reconnaissance on the Argents' new place.

Somewhere between his arguments about their new apartment having less security and the Argents being untrustworthy, Scott had managed to convince his mate. His earnest, doughy eyes and puppy-like demeanor probably didn't help Stiles' judgment either. Stiles had serious doubts about the allegedly retired Argents and the likelihood that they would be able to glean any information from them, but Scott once again convinced him that he knew them well enough to guarantee that they would be talking about the recent turn of events, and that they were probably less than entirely inactive in the world of hunting.

Scott maneuvered the intricate metalwork surrounding the industrial building, almost silent as he leaped from bar to bar and climbed the brick walls. Stiles watched in awe as the boy finally reached the window to the living room. With a shake of his head, Stiles simply found a channel of air to lift him up to the window leading to Chris' study, leaving behind the faint scent of saffron in his wake. As he rose in the air, a flow of energy within him caught the property of the wind and made his body as transparent as the air surrounding him. The pair hesitated in front of the windows for a moment, waiting for the trap to spring.

Suddenly, a fire alarm went off within the house. Its loud beeping drew both Allison and her father into the kitchen to inspect it, and masked the noise of the windows opening as the two boys slipped silently into the apartment. Scott found a hiding place behind the sofa while Stiles found a position near the open door which was sure to be out of the Argents' way. The beeping from the other room stopped as Allison and Chris pulled the battery out of the alarm, unable to find a reason for its wailing. Stiles ceased the spell on the electrical currents inside the tiny machine, returning it to its normal state.

The Argents reentered the living room, Allison sitting down on the couch behind which Scott was hiding as her father stood near the door of his study, looking through his phone. His face creased with concern as he flipped the little bright screen. He finally looked up at his daughter. "Sweetie?" he called, looking somewhat forlorn.

"Yes?" Allison replied, her eyes searching his, her tone reflecting the concern she had for his apparent stress.

"Promise me that you'll stay retired," he said, his eyes dark and intense. "Promise me you won't do anything... risky."

"Why?" she asked, sitting up. "Is something happening?"

Chris Argent released a deep sigh. He almost seemed as if he were half hoping she wouldn't ask. "Well, you know about the death of the Archmage, right?"

"Yeah," she responded, trying to follow his train of logic. "You told me yesterday."

"And you know that the witch hunters are on the prowl for any stray magic users who aren't under the protection of a superior, right?" he asked again, attempting to help her keep up with him.

"Yeah," she said again, then added in a rehearsed tone, "you said they're going after all of the druids without a pack and the witches without a High Witch."

Her father nodded. "Well, apparently they've organized themselves," he said, pursing his lips tightly.

"How do you mean?" Allison asked, her brow furrowing.

"The witch hunters have gathered together in several places. One wave is sweeping down the West coast, headed our way," Chris said, his eyes trained on his daughter's as he tried to gauge her reaction. "They're mostly trying to root out the smaller covens and any stray witches or druids they find. They'll probably pass through here, I've offered a few to stay the night here, as an act of good faith. But I don't want you stirring them up. I know that you aren't a huge fan of Stiles right now, but there's no reason to get an innocent boy killed."

Stiles swallowed hard as he heard the last word. Tears involuntarily welled in his eyes. The possibility was getting more and more real as he learned more about his world. He could die for something over which he had no real control. He hadn't even done anything wrong, and he was facing a mob of organized murderers. Somehow, Chris' diplomatic words didn't comfort him much, as they seemed to imply that he wouldn't hand him over to the hunters, nor would he stand in their way.

"Why shouldn't I?" Allison asked, shattering any positive feeling Stiles had ever had toward her. "I mean, are they wrong? Isn't he dangerous? Maybe he should be taken out while there's still a good chance."

"Allison," Chris said sternly, looking her defiantly in the eye. "You know that there are some magic users who are helpful to us. We benefit from their presence, and we turn a blind eye to the threat that they pose. Deaton has helped you more than once. If you give the hunters an idea that there might be magic in Beacon Hills..."

Allison watched as her father got lost in thought. "Well can they at least help us find the Hale pack?" she asked, snapping Chris back to the present. "They're still a threat."

"Of course, they can help us find the Hales. They're out in the woods by now anyway. But dealing with these kind of organized, opportunistic, bloodthirsty hunters is like playing with fire, Allison," Mr. Argent replied.

"But if they do find Stiles, on their own, of course," Allison started, waiting for her father to finish her thought.

"We won't stand in their way," he confirmed. "Nor will we help them."

Allison's demeanor changed. She seemed more devious, suddenly. "Then I hope they do find him," she said. Her father's face registered a strange mixture of shock and disappointment. "I hope they tear him limb from limb, quarter and draw him, drive an arrow through his heart, smash his brains on Scott's front door, and then-"

Allison stopped short as a sudden burst of action took place behind her. In one fluid motion, Scott toppled over the couch and managed to pin Allison on the ground, his hand around her throat. He was surprised, once they were face-to-face, to find a smug grin on her face. It only took Scott a moment to realize that, in truth, he had been caught in a trap. Allison had merely been describing a violent death for Stiles in order to rile Scott up and make him spring out of hiding. She somehow knew that he had come in, and intentionally led the conversation to Stiles' death. Before he could react to this realization, a sharp pain between his shoulder blades made him wince before passing out.

Chris Argent dropped the cattle prod he used to incapacitate wolves, shoving the unconscious teen off of his daughter. He gave her a disapproving look as he realized that she had knowingly goaded the boy into attacking her. "You know, werewolves are always quite dangerous, no matter how good of friends you are. You should've told me in the first place, instead of risking your life," Chris chided his daughter.

"I wasn't sure," Allison said contemplatively.

"Alright, help me load him into the car," Mr. Argent said, lifting the boy's legs.

"But dad, couldn't he help us find the Hale pack?" Allison asked.

Chris hesitated. "Allison," he said sternly, a command.

"Couldn't he tell us where they are, and help us hunt them down?" Allison persisted.

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing, Dad," Allison responded. "The women in this family make the decisions. We are the leaders. As such, we do what I say. And I say we keep him until he shows us where the Hales are. Besides, maybe if we find them before the hunters come, we won't need to let them stay with us after all."

Chris considered for a moment. He knew that he could veto her decision, but he couldn't deny her logic. If they did use Scott to find the Hale pack, then they could tell the witch hunters to go on to the next town, and keep the peace in Beacon Hills. Reluctantly, he dropped the boy's legs. In the next room over, a window crashed. The pair ran to look at the source of the noise, and were surprised to find that the glass had flown out of the window, as if something had gone out instead of forcing its way in.

Stiles watched the glow of the window get smaller and smaller as his body was carried against his will over the city of Beacon Hills. He hadn't been able to help Scott, in fact, he hadn't even been able to move since Scott sprang out from behind the couch. Now he felt as if his body were being dragged through the air by some giant string. It tugged on him until he passed through the open circular window of the attic, landing him gently on the floor of the old, dusty room. Standing, he immediately ran to the door. He found it locked, and the old metal knob refused any attempt of his to magically open the door. The entire room felt as if it were magically sealed.

Frustrated, Stiles slumped against the doorframe. Tears slid down his face. He didn't care much about having to face the witch hunters, much less having to face them alone. At the moment, his only concern was Scott's safety. He imagined the boy waking up alone, searching for the boy who he'd stupidly risked himself to try and protect. He imagined Allison letting out her frustrations on him, torturing him with electricity and any manner of torturous instruments.

Suddenly, these images slid from his mind. Somehow, he couldn't concentrate on his feelings of helplessness. It was as if something was drawing the negative energies from his body. The grimoire fell from the table just as his thoughts cleared enough to allow him to wonder about the mysterious turn of events beyond his control. The old leather binding creaked as it hit the floorboards, opening to a page. His eyes scanned the words, watching them change and shift before his eyes as he tried to make sense of them. Nothing seemed to pertain to the situation. However, a word caught his eye. Claudia.

Though in the article, it was a note from his great great great grandmother Claudia about the proper usage of lavender in a sleeping spell without sending someone into a coma, the name struck a chord in Stiles' mind. Suddenly, it all became very clear. She was the one draining the bad thoughts from his mind, and she was the one who had stopped him from acting irrationally. Somehow, her powers still lingered, and managed to help him. Thinking about it logically, he knew that he would do more good to Scott safe and away from the Argents than locked up beside him. They were experienced in dealing with magic users, and therefore would easily be able to overcome a novice.

With a deep breath, Stiles stood up. Picking up the grimoire, he turned the knob. Though the old metal protested, he could still easily open the door now. He realized that he needed to take his time and devise a plan to get Scott out of the Argents' grip and then get the both of them to safety before the witch hunters arrived. Heading to his bedroom, he found Boyd already waiting there for him. Apparently, he had sensed something was wrong. A knowing smile spread across Stiles' face.

"Pack your bags, Boyd," he said calmly, confident in his decision, "we're taking a road trip."