"You've been holding out on me."
Stiles shivered, his arms wrapped around his body. At least fifteen minutes had passed since his "fit," and he was as miraculously whole as he was before it started.
"No, I don't-don't-know what the fuck that was!"
Peter's hand petted his hair, fingers combing through the longer strands and curving around his skull. It was oddly soothing, and Stiles fought not to lean into the touch; despite wiping his hands, there was still dried come on Peter's skin.
"You still smell disgustingly human, so you haven't been bitten, yet I watched with my own eyes as you healed damage to your body no human could survive without bleeding out. And instead of bleeding, you glowed." The fingers stopped their placid motion and started tugging hard. "Someone's been a very bad puppy and needs to be punished."
Strands of brown hair broke off as Stiles leaped away from Peter, scrabbling backwards on his elbows and butt as he kept his eyes on the lounging wolf. He had fallen into unconsciousness after the limits of his pain threshold was breached and awoke under Peter's careful eye lying on the couch. His clothes were unbloodied and still covering him, so the older man hadn't taken advantage of him while he was blacked out, but there was now a simmering violence barely leashed in Peter's body.
"I don't think I wanna be punished by you."
"Oh, I'd make you like it, sweetheart. Sparks are notorious for their inclinations It explains so much about you."
The silky words were threaded with menace and it took a moment for Stiles to comprehend their meaning.
"What do you mean, inclinations? What makes you think I'm a Spark?"
The husky laughter was nothing like the maddening cackle of before, but a liquid promise of sex. "I'm a werewolf. I can smell it all over you, under the rankness of mortality. You are dabbling in forces you don't understand."
Stiles stilled for a moment as his mind whirled faster than his physical body could keep up.
"How do you know what a Spark is?"
"What do you think Sparks are?"
"Why am I surrounded by people who constantly answer questions with questions?," he muttered in disgust.
Peter leaned forward, his smaller frame seemingly much larger than normal. It could be a trick of the moonlight or the beginning of the change, Stiles wasn't sure.
"Sparks are humans who carry the potential for magic. Werewolves are made of magic, so naturally Sparks are drawn to them. It used to be tradition for at least one or two Sparks to bond to a pack." Peter's voice lost the luster of seduction and settled into more familiar lecturing tone that Stiles knew drove Derek up the wall. "The Hale Pack, in its heyday, boasted the claiming of three such individuals."
"Claiming?" Stiles was slightly ashamed of how his voice broke like it did when puberty first hit, but he was skeeved out by the way the word rolled out of Peter's mouth.
"Yes, Stiles, claiming. Taking. Appropriation."
"Yes, yes, you know how to read a Thesaurus, thanks. I get the idea."
"No, I really don't think you do, Stiles. Sparks, while not rare, aren't exactly thick on the ground. And to think you might be a potential one." Peter slithered off the couch and crouched near Stiles who still hadn't gotten to his feet. "What did you do to Derek before he left? You touched him and while I know how much that gets your panties wet, you don't do that. So why now?"
Dr. Deaton was supposed to be the one who was teaching him, guiding him, yet he'd abandoned him at the first hint of trouble. Peter, on the other hand, was the ultimate role model for Handlebar Mustache Bad Guy, and Stiles did want to kill him dead permanently this time...except.
Except.
It was probably one of the most dangerous words in his vocabulary because it indicated a small percentage of his mind was not completely on board with the Kill Crazy Train idea.
Derek was a beta turned reluctant Alpha who was never groomed for the spot. Oh, he'd never said as much, but Stiles could read the clues as easily as anyone else, and knew Laura was the only one given the guidance for her position. By that logic then, Derek didn't have the breadth of knowledge needed if his planning abilities were anything to judge by while Peter always seemed to hold all the cards. He was probably playing with a stacked deck, but ultimately he still had the necessary information Stiles so desperately wanted about what exactly was happening to him.
"Answer my question and I'll answer yours."
"Then will you show me yours if I show you mine?"
"You've already shown me yours and I don't need a repeat."
Peter leaned a little closer so their breaths mingled in the same small place. Stiles didn't move because he didn't want to give the wolf any advantage or sign he was uncomfortable.
"Oh, you will show me yours eventually. You won't be able to help it. And then you'll beg for mine."
Stiles reared back again, this time fleeing to the window. He couldn't disguise any of his baser emotions - fear and reluctant lust - but he could pretend he did.
"I've never shown any hint of magical abilities before so why now all of a sudden would I begin manifesting them now?"
Peter stalked forward as if to crowd him against the sill, but stopped instead, his head tilted in contemplation. "That's actually a very good question, Stiles. If we had any cookies I would reward you with one for thinking of something intelligent to ask."
His "Gee thanks," was ignored.
"Magic itself isn't good or bad; it's just there to be used like any other tool. The wielder's intent is what changes the nature of magic and shapes it into a weapon or a healing agent."
"So, if werewolves are made of magic, then they can access it and use it to make fireballs?"
"And your cookie is now taken away. Don't be foolish, Stiles! We literally change our shapes from man to animals; we're shifters born with the inherent magical ability so it's not something we do but something we just are. However, if someone else, say a witch, needed a boost, they could tap into the magic that makes us us."
"Are you saying then that rituals are another way to harness the magic?"
"Good, good. Yes. As I said, magic can take on all forms because it depends on the how and what the wielder is using it for. There aren't any specific rules to its use except you can't take or use more than your body can handle. Think of you being a carafe waiting to be filled and magic is the water. The vessel can only hold so much before it begins to overflow. Once overflow effect happens, so do bad things."
Stiles shivered at the darkness coating his words. Peter usually had a flare for dramatics, though this time he rather thought Peter was stressing the importance of power control.
"That's awesome to learn, and all, but what does it have to do with me being a potential Spark?"
"There are pockets of land where magic pools in concentrated areas. It's not unusual for those born in areas with active leylines to demonstrate a sensitivity to magic or latent ability."
"Lydia," Stiles breathed. Lydia, Scott, Jackson, and Stiles were all born and reared within the shelter of Beacon Hills - Lydia was immune to the Bite, Scott and Jackson became a werewolves, and Stiles himself demonstrated Sparkitude. Stiles wondered if Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were also Hills-birthed; if so, it might account for the ease with their turning.
"Yes, though she's interesting in a completely different way."
Peter resumed his seat on the couch, though his keen gaze cut through the gloom in the room.
"I've answered your question, now answer mine."
Stiles nodded because fair was fair and Peter had gone above and beyond their proposed deal. "I was able to put a magic ring of Aconite around the club the night we went hunting for the Kanima so Dr. Deaton said he thought I might have a true Spark that needed to be nurtured and guided."
For a moment he was overwhelmed with bitterness at how abruptly it ended. Rationally he understood the vet might have a valid reason, but he couldn't help the feeling of betrayal at being dumped by his magic teacher. Of course, Dr. Deaton could be working behind the scenes with the Alpha Pack or on his own for some nefarious reason.
"Last week he had me use a focus because he said my brain was too wacky to achieve proper mediation without visual aid." Stiles shuffled his feet a little. "One of them was a protection ward - or at least I think so."
"Tsk, tsk, Stiles. Putting random sigils on Derek without his consent or knowledge. You're a boy after my own heart."
"But I don't understand how that could've caused my fit."
"I don't know either, my boy, but I do intend to find out."
Just as Stiles started to ask what he meant by that somewhat ominous statement, his phone rang. This time, however, it wasn't Scott or Derek or even his dad; no, that special ring belonged to Lydia. Part of him was excited there was proof she hadn't erased his number he'd stealthily programmed into her phone and the other half, the voice of reason, strongly urged caution and temperance. This night of horror wasn't over just yet.
"Lydia, what's up?"
"Stiles-Stiles- oh God, I've found a dead body."