Chapter Eight

Isaac didn't move, claws sliding out from the tips of his fingers. "Let me guess," he said sardonically, "Marcus sent you?"

"Yes, he did." Aiden waited a beat, nonchalant, and then dropped his hand.

Behind them, Stiles was starting to struggle again. His hands wrapped ineffectively around Ethan's wrist, trying to pull the werewolf's claws away from his throat. "Get off me," he demanded, grunting with the effort of trying to move Ethan's arm.

"Sorry, Stiles," Ethan was surprisingly apologetic, but his grip didn't loosen. The hot ball of misery that had been sitting like a lump in Stiles's stomach since he'd fled the party was slowly mutating, curdling with anger.

"And he sent you to, what, beat up Stiles again? I guess he doesn't trust you guys to actually hold your own against another werewolf." Isaac's scorn was as thick as honey.

Aiden laughed, flicking his gaze to where his brother held Stiles. "Oh no, we weren't going to hurt him again. Ethan was supposed to fuck him. And then we'd send him back to you," he focused back on Isaac. "He does live with you, Isaac, right? You and that second, 'secret' Alpha."

Stiles could see Isaac tense, nostrils flare in surprise, startled enough that they knew about Scott—how did they know about Scott?—to let his bravado slip.

"We know your pet human is very close to the Alphas of your pack," Aiden continued, smirking. "I think they'd be pretty pissed if he came home smelling like one of us. Inside and out."

Stiles flushed, shame spreading like a stain over his face, and he struggled harder, hating the feeling of Ethan's body pressed hard against his.

"They might even have blamed you for that, don't you think?" Aiden took a step closer to Isaac. "Or maybe each other. They are both screwing him, right?" He grinned. "No other reason to keep a human around. Kinda sick, if you ask me."

Isaac growled, fangs beginning to show from beneath his lips.

"But I shouldn't expect any better from a pack as fucked up as yours." Now Aiden's eyes were beginning to bleed from dark brown to a chilly, luminous blue. "You should leave it. Join us."

"Not a chance," Isaac began to say, but Aiden lashed out with a hand gone deadly with claws. Isaac tried to pull back but he wasn't fast enough and they raked across his face, blood flying.

"Why don't we see if I can change your mind?"

Isaac was still reeling from the first attack when Aiden came for him again, and the second blow sent Isaac sprawling to the ground. Still, this wasn't Isaac's first fight. A split second later he was up and flinging himself at Aiden, using the hard-packed dirt path to spring up with extra force.

Aiden must not have expecting such a quick recovery because Isaac barrelled straight into him, knocking the wind out of the blonde boy and sending them both crashing back to the ground.

Over the past year Derek had revamped his training program and the whole pack had been expected to take part. Not only that, but Allison had worked with them, teaching the wolves not only how to fight with brute strength and teeth and claws but how to fight with actual strategy. And it was paying off.

Aiden managed to get out from under Isaac, blood seeping from a long gash in his side where Isaac's claws had sunk in deep. His eyes glittered, hard and angry, and when Isaac rolled back, getting to his feet in one smooth motion, Aiden lunged for Isaac's middle, apparently trying to repeat the move Isaac had used so successfully on him.

But Isaac was ready, waiting for it—the all-out-tackle was a favourite of Jackson's, left over from lacrosse, or so Stiles always suspected—and he stepped easily to the side, pivoted, and struck out with a solid fist as Aiden flew past, sending the werewolf tumbling through the air with the force of the blow.

Behind Stiles, Ethan snarled and shoved Stiles out of his way, racing towards Isaac. Stiles stumbled and fell, tripping over the foot of the bench and cracking his head back against the metal seat. Pain lanced bright and excruciating down his spine, his vision blurring until all he could see was vague movement in front of him.

There was a yelp of pain and then another body hit the ground, the sound of claws rending through flesh like wet paper. Stiles blinked, pushing himself up slowly until he was sitting, fighting a wave of dizziness that almost sent him slumping back to the grass.

After a moment, his vision cleared and he was able to focus on the scene in front of him. All three wolves were on their feet now, circling their opponents warily. Ethan had what looked like a chunk bitten out of the flesh of his upper arm, Aiden's side was still bleeding through his shirt, and, Stiles had a moment to think this was a bit odd, the wounds on Isaac's face hadn't yet begun to heal.

The moment of puzzlement flew out of his mind the second his gaze lowered because there was a large, ragged tear across Isaac's stomach and Stiles realized with absolute horror that he could see the pink gleam of intestines through it.

Stiles shifted, fingers scrabbling at his jeans for his phone and the movement caught Ethan's attention. He looked back, teeth bared menacingly, and moved forward.

"Is that all you've got?" Isaac managed to sound just barely out of breath, his voice bored enough to be cocky and his arms held loose and relaxed at his sides. The disinterest in his tone had Ethan whipping back around as Aiden roared in fury, lunging again at Isaac one after the other.

They drove Isaac to the ground with enough force that Stiles could feel it reverberate in his bones. He knew what Isaac was doing, knew he was distracting them so that Stiles could get up, get away. Fucking Isaac.

Ethan was holding Isaac down now, pinning his arms while Aiden straddled him and began to tear at Isaac's exposed chest and belly. Isaac bit back a scream, struggling wildly to throw the two of them off, but together they were strong enough that all he could do was buck and writhe and—when he was no longer able to keep silent—scream as blood and viscera poured out of him.

Fear and rage snarled in Stiles's chest and he finally managed to grab his phone in shaking hands, bringing it up to hit Scott's number.

"Get here. Now," was all he said when Scott answered, hanging up and tossing the phone to the ground beside him. He had to do something. They were going to kill Isaac. There was only so much damage a werewolf's body could take and Stiles could only assume that if Aiden continued to rip mercilessly at Isaac's torso it would have the same effect as a broadsword.

Stiles used the bench to pull himself to his feet, resolutely ignoring the sickening throb of his head. Before he could think better of it he ran forwards, letting his momentum carry him straight into Aiden and shoving the werewolf off of Isaac.

Aiden hit Stiles across the face, rolled out from under him and was back on his feet in a flash. "I will kill you," he swore, leaning down and grabbing a handful of Stiles's hair in his hands, yanking Stiles's head back so his throat was exposed. Isaac's screaming had stopped, the silence ringing in Stiles's ears almost as loudly as the agonized screams had, so Stiles just grinned up at Aiden through bloodied teeth.

"Don't," Ethan pushed Aiden back, voice low. "You know the rules."

"He doesn't count as human," Aiden insisted, shoving at his brother who'd stepped between him and Stiles. "He's part of their pack."

"It doesn't matter. He's human. You know what Marcus will do if you kill one," Ethan was speaking rapidly and Stiles looked past him at Isaac who was still lying flat on his back, his stomach so torn up and bloody that Stiles couldn't tell if it was healing.

"Fine," Aiden growled, stepping back. "I won't kill him." He turned, gaze fixed back on Isaac.

"No," Ethan grabbed his brother's arm, stopping him again and Aiden whirled back, furious. "We don't have time. The human called the Alpha, we've got to go."

Aiden made a wordless sound of rage, claws flexing like he was tempted to break free of Ethan's grip and finish Isaac off anyway. But then he stilled, as did Ethan beside him. They must have heard something because suddenly they both took off into the woods without another word.

Shaking with adrenaline, Stiles waited, frozen, but they didn't turn back and so he picked himself up and crawled to Isaac.

"Isaac, hey, are you okay?" He didn't want to see the damage up close, but he needed to know if the werewolf was healing or not. Gritting his teeth, the hot, meaty smell of blood thick on his tongue, Stiles gripped Isaac's shoulder in comfort and looked down.

For a moment his brain refused to make sense of what he was seeing, refused to see the gore as anything other than an abstract mess of red, but then it sharpened into focus and Stiles choked on a moan. He didn't know if Isaac could heal this. He didn't know if an Alpha would be able to heal this. As it was, none of the flesh was knitting itself back together the way Stiles had grown used to seeing. It just sat there, torn open and inert, and Stiles forced himself to look away, up at Isaac's pale face.

"Scott's on his way. He's gonna be here any minute, buddy." He thought he saw one of Isaac's eyelids twitch but hoped Isaac wouldn't regain consciousness. He didn't know what he'd do if Isaac started screaming again.

Minutes, hours, seconds later, there was the sound of slamming car doors, feet pounding against the pavement and then Scott's hands, careful over Stiles's blood soaked ones where Stiles was holding his red hoodie—now black with blood—against Isaac's midsection.

"I didn't know what to do," Stiles said helplessly as Scott gently pulled his hands away and replaced them with his own. Danny and Jackson had been only seconds behind Scott and now they knelt on Isaac's other side.

"What the hell happened?" Jackson asked, looking up at Stiles with accusing eyes. "Danny said you ran out of the party and then when he couldn't find you he came back to Scott's. We were playing Mario Kart with Isaac and then he gets a call and vanishes, and now we find him like this? What did you do?"

"Shut up, Jackson," Scott said, without looking up from where he was peeling the sweater off of Isaac.

"Should you be doing that?" Danny asked nervously. "What if he bleeds out?"

"I'm more worried about Isaac healing around the fabric than him losing too much blood," Scott replied, voice grim.

Jackson levelled another glare at Stiles but Stiles ignored it, watching Scott's hands raise the hoodie, breath held in the hope that underneath it would reveal smooth, perfect skin. But Isaac's stomach was as much of a mess as earlier and out of the corner of his eye he could see Danny stumble abruptly to his feet and take several rapid steps back, bracing himself against the trunk of a tree as he vomited.

"Why isn't he healing?" Jackson demanded.

"I don't know." Scott pressed the hoodie back down. "We have to get him to Deaton. And someone needs to call Derek."

Jackson stared at Stiles who refused to meet his eyes. With a snort of disgust Jackson got to his feet and went to check on Danny, pulling his phone out from his jacket and pressing it to his ear.

"Can you do anything?" Stiles asked Scott quietly as Jackson started speaking into the phone, presumably to Derek.

"I'll try when we get him to the car." Peter had told them once that werewolves could share other people's pain. Neither Scott nor Derek had ever had a chance to try it, since Peter had stressed it could seriously drain their energy and wasn't something to experiment with lightly.

"He'll meet us there." Jackson stuck his phone back in his pocket and returned with a still white-faced Danny.

"Here," Scott tossed Jackson the keys to Stiles's jeep. "Danny and Stiles can help me get him to the car." Stiles had no doubt that Scott was perfectly capable of carrying Isaac's dead—don't think dead, not dead—weight with ease, but it was obvious he wanted to jostle Isaac as little as possible in case they made things worse.

Less than ten minutes later they were racing down the highway, Jackson using his superhuman reflexes to zip in and out of traffic at a terrifying speed. Danny was in the passenger seat beside him, his eyes squeezed shut so he didn't have to see each near-miss.

In the back, Stiles was pushed up against the side, back bent at an awkward angle as he held Isaac's head and shoulders in his lap, trying to keep the werewolf as still as possible while the jeep jolted back and forth across lanes of traffic. Scott had Isaac's lower half across his lap and was holding both of Isaac's hands tightly, face screwed up in concentration as he tried to… well, Stiles wasn't exactly sure what Scott was trying to do. But it didn't look like it was working, because despite the apparent effort on Scott's part, Isaac wasn't improving.

"How much longer?" Stiles asked Jackson, not taking his eyes off Isaac's chest as it rose and fell with his shallow breathing.

Jackson glanced back at them, earning a long blast from someone's horn as he nearly rear-ended them. Turning his attention back to the road he answered through gritted teeth, "Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. If we had the Porsche instead of your stupid jeep—"

"Well we don't, okay?" Stiles snapped. "I'm sorry I ruined your night of Mario Kart, but could you stop bitching at me and concentrate on—"

"Shut. Up." Scott's voice rippled with anger. "Both of you." When Stiles looked up, Scott's eyes were red and furious, and Stiles swallowed back the 'but he started it' whine that had been on the tip of his tongue.

Stiles knew that would have been a totally inappropriate response, knew that fighting with Jackson over something this stupid was entirely counter productive and outright disrespectful when Isaac might be literally dying in his lap. But he wasn't feeling like himself. Wasn't feeling like regular Stiles who had his shit together and held up like iron under a crisis. This Stiles, the Stiles whose skin he currently inhabited, felt superfluous. Like nothing he did had any kind of effect. It didn't matter if he was minding his own business walking down the street, or ordering coffee, or drunk-dialling his ex. Somehow, no matter how innocuous his actions, someone would get hurt. And when they did—whether it was him or someone else lying on the ground, bleeding—Stiles couldn't do a thing to stop it.

He couldn't protect himself and he couldn't protect anyone around him. With the rate that Marcus's pack was coming after him, Stiles was a liability. A huge, walking target. Somehow, Ethan and Aiden had known that Scott was an Alpha, the same as Derek, and not only that but they knew that Stiles was close to both of them—and it was obvious that they intended to use that closeness to hurt Stiles's pack.

If Stiles wanted to be something more than an obvious weak spot he was going to have to start learn how to defend himself using something a little more effective than sarcasm—and soon.

Finally, with a squeal of tires, Jackson pulled into the parking lot of the veterinary office. He was out of the jeep in a flash, coming around to help Scott manoeuvre Isaac out. Peter and Derek spilled out of the front doors of the clinic and hurried over, wearing their own expressions of worry.

Once Isaac was safely in Scott and Jackson's hands, Stiles pushed out of the jeep after them, moving quickly with Danny to hold open the clinic doors. Scott and Jackson carried Isaac through, Derek and Peter following close behind, voices overlapping as they tried to get answers from Scott.

Scott brushed the two Hales off, taking Isaac into the back room and lowering him gently onto one of Deaton's stainless steel tables and stepping back as Deaton moved in, pulling on a pair of gloves and gingerly pulling back Stiles's hoodie from Isaac's middle.

"Alright, Scott," Deaton dropped Stiles's ruined hoodie into a bin and returned to examine the hideous wounds on Isaac's body. "Can you tell me how this happened?"

"He's not healing," Scott reached up to run a worried hand through his hair, stopping at the last second when he realized his hands, like Stiles's, were covered in Isaac's blood.

"Yes, I can see that." Deaton's demeanour was surprisingly patient, a calm counterpoint to the anxiety running high throughout the rest of the room. Peter had resorted to pacing near the doorway. Jackson and Danny slid into stools at the second table, Danny bracing his elbows on the table, head in his hands, and Jackson drumming his fingers impatiently against his thighs. Derek stood at Isaac's head, arms crossed over his chest. His unnatural stillness told Stiles that the Alpha was only just hanging onto control.

Stiles, who'd tucked himself out of the way to the side of the door, leaned back against the wall, wincing at the pressure on what was probably a goose egg, and closed his eyes, fighting the settling press of exhaustion. "It was Ethan," he said, "And his brother, Aiden." His voice was steady, a lot steadier than he felt. He continued talking, eyes still closed, unable to face the ruin of Isaac's body. "I didn't know what Ethan was, and he invited me to a party…."

He told them what happened as quickly as possible, skipping over his drunk, desperate call to Derek, but not flinching from his role as accomplice—unwitting or not—in what happened to Isaac.

"Thank you, Stiles," Deaton said when Stiles had fallen silent. "Now, I believe Aiden—the werewolf who you say inflicted most of this damage—had some sort of paralytic on his claws. I don't know if it was natural, supernatural, or pharmaceutically manufactured, but it seems to be preventing Isaac's healing process."

"Why would he do that?" Derek asked sharply. "Why bother adding a paralyzing agent when they were after Stiles," the again hung in the air, unsaid. "He wouldn't have needed an extra edge against a human."

"Because," Stiles forced out, nearly choking on the humiliation of having to say it. "They never planned on hurting me—not like that. I screwed up their plan by leaving. They must have guessed I'd wind up calling one of you."

He didn't need to open his eyes to know the entire room was looking at him, confused.

"If they didn't want to hurt you, what—" Scott started carefully, but Stiles cut him off.

"Ethan was supposed to fuck me. So I'd come back home smelling like… one of them." Now he opened his eyes, meeting Scott's. "They know you're an Alpha, and they know I'm close to you," he hesitated, "And to Derek. They were just going to use me to make you angry." Again.

There was a long pause and Stiles shut his eyes again, leaning his head gingerly back against the wall. Apparently whatever means Marcus's pack had used to find out about Scott hadn't also revealed that Stiles now meant next to nothing to Derek.

"How do they know so much about us?" Jackson's voice rang out, accusing. "How do they know about Scott?"

And then everyone seemed to start talking at once, volume rising as they all tried to be heard over one another.

Stiles tuned it out, tried to focus on the slow in-and-out of his own breathing. He'd been used again, but he swore it would be the last time he would ever be this vulnerable. He couldn't keep being the pack's weak link.

A hand, warm and solid, cupped against his face. Stiles's eyes blinked open to see Peter, standing in front of him, frowning in concern. Stiles's first instinct was to pull away, not wanting or trusting Peter so close to him, but he couldn't move with the wall at his back.

"You're freezing," Peter observed, rough voice juxtaposed against the gentleness of his hand on Stiles's skin. Behind Peter the fighting continued, but Peter's attention was wholly on Stiles. "It's easy for them to forget," he continued, his thumb stroking over Stiles's cheekbone, "That you're human. That you can't be outside at two in the morning, in November, wearing nothing but a bloody t-shirt."

At the reminder, Stiles shivered, suddenly aware of how the material clung, wet and clammy, against his skin. If the surprising heat of Peter's hand was any indication, he was chilled to the bone and hadn't even realized it. He'd been too focused on Isaac, too scared to think of anything but the damage done to his friend.

Peter's hand withdrew and Stiles had to bite back an involuntary protest, hugging his arms to his chest because now that he'd started shivering he couldn't stop. Peter shrugged out of his leather jacket, tugged Stiles forward, and wrapped the jacket around Stiles's shoulders.

Stiles sank gratefully into the warmth, the residual heat from Peter's body seeping into his skin. "Thank you," he said, grateful despite himself.

"It's nothing," Peter dismissed. "I'm sorry no one noticed before." He pulled the jacket tighter around Stiles, and Stiles looked up to see Derek watching them, his eyes hard and flat. But then Deaton's voice broke through the clamour that was Scott and Jackson and Danny still arguing.

"Derek, I'd like you to come try something."

Derek turned to Deaton, shifting so that his back was now to Stiles and Peter. Stiles wondered if that had been deliberate.

"Now, Scott told me he tried to take some of Isaac's pain on the way here. He wasn't able to, but I'm wondering if that's because he's new to his powers. You have more experience as an Alpha, you might be able to help."

"What would taking his pain do?" Danny asked. "He's not even conscious."

"I'm hopeful that by channelling Isaac's pain Derek will be able to free up some of Isaac's energy, the energy that is currently being used to fight the pain of his injuries. If Isaac has more energy to draw from his body should be able to start fighting the paralytic, and that extra boost might be enough to kick-start the healing process."

Derek nodded, stepping closer to Isaac and placing his hands on Isaac's shoulders. From Stiles's vantage point he could see Derek's back tense, muscles quivering with the effort to do, well, whatever weird metaphysical thing Peter had described to them. After a long moment, sweat beginning to bead on the back of Derek's neck, Deaton shook his head.

"Thank you for trying."

"What now?" Scott asked, coming up to stand beside Deaton, looking anxiously at Isaac who lay so still on the table. "There has to be something we can do."

"Without knowing what kind of poison or venom the other werewolf used I'm afraid we can't do anything but wait until it wears off. Then, hopefully, Isaac will begin to heal."

"But what if it takes hours? Days?" Jackson argued. "He can't possibly survive like this for that long."

"Jackson," Danny touched Jackson's arm and Jackson swore, breaking away from the group to pound his fist against a cabinet that cracked under the pressure.

"This is your fault," he looked up, crossed the room in an instant and pushed into Stiles's personal space. "If you had just kept your dick in your pants—"

"Hey," Peter's voice was sharp and he grabbed Jackson's elbow, yanking him back.

"Take it outside. Now." Derek's tone brooked no argument. "The three of you—Danny, too—get out. You're not helping and I don't want to deal with your shit right now."

"But—" Jackson started, but Derek growled, eyes flaring red and Jackson's gaze dropped to the ground, skittering away from Derek's. Without another word he turned around and walked out of the back room. Danny, Stiles, and Peter followed without comment.

As the door closed behind them Stiles heard Scott say, "I have an idea…"

Stiles sank into one of the chairs in the waiting room, still huddled in Peter's jacket. He should go home, clean up, and sober up, because now that the rush of adrenaline and fear he'd been riding for the last hour had faded he still felt the effects of the beer, and combined with the ache in his skull he felt nauseous.

But he wouldn't leave until they knew Isaac was going to be okay, so he settled in to wait.

"So, Stiles," Peter asked, toying with a bit of glitter between his fingers. "Why do you have," he paused, squinted at Stiles, "A turkey painted on the side of your face?"

AN: Hey guys! Thanks for reading/reviewing :) It's so great to get feedback, and it means a lot to me that you'll take the time to do so. As an aside, my partner and I are currently in the process of moving to Vancouver within the next month so my writing/posting schedule might suffer. I'll try my best to keep updating every Thursday though. Thanks again!