Chapter Nineteen
This was the third time in the last month that Stiles had found himself outside in the middle of the night without a jacket. He needed to stop doing that, because he was pretty sure he was gearing up for an unpleasant case of pneumonia. Now that the rush of adrenaline from the fight and the blinding rage that had swept over him during Isaac's confrontation had faded, Stiles was left feeling bone-weary and hollowed out with the cold air prickling along his arms and the exposed skin of his neck.
He started to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans, thinking he'd conserve some heat that way, but realized at the last second that they were still covered with blood that had dried tacky against his skin. Stiles stopped walking and closed his eyes. He took a long, slow inhale of the night air and let the feeling of his lungs expanding in his chest clear out the snarl of thoughts in his head. Letting the breath out slowly, he opened his eyes and started forward again, this time with a destination in mind.
He needed to get cleaned up, and the one place that would still be open this time of night and be relatively deserted was the library. It was coming close to finals, but the last time Stiles had checked the clock on his phone it was almost 2 am. He was willing to bet that even if the most die-hard studiers were still in the library they'd be too zoned out to notice him slipping into the washroom. And if not, well… he'd come up with some sort of convincing lie.
In an instant the relative calm Stiles had found dissolved. Lies, lies, lies. That's what it all came back to, didn't it? One lie after another until everything that had once seemed so tangible and real was a blurry, tangled up mess. A mess that Stiles had no clue how to start unravelling.
Derek loved him.
Derek loved him.
Derek loved him.
There was a part of Stiles that was begging him to let it be as simple as that. To forget everything else, to ignore whatever had happened between them these last few months and just crawl into Derek's arms and curl around the heart he'd never been able to leave. It would be safe and warm and Stiles could forget the person he'd become without that embrace. The drinking and, jesus, the drugs, could dissolve into a sort of not-real place and it would be like nothing had ever happened. Like Derek hadn't shoved Stiles out the door of a moving vehicle and then, when he'd reached out desperately for Scott to catch him, Scott had just slammed the door shut and sped off, leaving Stiles lying bloody and dazed on the pavement.
Only, all those things did happen. So what did it say about Stiles, what did it say about his self-respect, his self-worth, if he pretended that they didn't? And, even if he tried to forget them, even if he let himself float mindlessly in the cloud of Derek loves me, could it last? Or would every kiss taste like stale betrayal until Stiles couldn't take it anymore and had to leave?
Stiles was walking faster now, footsteps slapping the pavement harder and harder until he was nearly at a run. The cold air burned in his lungs and he needed to escape the feeling of being ensnared by the lies woven around him. It was almost like he could feel them, a crawling physical force twining around him, and Stiles gave up all pretence of walking and began to run in earnest, restless and desperate to stop feeling and stop thinking for even five minutes.
By the time he reached the library he was panting, skin sheened with sweat, and his legs felt like they might give out any second. Leaning against the wall of the library, he let his head fall back against the brick and stared up at the stary sky as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He felt exhausted, like he'd run for miles rather than a handful of minutes.
When he finally stopped gasping for breath, he straightened and headed for the doors, pushing them open with his back so he didn't leave bloody handprints on the handle. Luckily the girl at the front desk was too busy scrolling down tumblr to look up as he passed by and, with a silent thank you to the universe, Stiles hurried through the stacks. As he'd predicted, the library was ghostly silent. He only spotted two other students as he made his way into the literary journal section and the tiny, single-stall bathroom tucked behind.
Closing and locking the door behind him, Stiles leaned down and turned the hot water tap on with his elbow, holding both hands under the spray. He watched dispassionately as the water turned pink and then red as the worst of the blood began to wash off. When his hands were clean enough he reached over and grabbed a handful of soap, scrubbing at his skin until his hands were pink and flushed. Steam had fogged up the small mirror above the sink and when he glanced up at his reflection all Stiles could see was the hazy outline of his face, his features blurred beyond recognition.
Turning off the tap he reached for a paper towel. Once his hands were dry, he sagged back against the closed door and sank to the tiled floor, ignoring for a minute that sitting on the floor of a public bathroom was gross and not something he should be doing, ever.
He needed to figure out what the hell he was going to do.
Stiles leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes, the bright florescent light too much for his tired eyes. He'd just rest here for a minute, and then he'd figure out what was next. With his eyes closed, the room felt dark and quiet, and within a matter of minutes Stiles's chest was rising and falling in the slow, even rhythm of sleep.
Some time later the phone in his pocket vibrated and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin, eyes flying open and his heart leaping into his throat. He'd pulled it out and was staring at the screen before he even realized what he was doing, autopilot kicking in. He had three missed calls, all from Scott, and four text messages, also from Scott. Apparently he'd been so exhausted that he'd slept through the phone's earlier vibrations.
Stiles made a noise of disgust and dropped his phone to the tile beside him. He didn't want to hear any more of Scott's excuses. He'd trusted Scott. Unquestioningly. And this whole time, while Stiles had been clumsily trying to stitch his broken heart back together, Scott had known that it was all a lie. He'd sat beside Stiles while he'd cried, played the part of the concerned best friend, and, fuck, Stiles had felt bad about it. He'd felt guilty for being so messed up and guilty about Scott having to deal with it.
He didn't want to see Scott again tonight. Right now he honestly wasn't sure if he wanted to see Scott again, ever. But he did need to go back to their house to get the Jeep, and despite how sober he felt now—adrenaline, shock, and an impromptu nap would do that to you—he knew he should really wait until morning to drive back to Beacon Hills. If he could stay the night with Danny he would, but odds were the party was still going strong, and there'd be no chance. At least it was a Friday and he could spend the weekend at home without missing class.
Stiles briefly wished he'd had more of an opportunity to make friends at college. Wasn't that the point of it, really? There'd been so much going on, first with Derek and then with Marcus, that he'd barely managed to keep up with his schoolwork let alone focus on making friends. The price for literally running with wolves, he supposed.
Realizing that he was letting his mind wander off in an attempt to avoid actually having to go home and risk seeing Scott, Stiles forced himself to get to his feet, bending down to pick up his phone as it buzzed angrily on the tile floor.
Stiles didn't bother looking at the name on the caller ID, just shoved it into his pocket before unlocking the door and heading back out of the library. He didn't want to talk to anyone, and hopefully Scott would get the hint soon enough.
His phone buzzed once more as Stiles made his way across the lawn and with an annoyed growl he pulled it out of his pocket to turn the fucking thing off when he saw that he had a missed call—and a voicemail—from Jackson. Stiles's thumb hovered over the screen, not sure if he wanted to listen or not, and then a text notification had the phone vibrating again.
Clenching his jaw, but trusting that Jackson wouldn't want to get involved in his drama any more than Stiles would want to get involved in his, Stiles unlocked his phone and brought up the text.
Jackson Dickmore: 911 HEADED TO BH STOP SCREENING YOUR CALLS YOU FUCKWIT
Stiles sucked in a quick breath and hit the button for his voicemail, typing in his password with clumsy fingers and bringing the phone up to his ear as he started running.
Listen, they've gone after Peter. We're on our way to Beacon Hills. Stop being a little bitch and get out here—we need all the help we can get. Even you.
When Stiles finally rounded the corner to their street he noticed immediately that both Derek's Camero and Jackson's Porsche were missing. Swearing under his breath he put on an extra burst of speed and yanked his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans, leaping up the front steps and shoving his key into the door. Not bothering to kick off his shoes, Stiles hurtled up the stairs to his room and grabbed the rucksack from under his bed, snagging the keys to the Jeep from his desk and racing back down the stairs without bothering to lock the front door behind them. If someone broke in while they were at Beacon Hills, they were welcome to whatever they could find in the house.
Pulling open the door to his Jeep, he scrambled into the driver's seat, flinging the bag to the passenger seat beside him and jamming the keys into the ignition before pulling out too fast and heading for the highway.
He was already at least twenty minutes behind the rest of his pack, and there'd been no reply when he tried to call Jackson back as he raced towards the house.
Stiles couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. They'd clearly bested Marcus and his pack in the fight that had happened only hours ago—two of Marcus's wolves had ended up dead, and no one in the Beacon Hills pack had even received any serious injuries. But if that was the case, if Marcus's pack had truly had their asses kicked, why would they go after Peter? What would be the point?
The only thing Stiles could think of, and this sent a hot wash of fear through his chest, was that they'd called in reinforcements. After all, they'd known going in that Marcus had at least a dozen wolves to call on. Maybe after what had happened at the college he'd done just that—and a new gang of them had decided to show Peter (and Scott and Derek and the rest of the pack) exactly what they were capable of.
Anger surged again, tight and bitter in Stiles's throat. If Derek had just done what he was supposed to do—if he'd have just killed Marcus when he'd had the chance—they might not be in this position. They wouldn't be racing headlong into what was at best a trap and at worst a massacre waiting to happen.
Frustration had Stiles laying on the horn and weaving inelegantly through what little traffic was on the highway. Derek had spent the last four months with apparently nothing in mind but Stiles's safety, and yet every fucking decision the Alpha had made only seemed to cause more damage.
Swearing violently under his breath, Stiles pressed his foot down harder and sped on. If he was fast enough hopefully he'd arrive in time to help.
Once he reached the outskirts of Beacon Hills, what felt like eons later, Stiles pulled over to the side of the road and yanked out his phone, checking to see if he had any more messages, but there was nothing. Jackson hadn't said where the rest of the pack was heading, hadn't said more than that they were going to Beacon Hills. Grinding his teeth Stiles pulled up his texts, hoping one of Scott's earlier messages would give him some idea of where he could find them now that he was finally here.
Scotty McCool: Man, I'm sorry. I know you're pissed and I get it, but you can't just run off like that! Marcus's guys might still be in TB. Come home and we'll talk. Or not talk. Whatever you want.
Scotty McCool: Starting to get worried. Just text me and let me know you're okay.
Scotty McCool: Look, I can track you down. I'm about fifteen minutes away from coming to find you. Answer your phone!
Scotty McCool: Peter just called. Marcus is after him. He's at Derek's loft and we are headed there RIGHT NOW. Call me!
Stiles tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and pulled back onto the road, breaking nearly every traffic law in Beacon Hills until five minutes later he was slamming on the breaks in front of Derek's warehouse. The Camero and the Porsche were parked outside just as haphazardly as the Jeep, and Stiles could see a fourth car, presumably Marcus's, pulled in neatly at the curb.
Stiles grabbed the keys from the ignition and clambered out of the Jeep, coming around to open the passenger door and reach around to the back to grab the bag that had fallen to the floor of the vehicle. The night—early morning, really—was oddly silent and the skin on the back of Stiles's neck prickled as he yanked the bag closer to him. When his phone vibrated again on the passenger seat that Stiles was pressed up alongside he had to bite back a yelp of surprise, the text alert jarringly loud in the quiet.
Fumbling for the zipper on the bag with one hand he grabbed for his phone with the other. Maybe it was so quiet because the Beacon Hills pack had already won. Maybe they'd killed Marcus and whoever else they had with them and maybe this was the text telling Stiles not to worry and that they'd be home soon.
Swallowing thickly Stiles brought up the message.
Isaac Lahey: not marcus its peter get help get chris get
Stiles's fingers went numb around the phone, his hand stilling where it had been sliding into the opening of his bag. From behind him, from the warehouse, there came a blood-curling howl of pain that cut off abruptly, and Stiles knew Peter had just discovered Isaac had texted him.
Peter. They'd trusted him. Well, no that wasn't quite right. Stiles had never trusted Peter, but he hadn't suspected him. Hadn't thought Peter had anything to do with Marcus showing up. There'd been no obvious motive, nothing Stiles could see Peter getting out of Marcus's victory. Unless, of course, Peter had never intended for Marcus to remain victorious.
Rage settled heavily in Stiles's stomach, hard and unyielding, as his hand wrapped tightly around the handle of the bat and he drew it from the bag, leaning it up against the side of the Jeep. Setting his phone back down onto the seat Stiles pulled out the knife, the one nearly as long as his forearm, and set it carefully beside the phone. He moved with deliberate precision, finding that strange level of calm that meant he'd gone past anger.
He'd felt it once before, fury so sharp it was like a knife that cut through everything else and left nothing but a cold clarity in its wake. He had looked into the eyes of the man who'd drugged and caged Derek and known without a shadow of a doubt that he would see that man dead. In the end it hadn't been Stiles who'd done it, it had been Peter (and there was irony in there, somewhere). But Stiles would have killed him if he'd had the chance—killed him without flinching.
Stiles tucked a bag of mountain ash into his pocket and pulled out a tiny spray bottle of wolfsbane, unsheathing the knife and misting it with the spray until the shining blade was clouded with tiny drops of the liquid. He dropped the spray back into the bag and stepped away from the Jeep, swinging the door closed.
Peter would know he was coming. Would have known Stiles was on his way even without the text from Isaac. Stiles briefly considered pretending that he hadn't seen Isaac's message, but he dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it occurred. Peter would have heard him drive up, and he'd probably heard the second his heart skipped a beat when he'd read it.
Reaching down, he grabbed the baseball bat with his left hand, swinging it up so it rested on his shoulder, and with the long knife held easily in his right hand, he turned towards the warehouse.