Chapter Twenty

Stiles passed through the wide-open door, kicking it shut behind him. He bypassed the elevator, not trusting it not to open on Derek's floor onto god-knows-what, and, if he were honest, not trusting Peter not to cut the elevator cables while Stiles was on his way up. When he rounded the corner to the stairwell his lips pressed into a thin line, the crumpled body sprawled on the floor sending a shard of ice through his chest.

Crouching down he set the bat down on the concrete and reached forwards to feel for a pulse in Jackson's neck. It was there, thready and inconsistent, but there. At the angle Jackson's back was wrenched, the way bone gleamed wetly at his hip, Stiles was pretty sure a human would have been dead. He had to press his hand gently over Jackson's mouth to check to make sure the werewolf was still breathing, and had a moment of serious doubt whether or not he ought to turn Jackson's head back to the correct alignment or if that would just make matters worth, when air brushed faint against his fingertips.

"If you die," Stiles informed Jackson as he reached for the bat and rose to his feet, "I'm going to tell everyone that you only went to London to see the Spice Girls musical." There was no reaction on Jackson's end but Stiles was confident that his threat was enough to keep the werewolf fighting until they could get help.

There was a moment when Stiles considered pulling out his phone, calling Chris like Isaac had suggested in his text message, but he dismissed it. If Jackson was hurt this bad there wasn't any time to waste—and Peter would almost certainly hear Stiles make the call. Jackson could heal, would heal, but Chris was human and Stiles wasn't going to be responsible for leading Allison's father to his death.

Shouldering the bat, Stiles continued up the stairs, ignoring the urge to run. He had no doubt Peter was waiting for him and didn't intend to confront the traitorous dickbag panting and breathless. Peter already had enough of an advantage, there was no way in fuck Stiles was going to give him any more.

When he reached Derek's floor, having sweated only slightly through the fabric of his t-shirt, Stiles noticed that unlike the front door to the warehouse, the door to Derek's loft was closed. It made Stiles hesitate, fingers coming up to brush uncertainly against the metal of the large door. Since Jackson had clearly been flung from at least this level of the stairway it meant that someone had gone out of their way to close the door afterwards. And none of the reasons Stiles could think of were harmless.

Then again, if Peter had wanted Stiles dead all he would have had to do was wait for him on the first floor. Therefore, opening the door wouldn't kill Stiles. Probably. But that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt someone else. He wouldn't put anything past Peter.

Knowing he had no other choice, Stiles gritted his teeth and tucked the baseball bat under his arm before yanking open the door in one swift motion and stepping through, braced for whatever he'd see on the other side.

He'd expected movement—even with the eerie silence of the building, he'd somehow expected to walk in on a fight, a struggle. The stillness more than anything made sick tendrils of fear wind through Stiles's anger. If the rest of the pack was this incapacitated then it really was on Stiles to get them the hell out of it.

Just to the right of the door a large trunk lay open and empty. Stiles recognized it as the trunk Derek used to store the restraints for new Betas on their first full moons. He didn't have to look far to see what had happened to the restraints because in the centre of the room, each encased in their own circle of mountain ash, Derek and Scott were slumped on their knees, manacles heavy around their wrists and fastened to the floor with solid iron rings. Neither appeared to be conscious, and only the barely-discernable movement of their chests under their torn and bloody shirts let Stiles know they were still alive.

Gripping his weapons tightly in both hands Stiles stepped further into the room, all of his senses on alert. He couldn't see Peter, and it was his absence that was chilling. A soft noise came from Stiles's left and he whirled around, knife flashing in the dim orange light that came through the bank of windows. Just behind the couch, nearly lost in its shadow, Isaac was down on all fours, an odd shape rising over his back.

Stiles walked towards him, frowning at the tremble in Isaac's arms as he got closer. It looked like he was fighting to hold himself up and as Stiles's eyes adjusted to the darkness he realised, with a creeping sense of horror, that Isaac had been impaled.

The metal bar that had been shoved through Isaac's chest had missed his spine, but the blood bubbling from Isaac's mouth told Stiles that Isaac's lung hadn't been so lucky. Stiles dropped to the floor beside Isaac, ignoring the way blood instantly soaked through the knees of his jeans, and set his weapons down, reaching for Isaac's shoulder. It looked like the bar had been torn from the iron staircase, he noticed with a shudder. He knew there was no way he'd be able to pull the metal free from where it was embedded in the floor but maybe he could ease Isaac off of it so he could begin to heal.

When his fingers touched Isaac's shoulder, the werewolf's whole body flinched, like he was trying to move away from Stiles. Since the bar prevented his movement, all that Isaac managed was a low, hoarse cry of agony.

"It's me, it's Stiles," Stiles soothed, flattening his palm against Isaac's shoulder blade. "Here, I'm just going to—"

"No!" Isaac twisted his head, eyes wide and frantic as they met Stiles's. "Don't. Please."

"What…" But Stiles trailed off as he took a closer look at the bar and saw how the top half, the part that protruded from Isaac's body, wasn't straight like the rest. It had been twisted and bent like a fish hook, its tip pointing down into Isaac's back. If Isaac, or anyone else, tried to pull him upwards it would only tear through more of his body. And this time Stiles didn't think it would miss Isaac's spine.

"Fuck," he swore under his breath, squeezing Isaac's shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "I'll get Derek or Scott to straighten it out in a sec, okay? Just hang in there." Stiles didn't actually think he'd be able to free either of the Alphas so easily, but he wasn't about to tell Isaac that.

Not willing to leave both of his weapons out of arm's reach, Stiles picked up the knife and made his way back across the room towards Scott and Derek. He'd break the lines of mountain ash first and then worry about unchaining them, one step at a time.

He'd nearly reached Derek when there was a flash of movement in the air above him. It was all the warning Stiles had before Peter was suddenly standing between him and Derek, teeth gleaming wide and white in the shadowy room. Stiles scrambled back and struggled to regain his balance. Peter had leapt from the top of the staircase to the floor below, his movements soundless in the echoing space of the loft.

"You like that?" Peter asked, nodding towards Isaac. "A trick I picked up from a friend. I added my own little twist, of course." He winked.

There were a dozen smart-ass and scathing retorts on the tip of Stiles's tongue but all of them coalesced into one seething expletive of rage. "Fuck you."

"Come now," Peter spread his hands and Stiles noticed he wore a pair of black latex gloves, "There's no need for that kind of language."

"Fuck. You." Stiles made sure to enunciate each syllable.

"This is going to be a very one-sided conversation," Peter commented.

"This isn't a conversation." In one swift movement, Stiles stepped forward and grabbed Peter's shoulder with his left hand, driving the blade of the knife straight towards Peter's stomach. At this distance he couldn't miss.

But, inexplicably, he did. Between one instant and the next Peter was gone from where he'd been standing and Stiles's knife hit nothing but empty air.

Stiles barely had a second to register what had happened when a gloved hand clamped down around his left wrist and wrenched it up behind his back.

"Drop the knife," Peter said into Stiles's ear, increasing the pressure on Stiles's arm when Stiles hesitated. "You already know how much this hurts when it's dislocated."

Stiles could feel his face flush, anger and humiliation colouring his skin, and opened his hand to let the knife clatter to the floor. It wasn't the promise of pain that persuaded him as much as the knowledge that he wouldn't be much help to his pack with his left arm out of commission.

"Good boy," Peter purred and Stiles's skin crawled. He bit back a grunt of pain when Peter didn't release him, but shoved him forward, spinning Stiles around at the last second so that his back slammed into the wall.

The force had driven the air out of Stiles's lungs and he gasped in a breath before Peter's forearm pressed against his throat.

"One last thing." Peter traced a gloved finger down the side of Stiles's neck, dipping into the neckline of his t-shirt to fish out the silver chain that held his vial of mountain ash and his wolf charm. Peter ran the chain through his fingers, twisting it around his gloved fist until the metal bit into the skin of Stiles's neck. Stiles concentrated on drawing in a thin stream of air past the choking pressure at his throat and stared defiantly back at Peter. With a quirk of his lips Peter pressed down harder, closing off Stiles's airway completely, and yanked the chain hard enough for it to break. The pieces scattered across the floor.

Stiles tried not to panic, tried to remember that if Peter wanted him dead there were easier ways to do it, but as his vision began to grey around the edges his hands came up to claw at Peter's arm, struggling to pull him off.

Peter grinned and pressed forwards so that his body was flush against Stiles's. Stiles's arms were trapped between them as he bucked against the wall. Abruptly, the pressure on Stiles's neck lifted and Stiles sucked in a desperate lungful of air before Peter crushed his mouth to Stiles's in a hungry, biting kiss.

"Now," Peter said when he pulled back, leaving Stiles breathless, chest heaving, with the copper taste of his own blood in his mouth, "What exactly did you think you were doing?"

Stiles wiped a hand across his mouth, glad for the wall at his back because he wasn't sure his legs would hold him up without it. "Do you really think," he said between gulps of air, "That I wanted to sit around and listen to you bad-guy-monologue at me?"

"I'm not the bad guy," Peter scoffed. "That was Marcus, and I killed him. I'd say that makes me the hero."

"Here we go," Stiles muttered under his breath.

Peter gave him an arch look. "Don't tell me you're not curious."

"Fine," Stiles rolled his eyes, pushing off the wall now that his legs had stopped shaking. He'd hoped to catch Peter off guard with his attack. He'd thought if he could get lucky enough to get Peter with the knife he could end this sooner rather than later. But Stiles also knew that Peter liked the sound of his own voice, and would doubtless want to brag about whatever it was he thought he had accomplished. Which meant that even though Stiles's first attempt had failed, he'd probably have the opportunity for another. "What's all this?" Stiles gestured at Scott and Derek.

"I'm sure you've realized that the late and sadly not-so-great Marcus was supposed to kill the pair of them." Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, beginning to light the candles that Stiles had only just noticed strewn across the loft.

"Tell me again how you're the hero," Stiles mocked, spotting his fallen knife on the floor and beginning to inch towards it as Peter turned his back.

Peter ignored him. "Obviously, they're still alive."

Obviously. Stiles tried to tamp down his irritation, reminding himself that the longer Peter took to explain himself, the better. "Why?"

"Killing Marcus gave me back a little something I've been missing." When Peter turned to Stiles his eyes glowed like embers in the darkness of the room. The candles had added more light but it was a shifting, uncertain warmth in the shadows.

"Yeah, I get it. You're 'the Alpha' now." Stiles hoped the finger quotes in his words came through. "Why go through all of this—why bring Marcus to Beacon Hills—when you could have gone out any time and killed whatever Alpha you found?"

"Because I don't want to just be an Alpha." Peter lit the last remaining candle—and what the fuck was with the candles?—and slipped his lighter back into his pocket. "I want to be the Alpha of Beacon Hills. This is, after all, my home."

"Then," Stiles caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth, hating to have to ask the question, "Why haven't you killed Scott and Derek?"

"It occurred to me some time after I began negotiations with Marcus that my initial plan was lacking something. I mean, it was very straightforward—"

Only Peter would think a plot involving two different double crosses was 'straightforward'.

"—but I realized how wasteful it was. Three dead Alphas? All that power just…" Peter made a fluttering gesture with his fingers "Gone. Much better, don't you think, if something could be done with it."

"Uh-huh." Stiles was closer to the knife now, it was only a few more feet away. "So if there's a way to tap into it—and I'm assuming there is a way, you've found it, and that's what this is—then why bother with Marcus at all?"

"Because it's not that easy, Stiles. It's a complicated ritual and it's risky. It was convenient for me to put the ritual on hold while Marcus took his turn to play with you. I needed the time to get everything together, and he was a wonderful distraction."

Stiles was beginning to regret that he'd only be able to kill Peter once.

"But, now that you're here, I have everything I need." Peter smiled at Stiles, closed-lipped and charming. "Shall we begin?"

"Now that I'm here?" That distracted Stiles enough that he stopped trying to edge towards the knife, his eyes flying to Peter's face in surprise. "If you need a virgin sacrifice or something, you kind of missed the boat on that one."

"Don't worry, it's not your death the ritual requires."

"Lucky me." It didn't escape Stiles's notice that someone else's death was. "If not that, then what?"

"Come on, Stiles, you've never exactly slacked on the research front. I'm sure you've come across a tidbit or two about magic, spellwork. What are the three most potent ways to harness energy?"

"Sex, blood, or death."

"And which do you think I want from you?"

Jesus christ. Stiles resisted the urge to rub at his mouth again, wishing he could scrub the taste of Peter's lips from his skin. "I'll give you blood."

Peter gave a full-throated laugh, pausing from where he'd been unpacking a bag on top of the coffee table that had been moved to stand beside Scott. "Sorry, but I've got Isaac for that."

Stiles didn't bother to ask what Peter would do if he refused—Peter had two of the people he cared about most in the entire world helpless and on their knees. It wasn't as though Stiles was in a position to say no.

Peter seemed to sense the train of Stiles's thoughts because he set down a small paper package on the table and came around to stand in front of Stiles, his brow furrowed with mock concern. "I had hoped you'd participate willingly," he said voice heavy with regret.

This time it was Stiles who laughed, completely disbelieving. "In what universe do you think I'd willingly help you kill my best friend and my… Derek." Because there was no way Peter was going to let Scott and Derek live if they wound up surviving the ritual.

"Perhaps in the universe where they'd both betrayed you?" Peter's eyebrows lifted. "The one where they lied to you, used you, and didn't trust you to make your own decisions."

Behind Peter, Stiles could see Scott beginning to stir. Stiles determinedly kept his focus on Peter and let some of the anger he'd felt earlier that evening slip through his control. "Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I want them dead."

"Are you sure about that?" Peter stepped closer and Stiles refused to let himself flinch back. "They don't respect you. They don't see you as anything other than a burden."

Stiles did flinch at that, unable to help the way the words hit their mark. It was too close to what Stiles had been thinking himself earlier that night.

"It wasn't like that, Stiles!" Scott pulled at the chains around his wrists, looking past Peter to stare pleadingly at Stiles. "It's not that we don't respect you, honest. We just…"

"Assumed you knew better," Peter finished for Scott. "They don't really see you," he said to Stiles. "They don't understand your value. I offered you the bite the first time I met you. You've always been better than they are."

Stiles said nothing, just shoved his hands into his pockets defensively and looked away from both of them. Peter smirked and walked back to the coffee table, gloved hands delicate as he opened the paper and poured several small, white berries into a bowl.

Stiles could feel the bag of mountain ash in his pocket and his fingers toyed with the ziplock. He'd need to be close to Peter to use it, and he couldn't make the same mistake he'd made with the knife. He'd have to catch Peter completely unawares. Unfortunately, he thought he knew when that would have to be.

Stiles really, really didn't want to have to resort to using the mountain ash.

Pulling his hands out of his pockets he stepped back, away from the kneeling werewolves like he couldn't stand to be near them. It wasn't entirely untrue—Scott kept trying to catch Stiles's eye and even though Stiles knew that Scott was looking for reassurance, Stiles wasn't sure he was ready to give it to him. Which was, he knew, an awful thing to be withholding while they were in an actual life-or-death situation. But just because Peter had pulled one over on them didn't mean that what Scott and Derek had done was forgiven. Not by a long shot.

Stiles blew out a long breath, trying to clear his head. He'd deal with Scott and Derek later, once they'd all escaped this shit show. He was closer to the knife now and chanced a glance at it when he was sure Peter was distracted mixing more ingredients in the bowl.

Stiles waited a beat, kept his breathing regular even though he wanted to hold it in anticipation. When Peter bent down to pull something else from the bag Stiles made his move, flinging himself the last couple feet towards the knife.

He landed hard, with a jarring thud that told him there'd be deep and aching bruises on several points of his body, but his fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife and he yanked it closer and rolled onto his back, bringing it out in front of him to ward off Peter who'd jumped over the table and was suddenly straddling Stiles on all fours.

Stiles shoved the knife up but Peter's hand swept it aside, sending the knife skittering out the door of the loft, and then Peter snarled, his face inches away from Stiles's. Peter wasn't quite the monster he'd been the first time he was an Alpha, his skin wasn't ink black and he didn't have the protruding snout, but the look of inhuman rage in his red eyes was the same.

There was a moment when the breath caught in Stiles's throat and terror was a living thing inside his chest, but then he slid his hand toward his pocket. Peter caught the movement though, and then caught Stiles's wrist. His grip was unforgiving and his claws bit viciously into Stiles's skin, blood welling to the surface and sliding down Stiles's arm as Peter yanked Stiles to his feet.

Peter's free hand came down and sliced through the fabric of Stiles's jeans like they were butter, spilling open the contents of his pocket so that the plastic bag fell harmlessly to the floor.

Stiles gritted his teeth in frustration, anger overriding the initial burst of fear. How many of his attacks would Peter foil?

"I think," Peter's voice was a rumbling growl and his hand around Stiles's wrist tightened until Stiles couldn't help a noise of pain, "You aren't fully comprehending the situation you are in."

"Black magic, backstabbing douchebag, threat of pain and death. I think I got it." Stiles sneered.

"I don't think you do, Stiles. I don't think you appreciate the gravity."

"I read Hamlet in high school. Sorry if the power-hungry uncle thing isn't exactly doing it for me."

"That right there is the problem—you're not taking this seriously." Peter fisted a clawed hand in Stiles's shirt and dragged him closer.

Peter could smell fear riding the edge of Stiles's scent, but more than that he could smell anger, hear defiance in the still-steady beat of the boy's heart. Stiles wasn't treating Peter like a real threat. He was scared, but it was secondary. Perhaps Peter had played the reluctant but dutiful uncle for too long, had been too thoroughly convincing. He needed Stiles to stop thinking he could find a way out of this because having to stop every five minutes and disarm the boy was becoming tiresome.

Peter bared his fangs, grinned wide and wolfish, and snapped the bones in Stiles's wrist.

Stiles screamed.