New York at full moon was a different city entirely from any other time of the month. For this one night, out of default or desire, the vampires ruled. Hives throughout the country hosted parties, but the biggest occurred in the largest cities and none were quite so spectacular as in Manhattan. Rovers were at liberty to roam undisciplined and unmonitored. It wasn't that the werewolves necessarily kept vampires in check, just that with guaranteed werewolf absence, the vampires had the autonomy to be a little bit more toothsome than normal. It was also an excuse for non-supes to dance the night away. Or, in the case of the conservatives who wanted nothing to do with immortals, to stay shut-in.

It was always a challenging night for BUR. Several core staff were werewolves. A number of clavigers were also employed. All were conspicuous by their absence. Top that off with the vampire agents away enjoying their revels, and the full moon left the Bureau understaffed and unhappy about it. There were a few contract ghosts paying very close attention to what went on during the extravagances, but they couldn't exactly provide physical enforcement if such became necessary. That left the mortal agents at the front lines during moon time. Of course, the potentate's drones were also out and about, but they couldn't be trusted to report their findings to BUR, even if the rumors were true and Derek Hale was sleeping in Laura's closet.

Stiles liked the full moon – he always had. There was something irrepressibly celebratory about it. New York came alive with excitement and dark ancient mysteries. Admittedly, there were fangs and blood as well, but the full moon also brought with it bright lights and fireworks and joyful screams.

Stiles was slowly making his way through traffic when he turned his head to watch a woman on a motorcycle next to him. Suddenly, he realized he knew who the woman was. Then she looked at him and recognized him as well. She motioned for him to lower his window.

"Miss Tandy?"

"Call me Braeden! Can you pull over ahead? There's a bar up there. I need to talk to you."

Stiles looked at her warily, but nodded. The bar she pointed out was one he knew – it was well-lit and he was sure at least one of Laura's drones would be inside. He should be safe there. Plus, Braeden Tandy was only a drone to the Queen of Manhattan, she was not a vampire herself.

They walked in and found a small table in the back corner. Stiles was pleased to notice Isaac cheerfully chatting up a pretty blonde at the bar. Laura's drones really were everywhere.

"What did you need, Braeden?"

"Oh well, there has been a breach of social etiquette and it was only when I saw you on the street that I realized it."

A breach of social etiquette? thought Stiles. Vampires. He almost rolled his eyes, but tried to maintain composure and she continued.

"I know Miss Morrell would want me to rectify the situation. You must believe, we understood that on full-moon nights you were otherwise occupied or we should never have neglected you."

"What are you talking about?"

"This." She handed Stiles an embossed invitation to a full-moon party taking place later that night.

The werewolves and vampires always invited each other to their respective festivities. The Manhattan vampires, out of tether and hive bounds, had never been able to visit Newark Castle, and the queen herself, of course, could not leave her house. But Derek and Stiles had visited her on several occasions, always staying exactly as long as was polite and no longer. Vampire hives were not comfortable places for werewolves to be, particularly Alpha werewolves, but Derek felt he needed to keep up some sort of truce.

Stiles took the invitation reluctantly. "Well, thank you, but I have a lot to do, and at such late notice, I'll try to attend, but—"

Braeden continued making excuses for him. "I understand perfectly and Miss Morrell will too. But I didn't want you to think we were slighting you in any way. Case in point, I have been instructed to inform you, should we encounter each other, that we are officially delighted with your new living arrangements and wish it to be known outright that there are no hard feelings. Or"—she paused delicately—"consequences."

As if they were not the ones who had been actively trying to kill us!

Stiles, in a huff, said pointedly, "Likewise. Perhaps next time if you had told me why you were all trying to kill us from the start, much unnecessary chaos could have been avoided."

Braeden just smiled pleasantly.

"Well, I need to get going."

She nodded. "Perhaps we will enjoy the pleasure of your company later tonight, Mr. Stilinski-Hale. The President of the United States is in town. He was invited. I am told he may attend as well."

Unlikely, thought Stiles. The President never attended any kind of supernatural parties – not even fundraising when running for election. Had to keep the conservatives happy somehow. Although he had forgotten the President was even in New York. There was some United Nations thing or another that required his presence. Stiles didn't really keep up with politics that didn't involve him personally. He had enough on his plate.

"Perhaps you'll see me. Good night." Stiles waited till he had turned around and was walking back out of the bar to roll his eyes. Vampires.

It was early still, so far as the night's festivities were concerned. No establishment of worth in all of New York would dare be closed on such an evening. Thus, Stiles was unsurprised to find Lydia's shoe shop not only open but also packed full of shoppers. Stiles was surprised to find that Lydia herself was not in residence. For all her more atypical pursuits, the inventor normally made a point of putting in an appearance in her shop on busy nights.

In her absence, Stiles looked around confused. How was he supposed to make his way to Lydia's underground lab without someone seeing him? He respected Lydia's wish to keep the lab, its activities, and its entrance a secret from the general public. But with what seemed to be at least half of said general public in the shop, Stiles was not quite sure how he was supposed to speak with the redhead. Stiles was many things, but stealthy was not one of them.

He made his way to the counter.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll be right with you, sir," chirruped the girl who stood there. She was all bright chatter and false friendliness, but her back remained quite firmly presented. She was busy rustling through stacks of shoeboxes.

"I don't mean to interrupt you, but this is urgent."

"Yes sir, I'm sure it is. I apologize for the delay, but as you can see, we are a little understaffed. If you wouldn't mind waiting just one moment."

"I need to see Lydia."

"Yes, yes. I know. Everyone wishes to see Miss Martin, but she is unavailable this evening. Perhaps someone else can help."

"No, it must be Lydia. I have some documents to return."

"Return? Oh did the shoes not work? I am sorry."

"Not shoes. Nothing to do with shoes." Stiles was getting impatient. He understood. Working in a shop was not fun and customers were regularly rude, but he had a lot to do tonight.

"Yes, certainly. If you'll just wait, I'll be with you in a moment."

Stiles sighed. This was getting him nowhere. He contemplated his situation for a moment and came to a decision. Given that any kind of stealth was out of the question, he must opt for his only alternative—making a fuss.

"Excuse me."

The same girl was still rummaging behind the counter. Really, how long did it take to find a shoebox?

"Yes, sir. I will be right with you."

Stiles reached down inside himself for his most regal, difficult, aristocratic nature. He didn't have any, so he did his best impression of Jackson. "I will not be ignored."

That got the girl's attention. She actually turned around to see who he was.

"Do you know who I am?"

The girl gave him the full once-over. "Stiles Hale?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. Nobody who didn't know him personally every got the hyphenation right. It was the ridiculous society section of the paper. They had just started calling him "Hale" once he'd married Derek.

"Yes."

"I had been warned to keep an eye out for you."

"Warned? Warned! Were you? Well, now I am here and . . . and . . ." He floundered. It was hard to be angry when he really wasn't. "I need to speak to Lydia."

"I told you, sir, and I do apologize, but she is not available this evening, even for you."

"Unacceptable!" Stiles was rather pleased with both the word choice and his execution. Very commanding. That's what living with werewolves will do for you. "I'll have you know I have been swindled! Absolutely swindled. I will have none of it."

By this time, Stiles and the embarrassed looking girl had attracted the attention of the entire store.

"I came here looking for a present for Laura Hale. She is in desperate need of—" He paused, glancing around frantically and grabbed the nearest, most outrageous shoes he could find. "—these shoes! And I can't find them in her size!"

"Well, you see, we are out of most of the sizes. If you want to order them—"

"No, I would not like to." Oh, Jackson would be proud of this performance, Stiles was sure. Or possibly angry, but Stiles cared less about that. "I would like a pair of these right now." Stiles contemplated stamping his foot, but that would probably be excessively dramatic, even for this audience.

Stiles held up the offending shoe. "You see?"

The girl did see. So, in fact, did all the shoppers present. What they saw was that Stiles Hale (Stilinski-Hale, Stiles would have stressed if he could read their minds), had come to this very shop to buy these bright canary yellow shoes for vampire socialite Laura Hale. Stiles Hale, husband to Derek Hale, was known to fraternize with the trendsetters and fashion leaders of the city. He may not care much for his clothes, but if he was buying shoes for Laura, she must approve. If Laura approved, then the vampires approved, and if the vampires approved, well, that was it: these shoes must be it.

Suddenly, every woman in the shop had to have a pair of the shoes. They all stopped whatever they were doing to swarm over the shoes. Stiles was surrounded by a gaggle of young women, all grabbing for shoes, squealing as they tried to snatch their own sizes.

The shop's employees obligingly descended as well, notepads out, trying to convince the women not to purchase right away, but to place an order for the appropriate size and perhaps in multiple colors.

In the resulting chaos, Stiles extracted himself and lurched to the back of the shop. Here, in a shadowed corner was the entranced to a hidden elevator. He activated it and left the shop above him. He didn't even stumble when the elevator hit the ground with a thud.

He walked down the passageway and knocked lightly on the lab door.

Silence.

Figuring Lydia probably could not hear his knock, he let himself in.

It took him a long moment of scanning over all the piles of machinery, but he eventually became convinced that Lydia was not there. Not was her new contraption. The shop employee had not lied to him, at least. He felt even worse about the mess he'd left upstairs. Maybe he'd convince Lydia to raise the girl's salary.

Lydia was definitely unavailable, though. Stiles chewed on his bottom lip. She had said something about relocating in order to put together her latest project. Stiles debated trying to remember where and following her there or simply leaving the papers behind. They'll probably be safe enough. He placed them on a nearby table and was about to leave when he heard something.

Stiles had no werewolf's hearing to be able to note some strange noise among the rattling, humming, hissing clatter. Even without the redhead there, some machines never stopped. But he definitely heard another sound, an underlying keen that might, or might not, be human in origin.

It might also be a very excited mouse.

Stiles contemplated not getting involved. He also contemplated not using his bat—after all, shutting down all those computers like that could probably break something. In Stiles's case, though, contemplation was never signified by more than a pause before performing the action he would have taken, contemplation or not.

He activated the magnetic disruptor and silence descended. He listened for the one sound that didn't stop.

It came, a low keening wail, and Stiles realized that he was familiar with such a noise. Not a sound made by the living, but still a sound made rather than a sound manufactured. It was the intermittent sharp cry of second-death, and Stiles had a pretty good guess as to who was suffering it.