Chapter 21

He set it in motion. It didn't take much, not with knowing the way word seemed to spread among hunters. A loose network of connections they kept with one another to keep apprised of any problems that arose. Problems being a supernatural trying to live among ordinary humans. And their method of solving that problem kept every supernatural on edge.

But Peter's plan was in motion now. Nothing drastic—not yet. Just a little push. A rumor set off with the intent of letting it spread.

A phoenix in Beacon Hills. That was all Peter had to say to the right person. That person—the friend of an emissary in Seattle—wouldn't be able to hold in the news. The emissary happened to have a cousin married to a hunter. And that's all it would take.

Planning for his revenge, thinking of taking down every hunter and their family, was what he had been planning for awhile. But now it had the added benefit of keeping his thoughts on the war that Kate Argent and Reed Dawson had started years ago, and away from the phoenix herself. He wasn't going to think about a moment of surprising passion. It had kept him awake last night, no matter how many times he tried to forget about it.

He wasn't going to think about it now.

Peter set his phone aside. He leaned his head back against the expensive leather of his new couch and closed his eyes. He would rest tonight. Hopefully the phoenix was getting some rest. Because tomorrow he needed her to be at her best.

#

Henley narrowed her eyes and stumbled slightly. Why was the room spinning? Was this the latest horrible trick her phoenix powers were going to play on her? Fire wasn't enough? Fangs and glowing eyes were too subtle? Now the entire world had to become a tilt-a-whirl?

Whatever. She could deal. She stumbled a few more steps into the house and looked around. She took another sip of whiskey.

Her first high school party.

At nineteen.

A year after she graduated.

She was a loser. And a freak of nature. And completely alone.

"A triple threat," she muttered. What was she doing here?

She recognized the music playing. She hated it.

She saw a phone, sitting on a shelf by a speaker and went over to look at it. Someone had a playlist on the phone.

Epic Party Playlist. She tried not to roll her eyes at the name. Then looked at the picture on the screen. It was Stiles. Stiles and Malia together, laughing at the camera.

Everything in her stilled. She looked around the living room, past the teens laughing, red cups in hand. Family pictures featuring Stiles. A bag with a lacrosse stick in the entryway she hadn't noticed.

There was no way she was this desperate. Absolutely no way. But instead of leaving immediately, she picked up the phone. She opened the app and typed in a new song, hit play.

Darken the city, night is a wire

Steam in the subway, earth is afire

Henley grimaced slightly. She hadn't remembered those lyrics. She skipped the song forward until the familiar chorus played.

I'm hungry like the wolf

Duran Duran wasn't a band she liked, but she hoped Isaac was here somewhere with Scott and Stiles, listening to the obnoxious song.

She sank down onto the couch and took another drink, letting the song play in the background while she watched the people around her.

She sat on the outside again.

#

"What's with the music?" Malia asked.

"What?" Stiles said.

"The music. It's weird." She frowned. "Haven't you been listening?"

No. He hadn't. He had been trying to find his dad's stash of whiskey, but it seemed it had been hidden away somewhere, like his dad didn't trust him. Something Stiles took great offense at. He stuck his head into another cabinet in the basement and rustled through it.

"Stiles," Malia said. "Listen."

The song switched over and Stiles moved onto the closet that was mostly used for old sports equipment.

All my wolves begin to howl

Wake me up, the time is now

"Good song," Stiles said, voice muffled even to himself as he looked farther in the closet.

The closet didn't muffle Malia's annoyed sigh. "Stiles," she snapped. "You haven't noticed a theme?"

Stiles backed out of the closet. He had found an extra lacrosse stick. Not helpful for tonight, but he had been wondering where it was. He set it aside.

"A theme?" he asked.

Malia gave him the look she gave him when he wasn't following her. Which was a look he was getting used to.

"Listen," she ordered.

The chorus came on again.

All my wolves begin to howl

Wake me up the time is now

O can you hear the drumming?

Oh there's a revolution coming

Wild things that turn me on

Drag my dark into the dawn

"Ok. It's about wolves. Maybe Scott's being funny with the playlist."

Malia gave him a pointed look.

Right. Scott wasn't funny.

The basement door swung open and a group of classmates Stiles sort of knew came down the stairs laughing.

"Stalinski!" one of the guys said. "I thought clowns and circus performers were for kids' parties. But this one's actually kind of cool."

A cold pit of foreboding settled heavily in his stomach. "Circus performers?" he asked. Please, please say they were just talking about a creepy clown.

"That fire breather is awesome," a girl said.

Stiles didn't hear the rest of what they said, his ears were ringing.

He waited while the group made their way past him and Malia. He looked at her. "Please tell me you hired a fire breather."

Her expression probably matched the stricken look on his own face. And was his answer.

He scrambled toward the stairs, feet skidding across the concrete floor, falling onto the stairs, but catching himself with his hands and half crawling, half racing, up the stairs.

He burst through the door and ran toward the living room and sounds of a way-too enthusiastic crowd.

He stopped abruptly, Malia crashing into his back.

Henley was leaning back on the couch cushions, eyes closed.

Stiles held his breath, his heart thudding somewhere in his throat. Ok. Maybe he had misunderstood. She looked like she was resting. Sleeping maybe? She wasn't actually—

Henley lifted the bottle in her hand to her lips with uncoordinated movements and took a drink. Without opening her eyes, she blew out a fiery blast that licked at the ceiling before receding.

The crowd responded with hoots. Henley didn't look like she even knew they were there.

One of the kids saw Stiles and turned to him. "This is awesome! Where did you find someone to do this?"

Another kid clapped him on the back and Stiles tried for a smile. Sure, he hired a fire breather for a high school party. That's what this was. Not a supernatural phoenix, casually sitting on his couch breathing flames. Because that would obviously be insane.

"Stiles?" Malia asked. "You look weird."

Trying to keep his smile fixed in place, Stiles grit his teeth.

Henley languidly tipped her head farther back and let out another round of flames, like the blast of a flamethrower. In his living room. It left a scorch mark trailing across the ceiling.

Stiles quickly moved toward her as soon as the flames died down again. He hesitated, then grabbed her arm, hoping he wasn't about to be barbecued.

"It's break time," he said to the crowd gathering closer. "The circus has really strict labor laws." It didn't take much to haul her up from the couch. She stumbled along after him without looking up.

Stiles got her through the house and out to the backyard without any more flames.

As soon as they were outside, though, she started to glow. Stiles quickly dropped her arm and jumped back.

"Stiles?" Scott's voice came from the shadows. He and Kira approached cautiously.

"Stiles," Henley muttered under her breath. "Scott. Derek. Isaac. Alison…" her voice trailed off and she took a long drink of the bottle she was still holding.

"What's going on?" Kira asked. She looked from him to Henley. But before Stiles could answer, Henley breathed out an epic trail of flames.

Scott and Kira jumped back. Stiles motioned vaguely toward Henley. "She learned a new trick."

Scott looked over his shoulder toward the house. "Did anyone see?"

Stiles shook his head. "I'm pretty sure they didn't notice the girl breathing fire in my living room. Why would they notice that?"

Scott grimaced.

"Henley?" Kira asked, taking a tentative step towards her. "Are you ok?"

Henley took a long swig from her bottle and stumbled backwards a step.

"Is she drunk?" Malia asked.

Scott shook his head. "Werewolves can't get drunk."

Stiles watched her stagger for balance. Sparks fell from her with every step. "Hate to remind you, buddy, but she's not a wolf. Can phoenixes get drunk?"

She tipped her face toward the sky and blew a long line of flames. When the fire died out, sparks lingered in the air, falling softly onto her upturned face.

"What do we do with her?" Malia asked.

Stiles spoke quickly before Malia could make any horrifying suggestions involving imprisonment or euthanasia. "We keep her away from everyone."

Through the dark of night, red lights flashed, growing brighter, coming closer. A police siren blasted once. Twice.

Stiles didn't turn around. Maybe if he didn't look, it wouldn't be real.

His dad's shout from inside the house was definitely real.

From the house came the sounds of doors opening and closing, music turning off. And then the voices spilled out the front of the house. Cars started their engines and pulled away.

And then came the call Stiles was bracing for.

"STILES!"

Stiles winced. "He doesn't sound that mad, does he?" he asked the group at large.

The back door slammed open, then shut. Stiles winced at the sound of his dad striding across the lawn toward him.

Sheriff Stalinski looked from Stiles to Henley and back. "Am I supposed to ask about the girl on fire in my backyard first, or the party with underage drinking you were hosting?" When Stile risked a look, his dad's jaw was tight, hands on hips.

"You know, it shows a lot of growth, Pop, that you would ask," Stiles said. "I'm really proud of you. Embracing the supernatural. That's not easy." He clapped a hand on his dad's shoulder.

Noah looked down at the hand and Stiles quickly removed it.

"She's Peter's phoenix," Malia explained. "And there wasn't that much drinking at the party. Just what people brought themselves. Stiles couldn't find where you hid your liquor."

Noah stared at Malia and Stiles winced. He quickly schooled his face when his dad looked back his direction. "You haven't met Henley yet," Stiles said. "Dad, this is Henley. Henley," he called in the direction of the not-quite-totally-consumed-by-flames-yet girl, "this is my dad."

Henley wobbled slightly and fell to sit on the lawn. Flames started along her arms.

"I assume this is the reason the neighbors called me to tell me the yard was on fire?" Noah asked.

"Probably," Stiles answered.

"Will she burn us?" Noah asked.

"We'll probably need Parrish," Scott offered.

Noah nodded. He turned away slightly and pressed the button on his radio. Stiles assumed he was calling Jordan.

"I don't burn everyone," Henley slurred. She swayed slightly in her seated position. "Peter can tell you that. I didn't burn him."

Noah turned back to them. He looked over the small group. "Have any of you been drinking tonight?"

Scott and Kira quickly shook their heads. Malia told him no.

"Then I suggest you get home." He fixed his gaze on Stiles. "After we get this," he motioned toward Henley and the bottle in her hand and the flames in general, "taken care of, you and I are having a talk."

Stiles wondered if there was any way to avoid the coming talk and following punishment. Henley flared brighter and lifted the bottle to her lips.

Noah knelt down near her, but far enough back to avoid the flames. "Miss?" he asked.

Stiles leaned down. "Henley," he informed his dad.

Noah glanced at him and nodded. "Henley," he tried.

She ignored both of them and took a drink.

Noah's brow furrowed.

"She's not really a fan of any of us," Stiles whispered.

Noah slanted him a look. Ok. His dad wasn't exactly a fan right now, either. Stiles stepped back, giving his dad space.

Parrish arrived, tan deputy uniform neatly pressed. He came around the side of the house and took in the situation.

"You've met Henley," he said.

Noah gave her a last look and stood. "Apparently."

Parrish looked down at her. "Henley?"

She didn't respond.

"Time to go," Parrish said.

She heaved a sigh, but didn't move. Parrish moved toward her and lifted her, not flinching when her flames ran along his arms.

"Let me know if you have any problems," Noah said.

Parrish nodded and carried the flaming girl toward the alley, no doubt planning to take secluded alleys and paths rather than walking directly through town, or putting the flames in his police vehicle.

Noah watched them go, then turned to Stiles.

He stared at him for a beat. "Are you kidding me?" he finally asked.

Stiles shook his head. "Dad, if you just listen to me—"

"You had a party? With drinking?"

"In my defense, you were supposed to be at work all night and not find out," Stiles said.

Noah stared at him a beat. Just long enough for Stiles to wonder if is his dad was going to let him off the hook. Then his eyes took on a look Stiles knew way too well and he lifted an arm to point toward the house.

"Get inside," he said in a low voice, clearly fighting for control. "Just get inside and don't say another word."

Stiles opened his mouth. His dad's eyes narrowed, and he closed his mouth and hurried inside. He'd let his dad cool down for a bit before they talked. Like maybe for the next year or two.

#

Peter had a plan. The plan was set in motion.

He walked with purpose. They didn't have time to waste. He pounded on Henley's door.

No answer.

He pounded harder.

This time he heard stirring inside.

The phoenix, legendary creature of power and fury that none had ever managed to best, opened the door.

Peter recoiled involuntarily.

Her hair hung in her pale face. Bleary eyes stared at him without reaction. Her clothes were rumpled, her sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. Without comment, she turned and walked back through her apartment.

Peter followed. She went straight to another room. He strode after her in time to see her flop down onto a bed with a groan and pull a pillow over her face, turning her back to him.

He took in the scorch marks on the sheets, boots kicked off next to the bed, and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. Fireball whiskey. The irony wasn't lost on him.

"Come on, Fireball," he said. "It's time to get to work."

She didn't even deign that worth a mumbled response. Nothing from under the pillow.

"Let's go," Peter said, pulling back the blanket she had pulled over herself.

She shifted with a low groan and he saw her fingers grip the pillow tighter, pulling it fully over her head.

He scowled. "We're on a timeline," he said.

She released the pillow with one hand and, without looking, tossed a half hearted flame in his direction. He easily side stepped it.

He reached down and took the pillow from her.

She let out something that sounded suspiciously like a growl and burrowed her face into the mattress, covering her head with her arms.

He couldn't hold back the annoyed sigh that escaped. She wasn't in any shape to get out of bed, let alone start to fight back against their enemies. They weren't accomplishing anything today.

"I take it you aren't immune to the aftermath of drinking?" he asked.

She finally uncovered one eye and squinted at him.

A hungover phoenix wasn't going to be the threat of epic proportions he needed.

"Was it worth it?" he asked.

"I don't remember," she mumbled.

Peter looked her over again. She looked miserable.

He sank down on the mattress next to her, noting the agonized moan she let out when the mattress shifted with his weight.

He touched her hand with his. She opened an eye again and looked at him. He wrapped his hand around hers and closed his eyes. He braced himself for the pain.

His hand grew warm, absorbing the pain. This time he was prepared for the emotional turmoil that came with the connection to her. He walled himself off from it. When it threatened to overwhelm his defenses, he released her hand.

He shook his hand lightly, an ache there.

Henley cautiously opened one eye. Then the other. The tight pinch of her brow eased some.

If Peter had been willing to face the emotional ache that came with the connection to her, he could have taken more of her symptoms, but it was at least enough to get her out from under the pillow.

She rolled cautiously onto her back and looked around the room.

"Rough night?" Peter asked.

She looked down at his hand, pursing her lips at the veins there, turned a deathly black color for the moment. He moved his hand from her line of sight.

"Every night's a rough night," she grumbled. She flung an arm back over her head and looked up at him.

Peter was suddenly very aware he was sitting on her bed. She was sprawled on her back, looking up at him. His leg was against hers. She held his gaze.

He looked away and stood abruptly. "Time to get moving."

"Why?" she asked, her voice raspy from the alcohol the night before.

"To take what's ours."

#

Henley caught her hair back in two short pigtails, low behind her ears. She shed her clothes from the night before and pulled on faded gray pants with a long sleeve t-shirt. She wasn't dressing up for Peter.

She looked at the empty bottle of whiskey on her nightstand. She pressed her lips together, feeling her brow furrow in concentration, trying to remember what had happened the night before.

When only hazy memories of getting to Stiles house and then getting brought home by Parrish surfaced, she shoved the thoughts aside. Snatching up the whiskey bottle, she brought it to the kitchen and tossed it into the trash can.

At least her head wasn't threatening to split in two anymore. She was slightly queasy, and definitely a little shaky, but most of the pain was gone.

She looked at Peter, his back to her, looking through her fridge.

"What do you eat?" he asked. "It's like a frat house fridge, minus the beer."

The veins in his hand were still discolored, shades of gray and a sickly deep green running under the skin. But the colors were fading back to a more normal color already.

Henley ignored Peter's commentary on her dismal food supply. Growing up, her dad wasn't home for meals. It had never been worth learning to cook just for herself.

She looked at his hand again. She wondered if it hurt when he took her pain. She frowned to herself. It wasn't like she asked him to do that.

She pulled a box of pop-tarts from a cabinet and opened one of the foil packets.

Peter closed her fridge door and straightened. "Breakfast of champions," he said drily, eyeing the processed sweet in her hand.

Henley tossed the pop-tarts on a plate.

"You're not even going to toast them?" Peter asked. "Doesn't that blend all the preservatives and artificial colors better, when they melt together?"

She held a hand over the plate. The air beneath her hand grew wavy from the heat radiating. It only took a small flame to rival the heat of a toaster. She flipped the pop-tarts and held her hand over the other side.

Taking her plate to the table, she sat down and bit into the cardboard-like pastry crust. Her second bite got her a mouthful of steaming blueberry gel on her tongue.

Peter stayed leaning against the counter.

"The silent treatment's delightful," he said, sarcasm threading through his words. "And very mature."

Henley ignored him and enjoyed the icing on her breakfast. Was he not going to bring up yesterday? What happened? How mature was that? He was just going to—to—to kiss her—and then pretend it didn't happen?

Her lips tingled at the memory.

"Easy there, Fireball," Peter said.

Henley extinguished the flames consuming her hands, but not before her kitchen table had new burn marks.

She hated him. That's what the heat was. She reminded herself of that.

"We need to get going," Peter said, as if she would be going anywhere with him.

She got up and went to the bathroom, slamming around to find her toothbrush and toothpaste.

"The hunters will be arriving," Peter said, leaning against the open doorway.

The plastic toothbrush started to melt in her hand. She looked to Peter, unable to ignore that statement.

He looked pleased at having her full attention finally. "Word reached them that there's a rare creature in Beacon Hills," he said.

She hadn't realized werewolves even existed until two weeks ago. How much more rare could anything get?

She didn't need to be involved. That thought was reassuring. She tossed her melted toothbrush into the sink to allow it to cool before she threw it away later. She grabbed a cup and rinsed the toothpaste from her mouth.

Whatever the hunters were looking for, it didn't matter. It didn't concern her. She wasn't part of hunters and werewolves and supernatural enemies or alliances. She didn't have to deal with any of this.

She went back to her room. She got down to look under her bed for tennis shoes. She felt under there until her fingers brushed them and pulled them out.

Peter was still following after her.

She studiously ignored him, sitting on the edge of the bed to tie her shoes.

"Are you familiar with the Calavera family? They're sending two of their best. And the Ricksall patriarch is coming out of retirement."

The names were familiar. People who Henley had grown up knowing as her dad's colleagues. Acquaintances. But they were killers.

"It will practically be a hunters' convention here by next week."

"Why would I care?" Henley finally cut him off. She stood abruptly. Peter didn't step back at her angry approach. His expression didn't change.

"They're coming to hunt a phoenix."

"What?" Flames flared with Henley's shock. "They're hunting me?"

"Calm down," Peter said. He reached out to grab at her arm when she started to pace, but drew it back with a yell. He shook his burned hand. "What was that for?"

Henley's mind was racing too quickly to answer. Hunters. Actual hunters with weapons and bloodlust and an agenda were coming to find her. And she was on her own against them.

She started to shake. How was she supposed to... "Am I supposed to fight them?" she asked Peter, horror coloring her words.

"Unless you want them to kill you," he answered matter-of-factly.

She didn't know how to fight. Or defend herself, or whatever she was supposed to do.

She looked to Peter, her mouth open, but unable to form any sort of question.

He reached out again and this time she felt his hand reach her arm. He kept his hand there and moved closer.

She blinked rapidly, trying to focus on his touch and not the thought of killers descending on Beacon Hills to find her.

"You won't have to worry about them," Peter said. "They've never met power like yours."

Was this really a conversation she was having? About her powers to fight off killer hunters? She looked up at Peter, meeting his eyes.

There was a flicker of worry in his eyes, but then it passed, nothing more than a fleeting shadow. He held her gaze.

His touch on her arm grew warmer. Her rapid heartbeat changed to a different rhythm. He wasn't entirely in the flame with her. But he was close.

And then he was quickly stepping back. He looked away. "Call me if you see one of them."

He started walking away, leaving her standing there, reeling from his nearness, then sudden absence, and the knowledge that her life was about to be in danger.

Henley stared at him. Her brain was definitely not keeping up with this.

Peter turned at the door. She thought for a second that he was going to come back to her. Help her. He studied her face and there was a softening to the business-like drive about him.

His eyes fell to her lips. Henley felt her lips part. Was she going to…what? Ask him to help her? Not leave her alone to deal with whatever was coming?

But she didn't need his help. She bit her lips together, pretending she couldn't still Peter's lips against them. Peter Hale was the last thing she needed.

His eyes hardened and the straight line of his mouth matched her own stubborn expression.

"Unblock my number," he said.

And then he was gone.

#

* Songs areHungry Like the Wolfby Duran Duran andRevolution by The Score