sinalemke6- Thank you for taking the time to leave a comment. I understand your frustration with Malia. I personally enjoy the humor she can bring to a situation with her blunt lack of tact. ; )

Thank you, as always, for reading!

Chapter 25

Peter jumped forward, his fingers brushing the back of Henley's t-shirt.

The cloth was slipping past his fingers. He roared in frustration, straining farther over the railing, and managed to close his hand around the fabric.

The momentum of her forward pitch over the edge of the balcony stopped abruptly with his hold, jerking his shoulder nearly out of its socket. He reached his other hand forward and grabbed one of her arms.

He pulled her up and over the railing, back onto his balcony. He set her feet on solid ground, unable to be gentle. The adrenaline thrumming through him had him curling his fingers more tightly around her arms.

If he had expected anything other than crazy, he would have been disappointed.

She fought against his hold. "What did you do that for?" she demanded.

"Because I don't want you to dive headfirst from ten stories high," he snapped. His pulse pounded in his arms, his chest, his throat, his head. The sight of her going over the edge…

"What is wrong with you?" he made his own demand for answers.

Her eyes glowed orange. He braced himself for the flames. But they didn't come.

The warmth trickling over his hand wasn't from fire. He looked down. His hand was red with the blood from a jagged cut running the length of her forearm.

"Why aren't you healing?" he looked from her arm to her eyes. She blinked at him like she had no idea what language he was speaking.

He looked at the cut again. It was deep. Seeping blood without pause. He adjusted his grip on her arm, not ready to trust her so near the ledge again, but he tried to keep his touch mindful of the vicious injury.

"Get inside," he said.

"Telling me what to do," she muttered. "Deciding for me."

He didn't have time for this. She needed stitches. He half dragged her inside and to the kitchen. He grabbed a clean dishtowel and pushed it against the wound.

He couldn't take her to the hospital. Even in the best scenario, she was likely to catch on fire. Never mind she had just tried to throw herself from the top of a building.

He looked at her, studying her face. She was squeezing her eyes shut like she could block out her reality.

They would lock her up in a psych unit and he wouldn't be able to protect her there. Not from the hunters. And not from herself.

He started to tell her to hold the towel to her arm, but thought better of it when she kept muttering to herself.

He grabbed another towel, wrapping it around her arm and tying a knot, anchoring the makeshift dressing firmly in place.

He propelled her along, getting his keys on the way.

"Don't bleed all over my car," he said.

#

"Deaton?" Scott called. His call set off the few dogs in their kennels at the back of the vet clinic and they started barking. Scott turned to look at them, issuing a low growl. With a last whine, they stopped.

"I'm in the office, Scott," Deaton called back.

Scott made his way to the comfortably organized office. "I finished cleaning the exam room. And inventoried the rest of the meds."

"Thank you," Deaton looked up from his laptop. "And you silenced the rowdy patients back there," he smiled.

"I'll be back after school," Scott said. "I can take them out for some exercise then." Second period was almost over, which meant he was expected back at school, his morning internship at the clinic over for the day.

"I'll see you then."

Scott went to the front of the clinic and picked up his backpack from under the counter. The bell over the door jingled.

"Dr. Deaton will be right with you…" Scott said, straightening, his words trailing off.

Henley and Peter stood there. Well, Peter stood there. Henley looked like she was being held up by him, talking to herself under her breath, weaving on her feet. They were both covered in blood.

Scott moved immediately. "Hunters?" he asked, dropping his bag and coming around the counter.

He tried to help Henley, take some of her weight from the other side. She swung her head toward him and flashed orange eyes at him.

"I wouldn't get too close," Peter advised.

Scott backed off. He motioned toward the door to the exam and treatment rooms. "This way."

Peter brought Henley along. They got to the exam table and that was when she started to slump over.

This time she didn't even notice Scott when he moved to help her. But Peter had her. He lifted her onto the table.

"Where's Deaton?" Peter asked.

Scott opened his mouth to answer, but Deaton spoke, coming into the room. "I'm here. What happened? Did the hunters find her?"

Scott didn't miss the way Peter tensed. "It's not important," he said.

"She's covered in blood," Scott said. "It seems important."

"It wasn't hunters," Peter said sharply. Scott didn't miss the flash of his eyes. They weren't going to get answers, that was the only thing that seemed to be clear.

Peter didn't step away when Deaton got close. "Her arm is the worst of it," he said.

Deaton pulled back the blood soaked towel. "Scott, get several packages of vicryl and sterile gloves. Pull some lidocaine with epi and a syringe. I'll start cleaning this."

Henley's head rolled to the side and she looked at Scott for a second before she fell back on the table, unconscious.

"We should start an IV, too. Give her fluids," Deaton added.

Scott hurried to get everything he had asked for. He kept an eye on Peter, hovering near Henley, glaring at everything Deaton did.

"What happened?" Scott asked, setting the supplies for the IV near Deaton and gathering the suture vicryl.

Peter spared him an annoyed glance. "You know how the transition goes after someone turns. She hit a bump in the road."

Scott looked at Henley. Cuts marred her feet. The jagged cut in her arm that Deaton was cleaning was deep and long.

"This looks like more than a bump," Scott said.

"She's fine," Peter snapped. "It's an adjustment."

"Ok," Scott said quietly, trying to ease the tension Peter was bringing into the room.

"She's not healing," Peter said to Deaton.

"She's not a werewolf," Deaton said, glancing up at Peter. "She might not heal the same."

Scott frowned. He thought of Henley healing from Peter's bite. But had she been injured or have to heal since then? Henley could get drunk, she didn't heal the same as a wolf. He wondered what else might be different for her. It seemed like they should find that out if they wanted to help her in any way.

"Scott," Deaton said, bringing his attention back.

Scott looked to him. Deaton had the lidocaine drawn up. He nodded toward Henley's arm.

Scott pulled on gloves and went to hold her arm, keeping it still as Deaton moved the needle around the gash, numbing it before he sewed through it.

Peter's face was unmoving as he watched.

"What did she cut it on?" Deaton asked.

"Glass," Peter responded, not offering any more details.

"We'll make sure there aren't any shards in her feet after we take care of her arm," Deaton said.

Scott only heard Peter's rough breathing, but Peter didn't say anything while Deaton stitched her arm together, starting with the muscle, then the skin. Peter stood by silently while Deaton removed small pieces of glass from her feet and washed them, applying ointment. And he watched the bag of IV fluids drip into her arm.

"Is it safe here?" Peter asked, finally breaking his silence when Deaton started cleaning up his supplies.

"The hunters have stopped by to make themselves known," he said. "They haven't figured out who the phoenix is yet. As far as I know, they don't know I know her."

Peter gave a single nod. He met Scott's gaze and narrowed his eyes at him. "Can I help you with something, McCall?"

Scott shook his head.

Henley stirred, drawing Scott's attention from Peter's glare. Slowly at first, then with more determination, finally her eyes fluttered open. Her eyes rolled around, taking in the vet clinic, then landing on Scott.

The heavy sigh of disappointment at seeing him stung, even if it wasn't a surprise.

She kept looking until she saw Peter. The relief on her face then was a surprise to Scott.

She pushed herself up to sitting, sucking in a breath when she moved her injured arm. She looked down at it in confusion, then shook her head like it was a mystery not worth investigating.

She swung her feet over the edge of the metal exam table.

"You shouldn't be—" Scott cut himself off when she swung a hard look at him.

She glanced at Peter, then stood, wobbling slightly. She looked down at her feet in confusion. Then moved with tentative steps, wincing with each one until the IV line in her uninjured arm stopped her. She jerked the IV from her arm, ignoring the line of blood that trickled down her arm.

"Let's go," she said.

Scott tried again. "You shouldn't go. Not yet. You need—"

"I need to get out of here," she cut him off, voice raspy, but sharp. She shot Peter a look. "Are you driving?"

Peter pulled his keys from his pocket. He twirled them on a finger.

Without another look at either Scott or Deaton, she shuffled along towards the exit with Peter.

"We can't just let her go," Scott said to Deaton.

"There's not much more to offer her here," Deaton said calmly. "This is a vet clinic."

Scott frowned when he heard the door close behind them.

#

"She went with Peter?" Stiles asked.

Scott nodded.

"Willingly?" Stiles clarified.

"Yeah," Scott whispered. He glanced at the front of the chemistry classroom. The teacher was still writing on the board.

"With Peter?" Stiles repeated.

"She had the option of staying with you and Deaton, and getting help, and she went with the psycho-alpha?" Isaac asked, leaning in toward their table.

"She chose Peter over us?" Stiles asked. "Peter Hale?"

Lydia swung around on her stool and leaned in. "Right now, I would choose Hannibal Lector over any one of you," she whispered. "And unlike all of you, I actually care about my grades and plan to go to college and have a future. So zip it."

She whirled around, red hair whipping over her shoulder and went back to copying the notes from the board.

Scott picked up his pen and started copying from the board.

"That was uncalled for," Stiles whispered in his ear.

Scott slid his eyes over to Stiles. Stiles wasn't holding a pen.

"She would definitely choose us over Hannibal Lector," Stiles asked. "Wouldn't she?"

Lydia spun around again. "I would become Hannibal Lector if it meant I didn't have to listen to you during chemistry," she hissed.
Stiles held up his hands in surrender. Scott recoiled. Lydia was way scarier than any serial killer.

#

Henley stared up at the sky overhead.

She wished she could remember…something. Anything. But the past few days were a mix of blurry half images and a series of black holes.

She pulled the blanket that Peter had left on his patio chair over her, wincing when the sutures in her arm pulled painfully.

She had drank too much and gone to Stiles' party. She had taken a pill. She had woken up next to Derek.

That's where the memories really stuttered, like not remembering what had happened with Derek was where her circuits got fried.

She had seen Peter's sliding glass door shattered, and no idea what had happened, but knowing it was how she cut her arm and feet.

She heard footsteps and then Peter was sitting on the empty lounger next to hers. He set a glass of water on the table between them.

"How's the arm, Fireball?" he asked.

She looked down at the puckered line of black knots holding her arm together. It was the least of her problems.

She leaned back again and looked up at the sky. Night was falling now, stars starting to fade into view.

"You going to tell me what happened?" Peter asked.

She glanced at him. Shifted uncomfortably. "I'd have to remember any of it first," she said.

He didn't look comforted by that answer. She wasn't either. The blanket she had pulled over her wasn't needed for warmth. It was just a shield. A pitiful, useless one.

She brought the flames to the surface, grew them. She pulled those around her like a blanket and settled into the comfort they brought.

#

Derek doubled over, hands on knees.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, into his eyes, and he shook his head roughly, send it spraying off him.

His sweatshirt was soaked through. His shoes muddy from when he veered off the path.

"Keeping yourself in shape, Hale?"

His muscles locked at the voice. He kept his head down, not drawing up into a defensive posture. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Just a ten mile run," Derek said. "Nothing more than a warm up." He drew up straight and met Dante Calavera's hard look.

Dante sniffed. "Relax, Hale. No one's here for you."

"Then I guess you can go," Derek said. He turned his back on Dante, alert to any movement—from Dante or a hunter hiding in the fading twilight.

"We'll all go as soon as we find the phoenix."

Derek's muscles tightened. He forced himself not react. He turned back to Dante. "What phoenix?"

"Don't play stupid," Dante said. He stepped towards Derek. "Those rumors didn't come from thin air."

"No one's seen him," Derek said. He hoped the deliberate misdirect would buy Henley some safety from the hunters.

Dante stepped closer. "Someone has."

A picture of Henley in his bed, panicking as she scrambled out and desperately put distance between them flashed unbidden into his mind. He had more than just seen Henley. Not even a ten mile run had helped him shake that memory. Or the guilt at her frantic confusion this morning.

"We're not here to shake things up," Dante said, sounding almost generous. "We're not even going to look twice at a wolf."

Derek waited.

"Unless one of them gets in the way." Dante's eyes glinted with disgust.

Derek growled in the back of his throat.

"Whoa there," Dante chuckled. "Down, boy."

Derek took a step closer to him.

Dante's face got serious, he moved into a fighting stance. "Spread the word. As soon as we find the abomination, we'll all clear out. But if we don't get some information—soon—it's not going to be pretty." He backed away. Gave Derek a small salute of farewell. "Good to see you again, Derek."

Derek watched him go. He listened intently, making sure there was no one else he needed to be aware of.

He waited until he was sure he was alone for now. He had to talk to the others. Figure out how to protect the packs—and Henley.

He wasn't sure that what had happened between them the night before counted as protecting her. Not with the way she had looked at him like she didn't know him this morning.

He dragged his hands over his face. Took a breath. Set his shoulders. There wasn't room for emotion right now. Guilt, confusion, or otherwise. Not with a town crawling with hunters and the explicit threat issued.

Personal issues shoved aside for now, he crossed the lot that had seen better days and went to his house. He wasn't going to let anyone get hurt.

#

Henley blinked open eyelids that weighed more than bricks and scratched like sandpaper.

She was on Peter's balcony. Again. She didn't move, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in her joints and heaviness of her limbs. She let go of some of her hold on the heat and watched fire cover her arm before she drew it back in.

She tentatively put her feet on the ground and stood. The aches eased with movement. That was a relief, even if her bare feet were still tender from the many cuts.

She slid open the deck door, covered with cardboard instead of a plate of glass.

"It lives," Peter said dryly at her entrance.

She frowned at him. "How long was I asleep?" she asked, her voice croaking out of her.

"Long enough that I was about to call the coroner," he said.

Henley let out an unimpressed grunt at his humor and slid onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

She tried to remember anything from before she was asleep. She closed her eyes and everything came back in one giant flash, nearly knocking her backwards from her stool. She gasped as her eyes flew open.

She and Derek…

With a groan, she let her head thud forward onto the counter.

"Something you'd like to share with the class?" Peter asked. The sound of something sliding across the counter had her opening her eyes and sliding her glance to the side. Peter was sliding a plate with a grilled cheese sandwich and slices of cucumber next to her.

"Something I wish I could take back," she moaned. What was Derek thinking now? She remembered being in his kitchen, his lips hot on hers, then on her neck, her shoulder…

She groaned again. It was black after that. Completely black until she had woke up in his bed.

"Would that be slamming your arm through plate glass? Or trying to swan dive off my balcony?" Peter asked.

She looked at him. He held her gaze. His jaw twitched. Was he…worried?

"I wasn't thinking straight," she said. She didn't mention the pill.

"So you aren't…you're not considering…" he stopped and tried again. "You're not planning on doing anything like that again?"

She didn't think she had really planned it the first time around.

"Hurting yourself?" he clarified in a clipped tone.

She clenched her jaw. Clenched her fists, then unclenched. "I'll stick to just hurting other people," she assured him tightly.

He didn't respond with the glint of anticipation she expected. Instead he kept studying her.

"I have a headache," she said abruptly, pushing back from the counter. Probably from the disorganized memories that were jostling for attention, then vanishing when she tried to get hold of one. She pressed a hand to her forehead. She let it flame, let the heat try to sear the memories away.

Nope. Nothing was going to get the image of Derek's apartment blurring in front of her drug addled eyes and Derek next to her. Her flames flared before she extinguished them. She hurried down the hall to the room she had claimed and shut the door behind her.

She pressed her hands to her head again, digging her fingernails into her scalp.

She was tired. The after effect of the pill? She had no idea how one pill could destroy her like this.

She collapsed onto the bed and closed her eyes. She let sleep drag her away from the hazy memories she couldn't quite reach.

#