Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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They had hardly spoken since dealing with the kanima, which had to mean that whatever had prompted Scott to call in the middle of the night was important.

That did little to quell his irritation, though. Despite Scott’s reassurances that the situation was important and needed immediate attention, Derek couldn’t help but feel irritated at being bothered. He had three missing betas that he needed to be focusing his attentions on finding, an untrustworthy uncle to keep track of, and a town to keep safe. He didn’t have time to have his attention this divided.

By the time he had pulled up beside Scott’s house, he had worked himself into a foul mood. Stiles’ blue jeep was in the drive (Oh, good, just another annoyance to add to his list) and Scott had been standing next to it looking distressed, running his hand through his hair, which he had apparently gotten cut recently, and pacing the driveway. When he saw Derek’s black Camaro pull up in front of his house, Scott wasted no time walking to meet him.

Derek stepped out of the car, slamming the door and meeting Scott halfway. “What?” he asked irritably. “What is so important that you had to call me in the middle of the night?”

Scott wasted no time getting to the point, “Stiles is missing. I can’t find him anywhere and he won’t answer his cell.”

Derek glanced at the jeep.

Scott followed his gaze, looked back to Derek and shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Derek sighed in annoyance. He had three people missing already: he didn’t need another one. “When did he go missing?”

“My last text from him was at eight,” Scott replied.

“Was it anything important?”

Scott shook his head.

Derek sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. Stiles had probably stuck his nose somewhere it didn’t belong and gotten himself in trouble. Typical. He could have at least had the decency to wait for a more opportune time to do it.

“And you haven’t tried tracking him yet?” Derek asked.

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t have called you unless I needed help. Look, I checked Stiles’ jeep, but… well, see for yourself,” Scott said, walking over to the blue jeep.

Derek followed him and sniffed the jeep. He could smell Stiles, as a general smell that had saturated the vehicle over time, but the fresh smells were what threw him. He blinked, sniffed several more times, and when still his nose offered him no answers, sniffed again, closer this time. After several long moments, he pulled away, confused.

Scott was watching him, waiting. “Do you smell it?”

Derek nodded.

“What is it?”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I can’t catch onto Stiles’ scent, either,” Scott said. “Not anything fresh, anyway.”

“I smelled that, too,” Derek said.

“What do we do?”

Derek frowned deeply. He knew what to do: he just didn’t want to do it. At all. But he could not come up with a better solution. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he pulled out his cell and began angrily pressing buttons on the phone.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked.

“I’m calling Peter.”

---

 

Scott watched Peter sniff the jeep with a deep glare, arms folded as he waited impatiently for the ex-alpha to finish. Under any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have asked for Peter’s help, but this was Stiles. Whether he liked Peter or not, he would do anything to find his best friend.

Peter inspected the entire jeep, although he appeared almost bored as he did so; sniffing here, sniffing there, picking things up and looking them over in a casual way.

Derek looked just as impatient with Peter as Scott, if not more so. He glared at his uncle in that fierce, Derek way, but he kept his fuming to himself. Peter was one of the few people that Derek showed some semblance of restraint around, although Scott wasn’t sure whether it was out of some residual, familial respect, or out of caution. Peter may have been weaker, but that in no way meant that he was any less dangerous.

Finally, after several minutes, Peter turned away from the jeep, standing in front of the two of them and feigning a severe expressing that came off more mocking than anything. “You two have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Derek asked, and Scott was surprised at the exasperation in his voice. Derek almost looked tired, but mostly frustrated.

“That smell you two couldn’t identity… that’s what a thrall smells like.”

Derek’s face fell with disbelief and exasperation, but Scott was completely lost.

“Um… what’s a thrall?”

Peter looked at him like his incompetence was a nuisance. “A thrall, Scott, is a slave. A shell of a person that has been forced into eternal servitude.”

“Servitude to who?”

“Not who. What.”

Scott stared at him, still lost and growing more and more frustrated at dancing around the answers he was looking for. “Fine, what?” he asked impatiently.

“A vampire,” Derek answered. “Stiles was taken by a vampire.”

---

 

It was completely unfair. He hadn’t even done anything this time. No investigating, snooping, searching, nothing. He hadn’t even stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. This time, trouble had come looking for him.

It was stupid, really; how they had come for him. He had just been out getting himself some fast food for dinner. His dad was working late and Scott had been busy studying, so he had been left to his own devices for a while. They had waited until he had pulled into his driveway before they struck. They hadn’t let him step out of the jeep before six of them had descended on his vehicle, clambering in and somehow wrestling him into the backseat while another took his place at the wheel. He struggled the whole ride, but it quickly became apparent that whoever his four attackers were, they weren’t human. For all of his wriggling, wrestling, yanking, hitting, and pulling, the men holding him kept their grips strong and secure. What was stranger was that they refused to talk, no matter how much Stiles (who, after a while, had given up his struggling) tried to coax them into doing so.

They drove for several hours, leaving Beacon Hills entirely, and Stiles felt panic settle in as he watched his home disappear into the distance. He had struggled again, harder and more desperate, and had even managed to get one of the jeep doors open, fully intending on throwing himself out of the vehicle if it was necessary, but his captors (blank-faced and completely unconcerned with his screaming and fighting) had reeled him in once more.

Eventually, the driver had pulled his jeep up into the driveway of a large, old cabin of some sort. The three in the passengers seats had pulled him out, but the driver had remained and driven off with his jeep. The bastard.

When two of the remaining three began to pull him inside, Stiles struggled against their hold on his shoulders and wrists, but it was really a pointless effort. Still, he was pissed, hungry, tired, and most of all pissed.

As he was taken inside, he took a quick look at his surroundings, surprised at the state of the inside of the house, which was well-kept, clean, and modernly decorated. The outside, which looked dilapidated and weathered, was obviously meant to deter visitors and appear abandoned.

They took him into the living room and shoved him forcefully down onto his knees, but he realized rather quickly that he was in no way capable of out-fighting the men restraining him, and decided it was time to revert to his default defense.

“Hey! Ow! Okay, okay!” Stiles groused, wincing uncomfortably at his position. He looked around the large room, surprised to see chic décor and electronics that one would find in most upper class houses. On the long, circular couch of the lavish and disappointingly modern living room sat a tall, dark-haired man with sharp, blue eyes that bore into Stiles as he was brought in, and even though he was wearing an expensive-looking suit, Stiles could see that he had a muscular build. His arms were wrapped over the shoulders of one woman and a man on either side of him, both of whom appeared to be completely entranced by him. They stared at his face with adoring expressions, wrapping their limbs around him, desperately clinging to him as though afraid he might disappear at any moment. The man paid neither any heed; sharp, intense eyes staring relentlessly at Stiles, as though he were giving him serious consideration.

Stiles shifted uncomfortably under the gaze, trying to calm his frantically beating heart. The man smiled at him, an eerie, sadistic smile that made Stiles tense nervously. Without saying a word, the man turned to the girl to his left, who—as if having received some silent cue—bared her neck where Stiles got a clear view of the two, angry red puncture marks. At the sight of them, Stiles’ eyes widened in realization, his heart rate skyrocketing. Vampires. He had been kidnapped by freaking vampires.

The vampire seductively brushed away a lock of the girl’s hair and bit down on her neck, eliciting a pained and pleasured moan from the girl.

Stiles immediately turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut, starting to shake. The slurping, wet noise was bad enough without having to watch what was happening.

After a long silence, he tentatively opened his eyes again only to find that the vampire had vacated the couch and vanished, leaving the two other occupants asleep in their seats. Stiles had enough time to panic before the vampire reappeared behind him, fingers tangling themselves into Stiles’ hair and roughly yanking his head to the side to access the teenager’s neck.

Stiles grunted in surprise, eyes widening in fear when he felt hot breath on the nape of his neck and he tightened his fists to stop the terrified shaking that had taken over his limbs. His chest heaved and his breaths came out in erratic huffs.

“Are you afraid, Stiles?” the vampire asked (and oh, shit, it knew his name), coming closer so that his lips brushed against Stiles ear. Stiles flinched, but the hand in his hair kept his head still, the vampire chuckling deeply before whispering into his ear, “And bear in mind… I can tell if you’re lying.”

Stiles tightened his jaw, refusing to answer. He wouldn’t give the creature any kind of satisfaction. And even if he wanted to say something, he was (oddly enough and probably for the very first time in his life) having a hard time finding his voice.

Unfortunately, his silence was answer enough, because the vampire chuckled again, moving his head away and running a hand slowly over the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles tried to pull away and get the creepy vampire hand to stop touching him, but the grips of the two men restraining him remained steadfast and the vampire yanked his head further to the side, straining Stiles’ neck further.

“Mmm,” the vampire hummed over Stiles’ terrified breaths, “My, my, what smooth skin you have. And your pulse…” And then Stiles felt a tongue on his skin, running from his shoulder, excruciatingly slow, to just below his ear. The lick left a trail of saliva, chill and moist, that left painful chill bumps all down his neck and arm, but there was something else—sticky and hot—intermingled with it. Stiles’ eyes got big as his stomach rolled and it took all of his willpower to keep from throwing up in his mouth. Stiles wriggled his shoulders again as he tried, once more, to pull away, desperately wanting to wipe it off, but he couldn’t move, so he had to feel it linger and dry, the thin traces of the girl’s blood just sitting on top of his skin.

When he felt the vampire’s breath disappear, he thought that maybe the vampire was done tormenting him, but suddenly he felt two sharp points at the vein of his neck, pressing down; not quite hard enough to break the skin, but enough to sting.

“Oh, god,” Stiles yelped, squeezing his eyes shut and his heart rate skyrocketing, chest heaving as he braced himself. Finally, he found his voice again and began blathering away in a panic. “Hang on, okay, wait… Listen, man, I eat nothing but fast food. I will taste like grease and teenage hormones and sweat, okay? I…I-I’ll go right to your thighs...”

The vampire chuckled at his throat, his fangs still hovering over Stiles’ jugular. He felt the points of the vampire’s fangs break the top layer of skin, hard enough to draw droplets of blood. Stiles whimpered, struggling furiously, but just as suddenly as the fangs had appeared, they were being replaced by a tongue, licking up the droplets of blood before disappearing again along with the hand gripping his hair. He let out a heavy breath of relief, stretching his neck to relieve some of the dull ache.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathed in relief.

The vampire came around to stand in front of Stiles, looking down at the shaking boy thoughtfully. When Stiles didn’t look up, he grabbed Stiles’ chin and forced his face up to look the vampire in the eye. Stiles’ breath hitched, but he locked gazes defiantly. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the vampire’s eyes had gone completely black, a heavy contrast to the creature’s extremely pale complexion.

“Now, don’t be silly, dear boy. I’m not going to drink you,” the vampire said, kneeling down so that his face was inches from Stiles’. “Not at the moment, at any rate.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

The vampire’s grin grew, flashing his long, sharp fangs at Stiles before pulling away. He stepped back, putting his hands into the front pockets of his expensive blazer. “Tell me… how is the Alpha faring these days?”

Crap. It knew about the pack, too? What the hell was going on? “No idea. We don’t really keep in touch,” Stiles said with a shrug. He knew it was crucial to reveal as little about the pack as possible, so he opted for ignorance.

The vampire pursed his lips, looking Stiles over curiously. “Hmm… Is that how you define an Alpha? By the red of its eyes?”

“Well, that and the insane Alpha super-powers,” Stiles replied.

The vampire straightened out his back and chuckled down at him. Stiles glowered at the condescending tone. The vampire was obviously making fun of him for something, although Stiles hadn’t a clue what that could be, which only worked to annoy him further.

“You know, it’s funny that you should say that the two of you don’t communicate. From what I’ve observed, you’ve spent a great deal of time amongst Derek Hale’s Pack. Particularly during that little kanima incident.”

Stiles had to work hard to keep the alarm off of his face, but the statement was enough to alert Stiles of just how serious the situation had gotten. The implication of the vampire’s words could spell all kinds of trouble… particularly for Stiles in that moment. There was no telling how long the vampire had been observing them or what kinds of information it had gathered, so Stiles couldn’t risk flat out lying about anything he might be asked, but then again, he couldn’t risk telling any truths, either.

“Well, you know the saying: nothing brings people together like a giant, blood-thirsty lizard… or something like that.”

The vampire chuckled. “A kanima is a rare thing, you know,” he commented casually.

“Thank god for small favors.”

“Banshees are not particularly common, either.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat and he once again found himself struggling to maintain his calm, but still defiant expression. It was one thing for the vampire to know as much as it did about the pack. It was another thing entirely for him to know about Lydia.

“I must say, the girl is an exquisite beauty,” the vampire continued, almost dreamily as he looked off towards the opposite wall, “Such beautiful red hair.”

“Strawberry blonde,” Stiles muttered under his breath, flinching inwardly as the words came out of their own accord.

The vampire gave Stiles a side-glance. “What was that?”

Stiles shut his mouth, looking down at the vampire’s knees to avoid the black of his eyes. When Stiles did not answer immediately, one of the men holding his shoulder squeezed hard.

“Ah!-strawberry blonde,” Stiles yelped, looking back to glower at the man as the grip on him loosened. Stiles looked back at the floor again, breathing heavily through his nose as he tried to contain his anger and fear. “Her hair is strawberry blonde. Not red.”

The vampire grinned darkly at him. “Is that so? It would appear that you’ve given it a great deal more thought than I.”

“Don’t feel too bad. I’ve known her since kindergarten. You’ve known her… what, how long? Two or three months?” Stiles asked, probing for some information of his own.

The question only made the vampire’s grin bigger, an impressed look passing over his face. “Oh, you are clever, aren’t you? If you want to know how long I’ve been here, you need only ask. In fact, you may ask anything you’d like,” the vampire said. He turned, looking back at the male he had left on the couch, who immediately stood up, went out of the room, and returned moments later with a lavish chair, pulling it up behind the vampire. The vampire sat down, crossing a leg so that his ankle rested on his knee. “We’ll even make a game of it. We’ll be here a while, you and I, so we might as well get comfortable.”

Stiles was lifted up off of his knees by the two men behind him and then forced down onto a chair someone had brought in from another room. Once seated, he was released, and Stiles made a show of glaring at both of his captors, followed by exaggerated, indignant stretches and rolling of his shoulders and arms.

The vampire watched, an amused smirk on his face.

“Do I get to go first?” Stiles asked.

The vampire nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

Stiles leaned forward in his chair, subconsciously showing the vampire that he wasn’t afraid to lean into his space. “Okay, so are all pimps vampires, or just you?”

The vampire tilted its head at him, eyes darkening somehow in a dangerous way. “Are you sure that’s the question you want to ask?”

Stiles swallowed, tongue flicking out to lick his suddenly dry lips, and decided against sarcasm for the time being. “Who are you?”

“Darius Clarke,” the vampire replied.

“How long have you been watching us?” he asked, although “us” was a fairly broad term at this point. He wasn’t sure who all the vampire had been watching, but he thought it best to keep it fairly vague and figure out the details as he went.

“Eight months.”

Stiles’ brow rose in surprise.

“Longer than you were expecting?”

“How could you have possibly gotten away with that? There’s a werewolf pack living in Beacon Hills.”

“Well, I was never present. But my servants were,” he said, gesturing to the blank-faced men and women who stood here and there like statues. “They’re my eyes and ears in Beacon Hills.”

“Why do you care what’s going on in Beacon Hills?”

“Ah-ah,” Darius reprimanded him, shaking his finger at the boy, “It’s my turn.”

Stiles glared at him impatiently. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me… What do you think of the fact that there seems to be an unfair collection of supernatural oddities in Beacon Hills?”

“I think our luck sucks,” Stiles replied bitterly.

Darius’s smile fell and his face twisted into such a dangerous expression that Stiles felt a terrified chill travel sharply down his spine. He swallowed, quickly shifting gears. “I don’t know. I thought it was a coincidence.”

“A coincidence is a word used by the ignorant to describe that which they don’t understand. Are you ignorant, Stiles?”

“No-”

“Then try again.”

Stiles sighed, running a hand through the side of his hair absently as he got his brain working. He didn’t know anything about what kinds of supernatural creatures had been occupying Beacon Hills prior to Scott’s bite, but he knew plenty of what had happened afterward. Everything appeared to have begun as a result of Peter going on a rampage, but the vampire made a good point; kanimas and banshees were not that common, and for both to show up in the same town within months of each other seemed a bit odd. Plus, now there was a vampire.

It couldn’t all be coincidence.

Darius watched him for a moment, piercing eyes watching the boy’s process with fascination. “It would appear that you’ve come to the same conclusion I did,” he said to him. “There’s something here in Beacon Hills; something that’s drawing all of this supernatural phenomena. And if I were you, boy… I’d find it quickly-” the vampire leaned forward into Stiles’ space, waiting for the boy to look up into the black orbs of his eyes. When Stiles finally locked gazes with him, the vampire stared at him for a long moment before continuing, “-because if you think werewolves, kanimas, and vampires are bad… wait until you see what else goes bump in the night.”

---

 

Chapter Text

---

“Why are we not going after him? Like now?” Scott exclaimed in a panic as the gravity of the realization sunk in. A vampire. A vampire had kidnapped his best friend. And it was probably going to eat him unless Scott did something about it. He rushed over to the jeep, trying to follow the scent of the thralls. “There has to be something here to help us.”

“There is a scent, but I’m not too keen on following it,” Peter said.

“Why not? A freaking vampire has my best friend and it’s probably going to eat him unless we do something!” Scott said with rising frustration.

“Alright, first of all, vampires don’t eat people. They drink their blood,” Peter pointed out in irritation, “And secondly, it isn’t going to do that.”

“How do you know that?”

“Believe me, Scott. If there was a vampire in Beacon Hills, we would know it. The fact that neither Derek nor I have caught one’s scent, and that we haven’t been torn into thin, bloody shreds already, means that it’s located somewhere else. It wouldn’t go to this much trouble just for a meal that it could get much easier elsewhere, so it has to want Stiles for something else.”

Derek looked incredulously at his uncle. “Why would a vampire go to all of the trouble of going into werewolf territory to get Stiles?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Peter asked with a smile.

“Who cares why it took him?!” Scott growled angrily. Peter wasn’t taking this seriously and Derek seemed mostly annoyed that he was having to deal with the situation rather than showing any actual concern, which only aided in fueling Scott’s own anger. How could Derek be so cold, considering what all Stiles had done not only for Beacon Hills and the pack, but for Derek in particular? Stiles didn’t even like Derek, but he had saved him more than once. Derek owed Stiles, whether he liked it or not.

“It matters,” Derek said, looking like he was deep in thought.

“Derek,” Scott said, turning to the Alpha pleadingly. “Please. Stiles has done a lot for you and hasn’t ever asked for anything back. Help me find him.”

Derek looked at him, expression as grumpy as ever, but he seemed to be listening. What he was thinking, however, was hard to tell. Derek was a difficult person to read, due to his very limited range of facial expression. He opened his mouth, about to answer, when Peter suddenly interrupted him.

“Derek, may I talk to you for a moment? Privately.”

Scott had to stifle a growl, but Derek gave the younger werewolf a look, as reassuring as his naturally grumpy face could manage, as he moved off to the side with Peter.

Once they were a good distance off, the two werewolves turned their backs to Scott. Derek muttered under his breath, “Stop listening, Scott.” Once he had heard Scott’s growl of frustration, he felt confident that they would not be interrupted further, and so turned to his uncle. “I don’t have time to look for Stiles on top of looking for Isaac, Erica, and Boyd,” Derek told Peter once they had gotten enough distance from Scott.

“You don’t have a clue where to even begin looking for your betas, but you might be able to find Stiles. And believe me, Derek… with the Alpha Pack at your front door, you’re going to need all of the assets you have available. If you help Scott save his best friend, getting his help later on will be much easier,” Peter said, pausing for a moment to gauge Derek’s response before adding, “Stiles can be useful, too… in his own, annoying sort of way.”

Derek looked down at the ground, deep in thought.

“You’re going to need them,” Peter reiterated. “More than you want to admit.”

Derek’s eyes flicked up to his uncle’s. The meaning was clear to him, even if it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to hear. Whether he liked it or not, Scott provided something that Derek needed. He couldn’t exactly place what that was, but he knew it, and Peter knew it.

Derek sighed heavily, turning back to look at Scott, who had apparently started listening again near the end of the conversation. “We’ll help you find him.”

Scott breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Derek nodded, then looked at his uncle again. “You said you caught a scent?”

“Was it Stiles?” Scott asked hopefully.

“Just one of the thralls,” Peter replied.

“It’s a start,” Derek said. “Where does it go?”

Peter looked down the road, then looked back at his nephew. “I have a hunch.”

---

 

They took Derek’s car, following the trail as it led out of Scott’s neighborhood and further in to the downtown area. When they finally arrived at the trail’s end, the three stared at the door of Derek’s loft, looking at the small stream of light that was peeking through the crack of the door, which stood slightly ajar.

Scott, a determined look on his face, stepped forward, opened the door all the way, and walked straight inside.

“Scott! Don’t!” Derek called warningly, reaching out to grab his shoulder, but Scott stepped out of his reach too quickly. He growled angrily when he was ignored, watching the young werewolf walk away, unconcerned with the Alpha’s warning.

Peter watched him and then looked at Derek, squinting his eyes as though he was confused. “Hm. I guess plans are overrated with you people.”

Derek bristled, ignoring his uncle’s comment and walking inside after Scott. He noted that Peter did not follow, which both annoyed him and alarmed him slightly. Peter knew better than to get into a fight he wasn’t sure to win, and if he wasn’t willing to go after a thrall with two other werewolves, then he and Scott may have been biting off more than they could chew. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, letting his anger fuel his wolf, he stepped into the main room.

The thrall was by the large window at the far end of the loft, an envelope in her hand. She stared dead-eyed at Scott, then turned her head to Derek. “My Master gives his greetings, Alpha Hale.”

Derek’s eyes flashed red angrily and he let out a low, rumbling growl. Derek’s knowledge of vampires was wider than most, although he knew less than his uncle. He did know that vampires could use the senses of their thralls to communicate and listen to conversations from miles off, which meant that it was well within reason to believe that he wasn’t talking to the thrall, but to the vampire itself.

“Where is Stiles?” Scott asked, eyes flashing bright yellow and growling in warning. “If he’s hurt…” The threat trailed off into a growl.

Derek knew what that meant. Scott wasn’t violent. He fought because he had to and because his friends needed him to, but even then, he was reserved about it. If he could help it, he avoided causing anyone any harm. But it was different this time. Derek could hear it in Scott’s voice and see it in his eyes. If something happened to Stiles, Scott would spill blood. He might even kill…

“He is my Master’s guest for the time being and will remain one until my Master has settled his final affairs here,” the thrall said, looking between the two werewolves slowly and rhythmically, almost as though her head was on a timed cycle. “If the Alpha wants my Master’s guest returned unharmed, the Alpha must assist my Master with his final affairs.”

“What affairs?”

“In exchange for my Master’s guest, the Alpha must bring him the Banshee, the Druid, and the Alpha. The Alpha has three hours.”

“Why doesn’t he come and get them himself?” Derek asked, walking right up to the thrall and staring down at her intimidatingly. Or, at least, it would have been intimidating to anyone else, but the thrall showed no change in expression. He couldn’t even smell anything from her other than the scent that identified her kind.

“The Alpha will get them or my Master’s guest will pay the price.”

Scott looked about ready to pounce her, but Derek beat him to it. Fangs protracting and eyes burning red, Derek grabbed the thrall around the neck, roaring into her face. It wasn’t to frighten or intimidate the thrall (he knew that wasn’t possible), but to possibly frighten or intimidate the vampire. He suspected that the vampire was watching through the thrall’s eyes. “If anything happens to him-”

“It will be on your head, Derek,” the thrall said, life suddenly seeping into her face. Her eyes turned black, and a full, malicious grin crossed over every feature of her face.

Scott stared, blinking confusedly at the sudden change.

Derek growled again, about to threaten the vampire more, but suddenly Peter was behind the thrall, claws raking across her neck, blood spattering onto the window behind them. The thrall fell limp from Derek’s grip, collapsing into a small, dark pool of her own blood. Peter snatched the envelope from the thrall’s hand before Derek dropped her, looking it over with interest.

Derek looked at her, then raised his gaze to Peter, eyes red and seething.

Peter stared at him for a moment with an obliviously unconcerned expression. “Oh, were you not done?”

“Peter…” Derek growled, trying to resist the urge to tear his uncle’s throat out with his teeth.

“Before you start your little temper tantrum, Derek, you should know that she was about to attack you,” Peter said as he began opening the envelope.

“I can take a thrall,” Derek retorted, trying to resist the urge to tear his uncle’s throat out with his teeth.

“Nobody said you couldn’t.”

“Then why did you kill it?”

Peter stared at him incredulously, then glanced between his nephew and Scott, shaking his head with disapproval. “That thrall was being puppeteered by a vampire that may or may not know how you two function, and think, and fight. If I were you, I would be more concerned about maintaining any advantages you might have,” Peter said, pulling out the piece of paper from the envelope, which he tossed to the floor carelessly. “Honestly, how you two manage is beyond me.” He unfolded the piece of paper, looking over the contents shortly before giving it a sniff. He handed it to Derek. “Here. Smell this.”

“What is it?” Scott asked.

Derek took it and sniffed it, then glanced at the message on the paper, after which he passed it off to Scott.

Scott didn’t even need to sniff in to catch the familiar scent. “Stiles!” Scott exclaimed excitedly, reading over the message. He stared at it for a moment before furrowing his brow confusedly. “There’s nothing but numbers here…”

Peter rolled his eyes and took in a breath of annoyance. “They’re coordinates. Really, Scott, what are you going to do when Stiles goes to college?”

Scott glared at the older werewolf, but didn’t find any point in fighting with him. In truth, the question had actually crossed his mind on several occasions. It wasn’t lost on him that, without Stiles, he wasn’t sure if he would even be alive right now, much less doing as well as he was. It was entirely possible that, had it not been for Stiles’ unorthodox way of teaching Scott how to keep his wolf under control that Peter would still be the Alpha, and Scott would be his helpless Beta. “Where do the coordinates lead?”

Peter held a finger for them to wait while he walked upstairs, returning a short time later with a laptop. He opened it up, got up a map, and plugged in the coordinates. “The coordinates are about two hours outside of Beacon Hills,” Peter said, then turned in the chair he had settled in at Derek’s desk to look at his nephew, “which means that you have one hour to convince Lydia and Deaton to go willingly have their blood sucked out by a real-life vampire… probably to death. Assuming, that is, that you’re willing to do that as well.”

Derek frowned, glancing at Scott, who looked just as conflicted as Derek felt. Probably more so. Stiles wasn’t just Scott’s best friend; he was his brother. But Scott also had an unusually high standard of morals that weren’t easily overridden. Scott wasn’t one to give up his moral code so easily, but in this instance, Derek honestly didn’t know what Scott would do, if it came down to having to make that choice. Of course, Scott was also one to always look for another way…

“Now that we know where Stiles is, can’t we just go and get him?” Scott asked.

Peter actually laughed at him, then noticed that no one else was laughing, and faded off, giving Scott an incredulous look. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“What?” Scott asked.

“Scott, have you ever fought a vampire?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen a vampire?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about real vampires? No? I thought not.”

“It can’t be worse than a Kanima,” Scott said, partly as a joke, but when Peter just continued to stare at him, he swallowed. “Right?”

Peter leaned forward in his chair and laced his fingers together as though he were about to get into a long speech. “Do you know what a vampire actually is? Movies, books, and television have romanticized them to the point that they either look like immortal, love-struck idiots, or blood-thirsty brutes. That couldn’t be further from the truth; they don’t sparkle; holy water, garlic, and crucifixes don’t burn their flesh; they can’t drink animal blood to satisfy their thirst; and they’re in no way kind, or misunderstood. They’re powerful and cunning and vicious and completely insane. They’re faster, they’re stronger, and have been known to tear apart even fully established packs… So, yes, a vampire is way worse than a Kanima,” Peter concluded.

Scott swallowed. “So… what do we do?”

“You can’t do anything,” Peter said, standing up from the desk. “But Deaton might.”

---

 

Chapter Text

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The vampire sat back in his chair and folded a leg over his knee, giving Stiles a toothy grin with just a hint of fang to it and watching the boy swallow nervously as his statement sank in.

Stiles wanted to ask about what other monsters might be lurking around Beacon Hills, but he knew that this game wouldn’t last forever and he needed to use what questions he had to figure out what the vampire was after, so he decided to save his curiosity for later and get to the task at hand.

He opened his mouth, ready to ask his question, but Darius raised a finger, shaking his head and tsking at him disapprovingly. “Now, now, Stiles. No one likes a cheater.”

“Isn’t it my turn to ask a question?” Stiles asked in annoyance, getting tired of the vampire toying with him.

“You asked two questions when we began. It’s only fair that I should get to ask two now, don’t you think?”

Stiles’ jaw tensed angrily, but he saw no point in arguing and instead reverted to sarcasm again. “Funny, I wouldn’t have really pegged you as a stickler for the rules.”

“Everyone has their quirks. Even you, clever boy. Yours almost masks your intelligence,” Darius replied, then smirked. “Almost. Which brings me to my next question. Why did you turn down the Bite?”

Stiles looked up at him and stared. “W-what?”

“It’s been plaguing me for some time. I simply couldn’t wrap my mind around why a smart boy like you would turn down such an attractive opportunity. I wondered if it was because of your father and your constant, pathetic worrying over being a burden on him, but that didn’t quite add up. After all, what better way to ensure his safety than becoming a beefed up mongrel? Then I considered the possibility that it was some misplaced sense of loyalty to your friend Scott, but once again, had you taken the Bite, you could have taken up ranks with him to fight the Alpha. So what was it, hm? What stopped you?”

Stiles gaped at the vampire, mouth ajar. How in the hell did he know about that? There hadn’t been anyone in that parking garage. If there had been, Peter would have known. Surely, he would’ve known. Stiles cursed the fact that, after discovering the existence of werewolves, it had not occurred to him to look more into vampires. All he had to work with was what he had seen in movies and TV or what he’d read in books, but he doubted if much of it was reliable.

“Well?” the vampire asked impatiently.

“How do you-”

There was suddenly a hand around his throat, cutting off the rest of his sentence, which faded in a choked gasp. The vampire was now inches from his face, leaning over him, eyes once again all-black and fangs protruding fully. Stiles’ hands flew up to the hand at his throat instinctually, but he restrained himself from trying to pull the vampire off of him, knowing that struggling would either amount to nothing or, at the very worst, piss the vampire off further.

Darius was inches from Stiles’ face, but as terrified as he was, he knew better than to turn away. He stayed still, wheezing, eyes locked on the fangs that were uncomfortably close.

“Do you know, Stiles, that it’s not very respectful to not answer someone’s question? And it certainly isn’t in the spirit of the game. Now… why didn’t you take the Bite?” Darius hissed at him, loosening his grip just enough to allow Stiles to speak.

Stiles coughed as he fought to suck air back into his burning lungs. “I t-thought about it, but… I just couldn’t get over those sideburns…”

Darius tightened his grip on Stiles again, completely closing Stiles’ airway and eliciting a strangled gasp from the boy. Still keeping hold of Stiles’ neck, the vampire turned his body and pulled his own chair closer until the two chairs were against each other. Darius straddled his own chair and leaned even closer into Stiles’ personal space.

“Try again,” the vampire said as he loosened his hold once more.

Stiles coughed heavily as he got his breath back, the red of his face fading and the tears that had begun to prickle at his eyes vanishing.

“I don’t kn-ack!” Stiles yelped as suddenly the hand at his throat was gone and he was being yanked off of his chair and shoved down onto the floor, face pressed painfully into the floorboards and squishing his nose. Stiles fought and twisted, trying to get free of the grip and get back up, but as soon as he’d gotten his arms underneath himself and lifted his chest off of the floor, a foot at the small of his back was slamming him back down, making him grunt in pain as it ground down into his bones and muscles, hard enough that Stiles knew he would bruise. At a sharp press that crushed his lungs into his ribcage, he stopped struggling, breathing heavily through his nose and grinding his jaw to mute the pained noises that were trying to force their way out of his throat.

Darius knelt down on top of him, once again grabbing his hair (what had possessed him into thinking growing his hair out was a good idea?) and turning his head to the side at a painful angle so that he was able to look at the vampire over him. “Joke all you want, but you’re going to answer my question; one way or another. Now… one more time, Stiles. Last chance.”

Stiles fought back the groan of pain that threatened to burst from his throat as Darius dug his heel into his back, shutting his eyes as he tried to focus on answering the vampire’s question. “It… It didn’t have anything to do with Scott or my dad or anybody… I just… I didn’t want it because I… I don’t trust… me…” he answered, looking tentatively up at the vampire from the corner of the eye that he could see him with, waiting to see if that would be enough to satisfy him.

Darius made a small circle with his hand, coaxing Stiles into continuing. “Go on.”

Stiles huffed in frustration. He couldn’t lie and he couldn’t stall anymore, but he didn’t want to answer, either. He had even kept the whole thing from Scott. This stupid vampire was the last person he wanted to know about it.

“I um…” he swallowed, the words unwilling to leave and getting caught on his tongue. “I was afraid… of what it would do to me. I don’t know what I’d… who I’d be with that kind of power…”

The vampire stared down at him attentively, listening with a much more calm expression.

“Are you happy now?” Stiles asked angrily, struggling now to get up off of the floor. He knew he shouldn’t fight him, but he was pissed now and had lost the sense to care.

“Quite, actually,” the vampire replied, unfazed by Stiles’ wriggling. “That was enlightening. Thank you for sharing, Stiles.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles snapped back, which only managed to make the vampire chuckle at him.

“Careful, Stiles. That kind of language could invite some very unpleasant situations for you,” the vampire replied with a grin that sent a shiver up Stiles’ spine. The vampire knelt down a little further, getting closer to Stiles’ ear, “You know, you were right to resist the Bite. For all of your sarcasm and seemingly inane babbling, you’re likely the most dangerous thing in Beacon Hills. Even with werewolves, kanimas, and corrupted hunters, it’s you who is the real power player.”

“Dude, do you know how many times I’ve been captured? Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been knocked around, attacked, threatened, and nearly mauled?”

“Yes, and you’ve maneuvered through all of it as a mere, fragile human. Can you imagine what you could do with supernatural gifts? It would consume you. After all, ‘absolutely power corrupts absolutely.’ That’s what power did to Peter Hale, that’s what it did to me, and that, sweet boy, is what it would do to you.”

Darius’ eyes flicked to Stiles’ throat when he swallowed and smirked. Stiles glowered at him, hating how heavily the vampire’s words impacted him. He didn’t like being thrown into the same group as a vampire and Peter Hale, but that didn’t take away from the truth anything Darius was saying. He couldn’t deny that he had noticed some similarities between himself and Peter, and apparently Darius had noticed, too. That was a scary thought. And Darius had got it right: that’s exactly what Stiles was afraid of; becoming Peter.

“Keep resisting that power, Stiles,” the vampire said, leaning down to talk directly into Stiles’ ear, “because if you ever gave in, it would take nothing short of a divine move to save you.”

“Wow, thanks for looking out for my well-being. Side note; can you get your foot off of my back? I can’t breathe,” Stiles ground out, wriggling his pinned body slightly to make his point.

To his surprise, Dairus got off of him, grabbing one of Stiles’ wrists and yanking him up off of the floor so fast that Stiles very nearly fell right back down again. He was able to catch himself with a great deal of flailing around, to which the vampire found great amusement. When he’d finally found some balance, the vampire tilted his head at him. “Are you hungry, Stiles?”

“Uh… why don’t we finish the game first?” Stiles asked, ignoring the hunger pains that had been pestering him throughout most of the night. He was actually starving, since Darius’ thralls had kidnapped him before he could actually get any food, but he was anxious to get back to asking questions. He hadn’t gotten to ask enough questions to really get any information to work with. He was still nearly in the dark as to what the vampire and the thralls were capable of and he still didn’t know what Darius was after or why he was so interested in Beacon Hills.

Darius gave him a disappointed look before twisting Stiles’ wrist backward. “Stiles…” the vampire reprimanded him in a fatherly tone, “what did I just tell you about respect and answering questions posed to you?”

Stiles bit back a cry of pain, breathing heavily through his nose as he replied with a tight, strained voice, “I-I get it.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me that you’re learning these lessons very slowly. I think you might have a problem with authority. Is that why your father is so miserable?”

Stiles’ heart lurched and he looked down at the floor, jaw set to keep it from trembling.

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for him to put up with you. And all by himself, too…”

“Stop,” Stiles said, voice wavering.

“Do you think he blames you?”

“Don't.”

"For killing her?"

"Stop."

“Do you blame yourself?”

“What the fuck do you want?” Stiles snapped, shaking and eyes red from fighting back tears. He was sick of this stupid game and was ready to get whatever was going to happen over with.

The vampire twisted Stiles’ wrist again, making him squeeze his eyes shut and muffle a groan.

“I want to know if you’re hungry.”

“No.”

“Lie.”

The flash of warning in the vampire’s eyes is clear, and Stiles takes a deep breath before answering again.

“Yes.”

“Not a lie,” Darius said with approval, beginning to drag Stiles’ by the wrist out of the living room and into the dining room. “Good. Let’s keep it honest, shall we? This night might be very unpleasant for you otherwise.”

Darius pulled him into the dining room and up to the long table in the center of the room. He took him to the chair at the head of the table and stopped him. “Sit.”

Stiles glared at him, but saw no point in being difficult, so did as he was asked. As soon as he’d settled, however, there were suddenly hands all over him, grabbing onto his arms and wrists from behind the chair. He struggled on instinct, quickly realizing that the thralls were trying to tie his wrists to the armrests.

“Whoa! Hey! Get off!” Stiles protested. Of course, no amount of struggling or yelling at them did any good, and before he knew it, his wrists were duct taped to the arm rest. He pulled at them, testing the strength of his bonds, and when they didn’t budge, he looked up at Darius, who had settled himself into the seat across from Stiles. “What the hell, man? I’m not going anywhere!”

“You struggle too much. This just makes things easier,” Darius replied.

“Oh, well I’m sorry I’m not a more cooperative captive,” Stiles retorted.

Darius chuckled at him, glancing up as one of the male thralls walked up to the vampire with a wine glass and an item that, at first glance, looked almost like an old, oddly shaped knife, but Stiles recognized it from research for a history paper he had done as a lancet.

“Aw, come on, dude. Not at the table. That’s gross,” Stiles moaned, turning his body away as much as his restraints would allow.

“Do you get squeamish at the sight of blood, Stiles?” Darius asked, taking the glass from the thrall and holding it out. The thrall took the lancet, inserting it into its skin and tilting it so that the blood poured into Darius’ glass.

“No… I’m just not a big fan of things that draw blood,” Stiles said, keeping his head turned and his eyes averted from the sight.

Darius chuckled again and it grated on Stiles’ nerves. He was tired of the vampire’s creepy cheerfulness.

“Good. Because that’s what’s for dinner.”

Stiles’ eyes widened and his head snapped up to the vampire’s, but suddenly there was a hand in hair, yanking his head backwards until his face was tilted upwards. Another hand wrapped around to grab him under his chin and hold him steady while two other sets of hands held his upper body as they attempted to pry his jaw open.

Stiles struggled wildly, snapping his mouth closed and trying to twist out of their grips. The three thralls, blank-faced as usual, had some difficulty in getting control of him. Despite the fingers digging into his jaw and cheeks, his mouth was kept tightly shut and he kept wiggling out of their bruising grips. Finally, one of them grabbed his nose, cutting off his access to oxygen and Stiles’ heart sank.

As expected, Stiles didn’t last long without oxygen and, with a great deal of reluctance, he was forced to open his mouth to get air back into his lungs. Immediately the thralls shoved a clear glass tube into his mouth, keeping it open. Then they grabbed a wine bottle and began pouring the contents down the glass tube and into Stiles’ mouth.

The taste of copper assaulted his taste buds and the thick, warm substance sent him into an immediate gagging fit, trying to expel the liquid from his mouth, but it kept being poured in, pooling at the back of his throat. He choked and gagged on it, desperate not to swallow any of it, but the blood kept being poured into the tube and his mouth, some slipping past his tongue and snaking its way down his throat. Panicked and knowing that they would eventually close his nose again to get him to swallow, he began thrashing in his chair, yanking furiously against the arms holding him still.

Darius watched, sipping the drink in his hand unconcernedly.

Not surprisingly, but to his great alarm and terror, one of them did grab his nose again. Already worn out from struggling, it didn’t take long for Stiles to feel the horrifying emptiness in his lungs as his air began to run out. He held out, refusing to swallow even knowing that his fight was pointless. He would end up doing it eventually. It would be instinctual; he wouldn’t have a choice. Even knowing it, he waited until he felt like his head would explode before he swallowed a heavy gulp of the thick, sticky liquid. As soon as he swallowed, the thralls let go of his nose, letting him breathe through it. One even began rubbing his neck, encouraging him to continue drinking, which, in his haste to get air back, he did. When he had taken several, painful drinks, they finally removed the tube.

Stiles twisted in the chair so that he was leaning over one of the armrests, expelling the rest of the blood in his mouth with a retching cough that wracked his whole body and tore at the walls of his throat. He coughed and gasped and his stomach heaved as he tried to get himself to throw up. He was trembling furiously, his head was pounding with the worst headache of his life, and he felt sick in every sense of the word.

Through the haze of disgust and pain, he could feel a hand on his back, rubbing up and down along his spine. “Easy does it. There you go. Now whatever could be the matter?”

Stiles’ fists clenched and he jerked away from the touch, spitting out more blood onto the floor.

Darius looked at him from where he knelt beside the chair on the opposite side from where Stiles was bent over, looking at the teenager with concern. Then he bumped his head with the bottom of his palm. “Oh, silly me! What was I thinking? Humans don’t drink blood,” he exclaimed with fake embarrassment, gesturing to one of the thralls who had just been restraining Stiles. “Get a cup of water.”

The thrall turned and walked out of the room wordlessly.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Stiles. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a guest. Well… a guest that wasn’t dinner, at any rate.”

Stiles ignored him, focusing all of his energy on getting himself to puke. He needed to get it out as quickly as possible. There was no telling where Darius had gotten the blood and he didn’t want to risk having it in his system for too long.

Darius tilted his head at the boy, watching Stiles lean over the armrest, head down and eyes closed as he tried to force the contents of his stomach to come back up. Finally, after some concentration and bringing up the most disturbing imagery that he could conceive, he heaved and emptied the contents of his stomach out onto the floor beside his chair.

“Oh, what a waste,” Darius said with a frown, “It’s getting everywhere, too. All over my furniture and floor, which I just had replaced, by the way. Oh dear, and now it’s on your leg…”

Stiles puked again, body convulsing as it cleared the rest of the blood from his system, but it didn’t stop there. He kept going, forcing himself to continue until he began to dry-heave. Luckily that didn’t take long; he hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch and had already dispelled most of the blood from his stomach.

Darius rubbed Stiles’ back again, patting it every now and then comfortingly. When the thrall returned with the glass of water, Darius took it and, with his free hand, tilted Stiles’ head until he was sitting up straight, holding the cup up. “Drink.”

Stiles let Darius put the cup to his lips and tilt it back to give him a large drink. Stiles gathered as much as he could of the cool liquid before quickly turning his head and spewing it into Darius’ face.

The vampire didn’t flinch. The water dripped down his face and as Stiles watched the wide, fanged grin cross Darius’ face, Stiles immediately regretted giving into his impulse. Before he could backtrack, reason, argue, or protest, Darius ripped the duct tape holding Stiles’ wrist to the armrest and twisted it so that it was facing upwards, sinking his fangs into the exposed vein.

Stiles shouted in pain, body jerking and flailing wildly as he pulled at his arm. He watched wide-eyed as the vampire drank from him, fangs digging deep into his flesh to extract as much blood as possible, which, to his great revulsion, was going everywhere. It dripped off of his wrist and onto the floor as the vampire’s fangs held his wrist still, a constant, painful sting that was only exacerbated when Stiles tried to tug his arm away, it pooled on the floor, and it was smearing Darius’ lips. Stiles felt his stomach roll at the slurping sound and the feeling of the vampire sucking at his vein as it drank his blood. His panic only grew when Darius didn’t appear as though he intended to stop, and Stiles could feel himself getting dizzy. What if he didn’t stop? What if he just kept going until Stiles was nothing more than a husk? What if this was how he would die?

To Stiles’ great relief, the vampire did eventually detach himself from his arm. The vampire took one last, long drink—right when Stiles started to notice his skin turning paler than usual—and bared his fangs so that Stiles could see his own blood drip off of the razor-sharp tips. Darius made a show of licking his lips clean, making thick, smacking noises as though he had just finished devouring a particularly sticky pastry. He even ran a finger across Stiles’ openly bleeding puncture wounds, leaving a streak behind as he brought the bloodied finger to his mouth and sucked it clean. Finally, he looked up at Stiles, eyes all-black, expression severe as he said, “The next time you show that kind of disrespect, I’ll make you drink your own blood. Do you understand?”

Stiles nodded wordlessly, mouth snapping shut subconsciously and trembling furiously.

The vampire smiled pleasantly, all seriousness gone, as though it had never been there, and he patted Stiles harshly on the cheek before standing. He turned to one of his thralls, “If he complains of being hungry or thirsty, give him more blood. I’ll return shortly.” He looked back at Stiles, giving the teen a nasty grin before turning and leaving the house through the front door.  

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%MCEPASTEBIN%

Chapter Text

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Scott stood leaning over the examination table at the veterinary clinic, fists clenched as he stared at the tabletop thoughtfully. They had called Deaton and summarized what was going on, and Deaton had insisted that they call Lydia down as well to discuss it. Scott had also called Allison. It hadn’t been ideal, since he had been trying to avoid thinking about her for the summer, but from what Peter had said about vampires, he figured they could use all the help they could get. She seemed willing enough to help, and even Derek did not object to her presence, which was both relieving and at the same time unsettling. Scott doubted Derek would have been even remotely willing to work with Allison unless her help was desperately needed, and the fact that he was tolerating her showed just how much trouble they were in.

What was further unsettling was the fact that Deaton had actually permitted Peter to come into the back of the clinic. Deaton had made it very clear to Scott in the past that, under no condition, was Peter ever allowed past the front counter, and yet there he was, standing off in a corner, listening and watching in the decidedly unnerving way that only Peter could do. The worst thing about having Peter around was that Scott was never really sure what Peter was thinking at any given moment. It didn’t really help Peter gain anyone’s trust (as he had frequently insisted that he was trying to do and that he no longer meant any of them any harm), and Scott, although normally more forgiving, questioned Peter’s sincerity. He wanted to believe that Peter really was there to help, and Stiles had given him hell about it. Stiles was convinced that Peter was just biding his time, waiting for one of them to mess up or for the opportunity to arise to turn on them. Scott wasn’t sure. He was conflicted by his dislike of the ex-Alpha, but also by his own natural inclination to give the benefit of the doubt.

Still, it seemed that, given the situation, most everyone was putting their personal issues with one another aside. Not only was Derek tolerating Allison, but Lydia was tolerating Peter, too. She had almost looked like she was ready to turn around and bolt as soon as she saw him, but, true to her nature, Lydia had shook herself off, held her head high, and walked in with full composure, barely giving the ex-Alpha the time of day. Scott didn’t know Lydia as intimately as Allison or Stiles, but he respected her. Much like Stiles, she showed an impressive amount of bravery in the face of creatures that could tear her to shreds if they felt like it. He wasn’t surprised that Stiles was so infatuated with her. Since walking into the clinic, she had been all business, eager to offer her input and quick to volunteer help however possible in order to get Stiles back safely. She was also one of the few of the group that was quick to shut down bad ideas, a job usually taken up by Stiles, but she was a good substitute in his absence.

Even with all of them putting their heads together and working overtime to formulate some sort of plan, there seemed to be a great deal of hesitance, mostly because no one—not even Deaton—really knew what to expect when facing a vampire. That caused a great deal of distress from the whole group. It was daunting, having to prepare for something that they lacked any knowledge about and felt more like they were planning a leap into some dark, unfamiliar cave. Deaton appeared to know the most about them, but his knowledge seemed limited to what he had heard or read, rather than anything he had actually seen or done, and even then, he appeared to distrust his own knowledge. He concurred with Peter’s assertions that many of the methods previously thought to harm vampires were actually useless (perhaps even made up by vampires themselves just to throw off hunters and the like), but any other information about them he was uncertain about. In fact, the more the night went on, the more Scott began to suspect that Peter actually was more knowledgeable on the subject of vampires than any of them, although he continued to insist that Deaton would know best.

As Scott listened to the discussions and arguments bouncing back and forth between the hurried and frustrated group, he wondered what Stiles would do if he were there. Stiles always had a plan… well, Scott did, too, but they were usually poorly conceived and required a great deal of luck. Scott couldn’t count on luck for forever, though, and especially not with Stiles’ life on the line. When Scott’s thoughts finally drifted back to the discussion at hand, it seemed to have moved along a bit to actual preparations.

“Where did the coordinates lead?” Derek asked.

“My GPS gave a house address,” Allison said, “But as far as I can tell, if it is a house, it’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“An abandoned house would be ideal for a vampire,” Deaton said. “It would allow it to isolate its victims and dispose of their bodies easily. It would also be an ideal location to set up a trap.”

“Was there any doubt that it wasn’t a trap?” Lydia asked. “From what you’re describing, Derek, that thrall practically said as much.”

“The question isn’t whether or not this is a trap. I think we can all agree that it is. The question is how to prepare for it,” Deaton said.

“How? I’ve never fought a vampire before, and I don’t think anyone else here has, either,” Allison said.

“Learning its weaknesses would be a good start,” Lydia prompted, looking impatient. “I think we’ve all heard enough about what won’t kill it.”

“I only know of two ways that are certain to kill a vampire, and I’m afraid one is out of the question,” Deaton said.

“How come?” Scott asked.

“It’s sunlight.”

“What’s the other option?” Derek asked.

Deaton frowned. “The last option is… much trickier. It requires staking the vampire through the heart, decapitating it, and then burning it. And it all has to be done in the space of a few minutes, or it will recover.”

Scott brow twitched upward in incredulously. “Recover… from decapitation?”

Deaton nodded. “What you’re dealing with here is on a whole different playing field, Scott. Vampires are very powerful. They’re regenerative capabilities keep them young and help them regrow whole limbs and, from what I’ve heard, some of them can even perform spells. I’ve gone over all of the information I have on them. There aren’t many methods of killing one.”

“Can’t we negotiate with it?” Scott asked, “If it wants blood, couldn’t we just give it enough to satisfy it?”

Peter scoffed, causing everyone’s head to turn and look at him. “It’s a vampire, Scott. It’s not interested in negotiation.”

“As much as I hate to be on the same page with Peter, he is right, Scott,” Deaton said, “You can’t think of this creature like a person. It’s not going to be reasonable, it’s not going to be merciful, and it’s not going to be satisfied until it gets what it actually wants out of this.”

“What does it actually want?” Allison asked. "What would it want with the three of you, anyway?"

Deaton shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. It could be some sort of ritual. Three is a powerful number and its very significant in the supernatural world, but I can't think of any spell or ritual that would be of use to a vampire. Whatever the reason, I can tell you that I’ve never heard of a vampire encounter that didn’t end with people dying.”

Scott frowned, but nodded in understanding. He didn’t like the idea of having to kill something, but he trusted Deaton, and knew that, if it came down to it, he would do it to save his best friend.

Allison snuck a glance at Scott, doing her best to hide her concern, but Scott could see it, and tried not to look back at her and make her feel uncomfortable. She was quick to look away again, addressing Deaton, “Would an arrow through the heart work? Instead of a stake?”

“Your aim would have to be impeccable. The reason a stake is most commonly used is because it ensures that the most damage to the heart when the vampire is stabbed. As I said, vampire’s regenerative capabilities are exceptional and can regenerate themselves in a matter of minutes, so unless you’ve done sufficient damage to the heart, you’re not going to slow it down enough to have even a chance of decapitating it.”

“And that’s assuming that you’re fast enough and accurate enough to stab it at all,” Peter commented as he read through one of Deaton’s books.

Deaton took the book from him, giving him a warning look, to which Peter only rolled his eyes unconcernedly before turning his attention to Allison. “It’s not going to just stand there and let you shoot it. You’re going to be trying to shoot something that can move as fast as you can blink.”

“What if we had a distraction? If we could keep it busy and still for long enough, Allison could shoot it,” Scott suggested.

“That would be a good plan, but that would require an amount of stealth that would be impossible to achieve,” Deaton replied, “A vampire’s primary sense is its hearing. Allison wouldn’t be able to hide far enough away from its range to shoot it accurately.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Lydia asked, pursing her lips edgily and tapping her manicured fingernails on the countertop.

“What about a Molotov? Burn it right off instead of trying to stake it first?” Allison asked.

“It’s useless to burn it if it’s not decapitated,” Derek replied. “The order is important. Staking it disorients it, decapitating it immobilizes it, and burning it is the finishing blow. You need all three or it won’t take.”

Peter looked at the group, amused smirk at the corner of his mouth, before suddenly shaking his head, pushing off of the wall with his hip. "Whatever you decide to do, try not to die. I'll be wishing you all the best of luck," he said, beginning to walk towards the exit.

Scott, Lydia, and Allison all looked at each other in confusion, but neither Derek nor Deaton showed any signs of surprise or confusion; like they had been expecting as much.

"You're not coming?" Allison asked angrily.

"I just came back from the dead. Do you think that was easy? I still haven't recovered fully, and wouldn't be much use. But I doubt you'll need me. I have the utmost faith in you," he said, giving them all a smile, but nothing about it was sincere. Without another word, he turned and left.

After he had gone, Scott and Allison looked to Derek.

"You're just going to let him leave?" Scott asked.

"Better that he's not involved," Deaton said gently.

"Shouldn't we be getting all the help we can get?" Allison asked. "I don't like him any more than anyone else, but if this is going to be as bad as you're saying, then wouldn't having Peter help better our odds?"

"Possibly," Deaton replied, "but you can never be sure what Peter's going to do. Trust me, it's better if he's not there."

Lydia seemed to agree with this, because she gave her a hair a little flip, as though to say good riddance to Peter before turning her attention to Deaton. "Do you have any ideas about how to handle this thing?"

Deaton was quiet, looking down at the tabletop in deep thought for a few moments before looking up at the group. “I might have an idea. It’s a risky one, and it would require a few moving parts, but it could work if all goes well.”

The group spent what remaining time they had to go over the plan and smooth out as many details as they were able, then dissipated to gather everything they would need.

Derek and Allison, both eager to get to work, set out to gather what would be needed. Allison, although voicing her frustration at having been given a smaller role than everyone else, had nonetheless accepted her part. Besides, Scott knew how she really felt. He wouldn’t tell anyone, to save her pride, but he could feel the relief coming off of her when Deaton had told her what she would be doing. For all of the bravery and strength she would portray to everyone else, Scott knew that, inside, she was terrified every time she had to pick up her bow. Scott didn’t blame her. It scared him, too.

Lydia didn’t seem too thrilled about the hastily thought-out plan, but at the same time, she also seemed almost impatient to leave, which Scott found odd at first, especially considering the fact that her heart was practically banging on his eardrums at a rapid, almost panicked rate. After wondering over her curious sense of urgency, it suddenly hit him what had her so cooperative and hurried, despite her obvious reservations concerning the situation.

She was just as worried about Stiles as he was.

---

 

Chapter Text

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As soon as the vampire had left the house, it was like a timer had started steadily ticking; counting down on Stiles’ slim window for escape.

Unfortunately for Stiles, escape was going to much more difficult than he would have liked.

The thralls had taped the arm Darius had fed on back to the armrest of his chair, and had left him in the dining room while they busied themselves with various chores. Some cleaned, but most of the six thralls were occupying themselves packing. They had begun carrying boxes down from upstairs, and were putting anything in the living room, kitchen, and dining room that was still out into more boxes. Two of the larger of the male thralls eventually broke off from the group and began lugging furniture and boxes out of the house, where Stiles assumed there was a moving van to take it all.

From his observations and short experience with the thralls, they appeared to have above-average strength and speed. The theory was further proved when Stiles watched one of the thralls carry out a couch on his shoulder by himself. That was a problem. He had suspected they were strong, but if they were that and strong, and possibly supernaturally fast, then Stiles was going to have to rely heavily on stealth to get out. If they noticed that he was missing, it would not take them long to reacquire him.

But before he could even begin strategizing on how to get out of the house without being noticed, he first had to get himself out of the chair. Struggling was a useless endeavor; all that accomplished was rubbing his wrists raw, and also bunching the duct tape up to the point that it thinned and pressed out of its flatness and into a tight, more rope-like shape, which only caused his wrists more discomfort. He quickly gave up on that, looking around for other options.

It was while watching the thralls working that a plan began forming in his brain. He noticed one thrall had distinctive, sharp lumps in its front right pocket, indicating immediately to Stiles that it was carrying a set of keys. Exactly what Stiles was looking for.

The only problem was that the thrall would not get close enough for Stiles to get the keys from it. He was a good pickpocket, but his skills were useless with his hands duct taped to the chair, and he knew trying to coax the thrall into approaching him was pointless. They didn’t pay any attention to him with the vampire not present. Which, unfortunately, left him only one option.

It took him a bit to muster up the courage to get his plan into motion, but knowing this was likely his only chance at freedom, he finally decided to go for it. Waiting until the thrall with the keys came by, he made a psst sound to draw its attention. It turned to look at him with its typical deadpan expression.

“Hey, buddy, can I talk to you for a second?”

The thrall stared at him.

Stiles blinked awkwardly, “I… guess that’s a yes? Cool, okay look, your boss needs me for something, right? So he would be pissed if I died, wouldn’t he?”

The thrall still gave no response.

Stiles huffed at it in frustration, but continued on, “Look, do you know what happens to normal humans when they lose too much blood and get dehydrated? Yeah, they die. And dude, I’ve lost a lot of blood and I haven’t had anything to drink for hours, so if you could-”

It turned away from him, like he had said nothing, walking off into the kitchen.

“H-hey! Hey!” Stiles called after it, “I wasn’t done-” He stopped and paled when the thrall returned with a cup and a knife.

“Oh, whoa. Hey, wait,” Stiles said, raising his hands as high as he could in a placating manner. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

The thrall ignored him, grabbing his injured wrist and slashing the blade across the puncture wounds, which had just begun to congeal, and let the blood begin pouring again. Stiles gasped in surprise at the fresh sting of pain, but didn’t fight as the thrall placed the cup beneath the armrest, allowing the blood to drip into it. In fact, Stiles made a point to clench his fist and then loosen it again, hiding the gesture under the pretense of struggling, so that he could get the blood flowing. He was keen to get this part of his plan over with as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, it took a while for the cup to fill up to a point that the thrall was satisfied with, but when he had finally filled it up to just below halfway, right at the time that his blood stopped flowing as freely and consistently, the thrall pulled the cup away and placed its free hand firmly on Stiles’ forehead, pushing his head back until it rested on the chair.

Stiles made quite a show of pretending to fight, although a large percent of it was due to the fact that he was actually struggling. For all of his planning and knowing that this was his only option, his body was not on board with his scheme. Still, it made it look more convincing and it didn’t take but two thralls to get his mouth open and force him to drink the contents of the cup. He was once again assaulted with the taste and smell of copper and just knowing that he was being forced to drink his own blood was enough to get him to heave. The thralls let him go as soon as the few gulps of blood were in his mouth, and he immediately spun to the side and spat it out, coughing and throwing up what little he had been forced to actually swallow. The thralls, completely unconcerned with his state, left him to return to their work, and that was fine with Stiles, because he had gotten what he wanted.

Once he had collected himself, he sunk into the chair tiredly, breathing heavily, but triumphantly as he clenched the keys in his fist. He waited until he was sure he was not being watched before setting to work, positioning the key between the armrest, his wrist, and the duct tape before dragging it back and forth.

He paused only when a thrall would pass him, quickly wiping the strained look off of his face and replacing it with a tired one, which wasn’t that difficult to do. He was exhausted, hungry, and felt weaker than he ever had in his life, but he knew freedom was not too far-fetched, and kept working every chance he got.

It was tiring work and required a lot of pausing for thralls passing by or the tearing of the tape sounding slightly too noisy. It took almost fifteen minutes to get the first ring of tape loose, and when it did, the thralls were thankfully busy noisily wrapping up kitchenware into newspapers. When they weren’t looking, Stiles switched the keys to his other hand, replacing his now free hand back to the armrest of the chair to ensure that no one noticed that it was free. The other hand set to work cutting the last restraint.

All in all, just getting out of the chair took thirty minutes, and Stiles was beginning to get anxious. He wasn’t sure how long it would take Darius to do… whatever it was Darius was doing, and he could feel his window of opportunity rapidly closing.

Luckily, when the last restraint was cut, the thralls had finished wrapping up the kitchenware, packed it into boxes, and were setting to work taking them out of the house. Knowing he couldn’t risk moving while they were still working in the kitchen, which was just behind where he was sitting, he waited until they had moved off to work in other rooms before, finally, he made his move.

As the thralls migrated to the living room, Stiles simply stood up, walked carefully to the front of the house and slipped out the front door.

He could hardly believe that he had been able to leave the house, and had to stifle the urge whoop in self-congratulations. Besides, he wasn’t out of trouble yet. He still had to get back to the road and try to make his way to a town or convenience store to call for help.

The house was in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but forests and a single road, as far as Stiles could tell. He wanted to avoid the road as best as he could, while still keeping it in sight to ensure he was moving in the right direction. He had no idea where Darius had decided to go, and he couldn’t risk the possibility that Darius was driving that road. So he hurried across the front yard of the and into the lining of trees, keeping a distance between himself and the road, but staying close enough to be able to keep an eye on it.

He stumbled along in the dark, cursing and grumbling to himself about the situation. Why him? Why always him? Lately it felt like he was a villain magnet. It wasn’t a surprise when Scott ran into the villains. Scott was a werewolf, after all. That was to be expected. But why were the villains bothering with him? He was a human. A skinny, pale, fragile human being who wouldn’t stand a chance against any of these bad guys. He hadn’t even stood a chance against Allison’s hundred-year-old grandfather. But then again, he had to have had, what, fifty years of werewolf-hunting experience under his belt? Regardless, it wasn’t fair that Stiles somehow always ended up involved.

Of course, then again, it wasn’t as though Stiles could tell himself that he stayed out of everything. He was intimately involved in anything to do with Scott, and always made sure that his best friend made it out of whatever bad situation he found himself in, but, really, was Stiles that big of a problem that all of the bad guys had to bother with him?

Stiles glanced off as two lights peeked through the trees and he ducked down as the car passed, watching it alertly and waiting for the red of the taillights to vanish.

But they didn’t.

The car had stopped.

Stiles’ eyes got wide, heart hammering in his chest. Realizing how loud his own heartbeat was to himself, he knew that if whoever had stopped ended up being Darius, then the vampire was definitely hearing it.

He hesitated, staring at the red lights uncertainly. It could be nothing. Someone could have gotten a flat tire, in which case he could get help, but if it was Darius… well, he wasn’t sure what to do if it was Darius. Running didn’t seem terribly viable. Although his knowledge on real vampires was limited, he knew that vampires were hunters, just like werewolves, and if he couldn’t outrun a werewolf, he wasn’t going to be able to outrun a vampire, either.

His mind working through the problem in the matter of seconds, he decided that the possibility of it being Darius was too big to ignore, and turned, very carefully and as quietly as he could, to walk in the opposite direction of the lights. He moved slowly, taking each step with caution so as to make as little noise as possible, wincing and gritting his teeth when he stepped on a stick or a particularly crunchy patch of dirt.

He crept for a long while, heart thudding against his eardrums, every sound heightened to an insufferable degree. He could even hear his breathing. He tried his best to ignore his own paranoia, licking his lips as he watched the forest floor, stepping purposefully on stones or roots to make the least noise. He was getting impatient with his snail-slow pace, but he knew that if he rushed, he would make noise, and if he made noise, and the car that had pulled over was Darius’, then he was screwed.

Apparently being screwed was inevitable, because Stiles suddenly stopped in his tracks, frozen, as he glanced up to the tree just a few feet ahead of him. Darius leaned against it casually, arms folded across his chest, watching Stiles with an amused expression.

“That stone there looks quiet,” Darius said, gesturing to a large, flat stone with his elbow and a nod of his head.

Stiles glanced at it, then up at Darius again, body paralyzed, as though any movement might prompt the vampire to lunge at him. His mouth, however, was perfectly fine, if lacking any control. “Dude, there are no awards for creeping.”

“I’m a vampire, Stiles. Creeping is a requirement,” Darius said, pushing off of the tree with his shoulder and standing up straight. He looked Stiles over contemplatively. “Now, what to do about this?”

Stiles opened his mouth to give an excuse for his escape, but suddenly the vampire was only a foot away from him, snatching up his uninjured wrist and holding it palm up to access his vein.

Stiles stumbled forward with a gasp. “Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit…” he rambled, anxiously staring between the vampire’s now protruded fangs and his own wrist.

The vampire tugged him closer, leaning in so that he could speak almost directly into Stiles’ ear. “I’ve bitten you twice now. Do you know what happens if I bite you three times?”

“You’ll get tired of the taste of me and let me go?” Stiles asked, voice trembling.

“No, Stiles. If I bite you three times,” he said, raising Stiles’ wrist up a little more, twisting it in the process, “it will enthrall you.”

“O-o-o-h-hh, man…” Stiles shuddered, licking his suddenly dry lips and subconsciously pulling at his limb uselessly.

The vampire chuckled at him. “Relax. I’m not going to enthrall you… where’s the fun in that?”

Stiles scrunched his face angrily, but with the vampire still holding his wrist twisted at an uncomfortable angle, he didn’t want to risk any more sarcastic remarks.

Darius smirked at him, releasing his hand. Without saying a word, he began walking off towards the parked car, and Stiles begrudgingly followed, knowing that he had no choice in the matter. He got into the passenger’s side of the car, slumping into the chair and folding his arms over his chest, not bothering to buckle.

Darius glanced at him, smirked, and then turned the car on and started driving.

“How did you know I was there?” Stiles asked after only a short thirty seconds of silence. Despite his desire to punish the vampire for thwarting his escape attempt with the silent treatment, he couldn’t keep his curiosity from asking questions.

“My thralls told me.”

"How did they know?”

“Oh, come on, Stiles. Do you really think I would leave and not ensure they kept a close eye on you? You’re much too clever to be left to your own devices for too long.”

“So they were watching me… the whole time?”

“Ever since I left,” Darius replied, then added before Stiles could ask, “Yes, they saw you escaping, but I told them not them to interfere. You were working so hard, I didn’t want to spoil it for you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the fake, sympathetic tone. “Why?” he demanded, tone stronger than even he was anticipating.

Darius grinned, all fang. “Entertainment.”

Stiles swallowed. He had known the whole time that he was in big trouble, but with every extra second he spent in the company of the vampire, the more it sunk in that Darius was not only dangerous, but he was also insane.

“I must say, Stiles… if I hadn’t already planned for your intelligence, I would have lost you tonight. You continue to impress me.”

“Hey, you know, my pleasure,” Stiles said, waving a hand sarcastically, “I’m an impressive guy.”

“Ooh, cocky, too… and very stupid,” the vampire said, its tone devoid of all of its previous creepy joviality.

Stiles groaned in annoyance. “Ugh, you know what? Fuck you. I’m so done with all of your bipolar crap. I’m done with all of this. What do you want?”

Darius’ grinned at him widely. “Does it bother you that you haven’t figured it out, yet?” he asked, then added with a mockingly sympathetic expression, “Does that hurt your delicate sense of pride?”       

“No, it hurts my body, because every minute I spend playing “games” with you, the more bodily harm I seem to get,” Stiles said, showing the vampire his bitten, slashed, chafed, and bruised wrists. “Seriously, I’m going to have to either wear nothing but long sleeves for the next couple of months or start wearing eyeliner and convince my dad I’m going emo.”

Darius laughed. “I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be patient. I want it to be as much a surprise to you as it will be to your friends. Makes it more entertaining that way.”

“Wow, you’re really bored, aren’t you?” Stiles asked dryly.

“Indeed… but at least my boredom didn’t get my dearest, most beloved friend bitten by a homicidal werewolf.”

“Oh my god, you’re an asshole. Look, I don’t care howbored you are, but you could at least find ways to entertain yourself that don’t cause me bodily harm or general torment. How about a few more rounds of that game we were playing earlier? The twenty questions thing.”

“Why? I got all of the answers I wanted. Why not a thrilling game of slug-bug, instead? Or license plates.”

Stiles gave him a dry look.

“We could sing a driving song, if it would suit you better.”

Stiles continued to glare at him in irritation.

Darius chuckled and adjusted himself in his seat, angling his torso to face Stiles, hand on the steering while and driving without looking at the road, seeming to magically know where he was going. “You get three questions.”

Stiles nodded, wasting no time. There was no telling whether the vampire would actually stick to his word, and he wasn’t taking chances. “Why were you watching Beacon Hills for eight months? Nothing was here eight months ago. There wasn’t even a werewolf pack then.”

“You sound very sure of yourself,” Darius commented teasingly.

Stiles bobbed his head from side to side in a more-or-less way, making a face to show his impatience.

“Well, you’re right. There wasn’t a pack at the time. There were other things, though. Weaker creatures that fled when the first Hale Alpha, Laura, returned. You wouldn’t have known they were there unless you were looking for them.”

“So, what, you were watching those things?”

“Not hardly. Creatures of that level are a waste of my time. As I’ve said before, Stiles, there’s something in Beacon Hills. It drew those creatures, it prompted the Hale’s to establish themselves here several generations ago to protect it, and it will continue to draw such creatures until it is either destroyed or relocated.”

“What is it?” Stiles asked.

“Haven’t the slightest,” the vampire replied with an unconcerned wave of his hand as he pulled up in front of the house and put the car into park, “And I don’t particularly care, either.” He got out of the car, leaning down and looking in at Stiles. “Your three questions are up.”

Stiles gave him an aggravated look. “What? No, they aren’t! I asked two!”

“You asked three. Two were follow-up questions.”

“Okay, maybe I did, but you didn’t answer my first question,” Stiles argued.

“I said you could ask three questions. I didn’t say I would answer them. Now get out of the car before I drag you out.”

Stiles growled in frustration, but didn’t want to provoke the vampire, so he stepped out huffily, slamming the car door forcefully.

Darius walked around to the back of the car, popping the trunk and holding out a hand. Stiles watched in bafflement as a hand grabbed the vampire’s from inside the trunk. Darius helped the person, a girl that looked a couple years older than Stiles, out of the trunk, and she stood beside the car watching the vampire with a dully infatuated expression, like she couldn’t manage to focus on anything else. Darius reached into the trunk again and pulled yet another person out of the trunk, which was a boy that looked to be able Derek’s age. After the second, Darius pulled out a third person, another girl that that looked the same age as the boy. All three had the same almost drugged-out expression, focusing intensely on Darius, like he had hung the moon.

“Whoa, what the hell?!” Stiles asked in bewilderment as Darius closed the trunk, mouth hung open as he looked at the three young adults. “Haven’t you had enough freaking blood for one day? Seriously, the thrall wasn't enough?”

“How did you know that these weren’t thralls?” Darius asked curiously, looking once again impressed.

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe the dumb, love-struck looks on their faces?”

“It didn’t cross your mind that I might just be that charming?”

"I don’t know anyone who would find getting stuffed into a trunk with two other people charming,” Stiles said, looking between the three of them with a frown. “Why didn’t you do that to me?”

“Did you want me to?”

“Hell no,” Stiles replied curtly. “Half the stuff I ask is just to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. Humor me.”

Darius nodded in understanding. “I entrance my meals when I want simplicity and convenience. You are much more fun left with your wits about you.”

Stiles scowled. “Entertainment.”

Darius smiled. “Precisely. And you haven’t yet disappointed,” he said, leading the entranced boy and girls up to the house.

Knowing he was expected to and had no choice in the matter, Stiles followed sullenly the whole time as he was led back inside, the door shutting with a loud, dull thud behind him.

The thralls stood at the door, apparently waiting for their return. As soon as they had stepped inside, the thralls took the three entranced young adults, leading off to a back room. Darius turned to face Stiles, who stopped a few feet away from him, glaring at the vampire.

Darius gave him a feigned, sad look. “You look positively miserable. Haven’t you been having fun?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer, continuing on carelessly, “Well, you can relax. Our time together is running out. Your friends are coming to get you, and we need to get everything ready for them.”

Darius paused, putting a finger to his lips thoughtfully and looking Stiles up and down. “First things first. You’re not decent. Take your shirt off.”

Stiles blinked at him. “W-wha-um… what?”

“Shirt. Off.”

Stiles scoffed at him. “Uh… no. Nope. That’s not happening.”

“You know, I was hoping you’d say no,” Darius said with a dark grin, stepping forward.

“Whoa, whoa! Okay!” Stiles shouted, quickly ripping his jacket off and pulling his shirt up over his shoulders. It was cold in the house, and he felt exposed, but it was better than having the creeper vampire take his shirt off for him. “There. It’s off.”

“Shoes.”

Stiles glowered at him, but knelt down, untied each shoe, and slipped them off.

“Socks, too,” Darius said, and when Stiles had done that, he continued, “Good. Now the pants.”

“Come on…” Stiles moaned.

Darius raised a brow at him, daring him to disobey.

Stiles huffed, jaw tightening, and begrudgingly took off his pants, doing it slowly and hesitantly as he fought against the strong desire to just take off for the door. He knew the vampire would catch him before that, and it would probably just make Darius happier.

When he had finally stripped off his pants, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, he tried to look defiant, but he mostly just felt uncomfortable and he was quietly praying that the vampire wouldn’t ask him to take off anything else.

To his relief, Darius seemed to be done, looking Stiles over and shaking his head. “You need to get some sun.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Darius shrugged. “I don’t get much sun, unfortunately.”

“That’s a shame. You should get a lot of it. Preferably today,” Stiles grumbled.

“Don’t be so nervous,” Darius said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking and your heart’s racing.”

“Yeah, I’m freaking cold,” Stiles said, rubbing his arms with his hands. “Ever heard of a heater?”

“By the time they were invented, I didn’t need one anymore,” Darius replied.

“How old are you?”

“I’m not sure. I lost track at some point. Birthdays lose their appeal after the two-hundredth or so,” Darius said, paused, then looked at Stiles again. “Ah. It’s ready.”

“What’s ready?”

Darius didn’t reply, but looked over as four of the thralls began walking into the room, carrying an entire bathtub into the room.

Stiles watched it, hearing liquid swish inside, but unable to see the contents within. He then glanced at the thralls, all of who appeared paler than they had been. It took him a moment, but when he connected the dots, he paled.

Darius, watching his face, smiled wide when he saw realization dawn in the boy’s face.

The thralls placed the bathtub between them, and then two went over to Stiles.

Stiles froze, panicking and trying to decide what to do. His instincts told him to run, but his intellect told him otherwise. If he ran, he would make it worse, but he did not want to let this happen. When the thralls grabbed him by the arms, he instinctively started struggling.

“Calm down, Stiles. You’ll hurt yourself,” Darius taunted, holding out a hand as one of the thralls who had carried in the bathtub handed him a knife.

“Whoa, come on, there has to be some other way for you to entertain yourself besides hurting me,” Stiles said hastily, licking his bottom lip nervously as his eyes flicked from the vampire’s to the knife he was holding.

“This isn’t for entertainment, although I can’t help it if I find enjoyment in it. This is necessary to prepare for your friends. Now hold still.”

Stiles hissed and squeezed his eyes shut as Darius cut into his upper arm until he got Stiles’ blood to flow and drip down onto the floor. The vampire then moved on to Stiles’ other arm, this time getting pained gasps and yanks on the arms holding Stiles still as he tried to wrestle free. After this was done, he reopened the wound on Stiles’ wrist, getting the blood flowing again before doing the same to the other wrist. Darius then cut into Stiles’ thighs, and lastly made a long, slow cut on the side of Stiles’ neck, threatening to cut through the jugular, but just missing it.

By the time he was finished, Stiles had very nearly bitten through his bottom lip to keep from making any noises, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Darius took no notice, taking a step back to look over his work. Satisfied, he nodded for the thralls to bring the boy towards the tub.

“Wait… wait, wait, hold on,” Stiles said through grit teeth, digging his heels in to try and stop the thralls from dragging him forward, but none of his efforts were proving useful, as they continued pulling him closer and closer to the tub, causing his wounds to bleed even more. “Come on, stop. Hang on a second,” he protested, flinging his body this way and that as he tried to free himself from the grips of the two thralls. His eyes widened as they brought him closer to the red liquid, the smell so strong that he gagged. What was worse was that he knew it was fresh. He knew who it had come from. Or, at least some of it… but three people wasn’t enough to fill a tub this much.

The two other thralls who had brought the tub in walked around, grabbing Stiles’ flailing legs at the ankles and lifting him off of his feet. Between the four of them, they brought him over so that he was being held just above the surface of the pool of blood.

“No, no, wait! Okay, just wait! Stop!” Stiles shouted, writhing in their grips. He couldn’t let this happen. If he survived this whole ordeal, he could die shortly after from any diseases he might get from the foreign blood entering his body through his cuts.

Despite his protests, Darius wasn’t listening. He just watched quietly, a smirk at the corner of his lips as the thralls began lowering him down, all of his frantic struggling amounting to nothing as they laid his body onto the warm. It wasn’t as thick as he was expecting, which told Stiles they must have added water to it, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying. The blood rushed up to meet him, spreading over his arms, legs, and chest still too thickly, clinging to his skin in a constricting grip. But they didn’t stop there. They kept pushing him down until his shoulders were covered, then his neck…

He shut his eyes and held his breath as he was forced all the way under, the blood enveloping his head and making him disappear entirely in the pool of red.

---

 

Chapter Text

---

The drive was agonizingly long and painfully quiet, everyone’s minds occupied with reviewing the plan and what they were about to attempt to do. Usually when they were facing some threat, they didn’t have a lot of chances to reflect on what they were doing; there was almost always a sense of urgency that didn’t allow for thought. But the drive left Scott with nothing to do but think. He thought about what was happening to Stiles and if he was alright, he thought and worried over the plan and whether or not it would work, and, more importantly, he thought about the vampire. He couldn’t figure out why, but for some reason, he was more anxious about this fight than he had been about the others. He was always nervous when going into a fight, but this one felt different. Maybe it was just because this time Stiles wasn’t helping with the planning. Whatever the case, Scott couldn’t shake the feeling of doom hanging over his head.

He guessed his worry must have been showing on his face, because he was aware of Allison watching him, her hand twitching, like she wanted to reach out and comfort him, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. He didn’t push her. As much as it pained him not to be able to talk to her and see her and be with her anymore, he understood. She had been through enough without the complication of having a werewolf boyfriend.

The tension in the vehicle intensified as they drove up the long, winding driveway that led up to a lone, old cabin surrounded by trees, a moving van parked in the front, alongside a black car with heavily tinted windows.

“What do you think that’s for?” Scott asked.

“It might be planning to relocate once it’s gotten what it wants,” Deaton said.

“Once it kills us?” Allison asked.

“Right.”

“I guess it’s not going to be going anywhere, then,” Derek said, putting his Camaro into park and stepping out of the car, stretching his shoulders with a determined look on his face.

Derek’s confidence boosted Scott’s a bit, and after taking a moment to take a breath and get himself mentally ready, he got out as well with everyone else.

As soon as he had stepped outside, his sense of smell was assaulted so suddenly and alarmingly, that he very nearly changed and went charging into the over-sized cabin. The only thing that stopped him was Derek placing a strong hand across his chest, although the Alpha’s eyes were fixed on the cabin.

“I smell it, too,” Derek confirmed.

“Smell what?” Lydia asked.

“Blood. Lots of it,” Derek replied, then paused for a second, glancing at Scott. “Stiles’ blood, too.”

Allison paled, putting a hand over her mouth in worry.

Lydia’s fists clenched and it looked like she was putting a great deal of effort into hiding just how much that worried her, but Scott could tell. Her heartbeat gave her away.

“What do we do?” Allison asked.

“Stick to the plan,” Deaton answered, grabbing a bag from the trunk and slinging it over his shoulder. “Allison, be ready.”

Allison nodded, going over to the trunk and setting to work. The other four turned to the cabin and walked up to the front. As they approached, the stench of blood grew stronger, and although Scott could distinguish well over a dozen different scents, all he could focus on was Stiles’, focusing in on it like a lifeline to his best friend.

Derek walked up to the door, glanced back at the group to confirm that everyone was ready and, at Scott’s nod, opened the door.

If the smell had been unpleasant from the outside, the sight and stench of it as they walked through the threshold was overwhelming. Scott’s mouth fell open, and the eyes of the entire group got wide, horrified at what they were seeing.

Blood was everywhere. Streaks of it ran through each room and up the stairs at the far end of the living room like the floor had been sloppily mopped with it, the walls had hand prints and streaks along them, crossing over the boarded windows and any paintings that were in the way, there was even blood spattered on the ceiling, occasionally drip, dripping down onto the floor. Six men and women stood against the walls, apparently unconcerned with the gruesome scene around them, faces dull and expressionless.

The group was paralyzed where they stood, barely able to fathom what they were seeing. Scott and Derek could both smell Stiles’ blood mixed in with all of the other scents that caked the floor and the walls and the ceiling, which sent Scott into a near frenzy. There was too much of his blood. And what was worse was that it prevented Scott from being able to get a grasp on where Stiles actually was in the house.

As they gawked at the sight, movement drew their attention away from the horrendous view as a tall, dark-haired man stepped into the living room through one of the back rooms, casually walking through with a wine glass in his hand, swirling the red liquid inside. The smell of him as he walked in left Scott extremely confused, because instead of smelling one scent, he smelled dozens. All over him. Like he didn’t have a smell of his own, but the strange scent of the man was not what brought out Scott’s fangs and claws. It was what he smelled in the man’s glass: Stiles’ blood.

Derek’s eyes flashed red and he held a hand out to keep Scott back, eyeing the man with such fury that it looked as though he might pounce himself.

The vampire swirled the liquid in his glass, took a sip, then looked up and gave them a wide, charming smile. “About time. How was the trip?” he asked casually.

Derek let out a low growl, also having figured out what was in the glass, and having to work hard to restrain himself from attacking.

The vampire looked up, brow raised as though confused, before suddenly glancing down at his glass. He paused, then gave a laugh as though he were embarrassed. “Oh, dear! How rude of me. Can I offer any of you a glass?” he asked, holding up the glass as though to offer it to them.

Scott released a feral growl, fully changing and getting into a low attack-stance. “Where is he?” he demanded.

The vampire did a little smirk before gesturing all around.

“Where. Is. He,” Lydia demanded, and although her voice shook some, she sounded strong and she stared the vampire down with a fiery look that dared it to threaten her.

The vampire’s eyes fell on her sharply, flashing all-black, but the grin that crossed his face expressed a disturbingly enthusiastic pleasure at seeing her. “Lydia Martin. Beautiful as ever. And look at that. Your hair is strawberry blonde. I owe Stiles an apology…”

“Where is Stiles?!” Scott snarled threateningly, baring his teeth.

“In the house. I presume he’s still alive, although I haven’t checked on him in a while. He has lost a great deal of blood. All for you, by the way. So that I could properly decorate for you, and none of you have said a thing about it. That’s not very polite.”

“It’s not very polite to not introduce yourself, either,” Deaton said.

The vampire nodded. “Quite right. I’m Darius Clarke. I already know all of you.”

“Alright, Darius. What do you want?”

“Was my thrall’s message not enough? And by the way, Derek, didn’t you ever hear the saying about not killing the messenger?” Darius asked, looking hurt as he continued, “I quite liked that thrall. She was the best looking of my females.”

“You want her back? I could probably get a couple handfuls of her ashes,” Derek said through a tight jaw.

“Very thoughtful of you, but that won’t be necessary. I can always get more like her. Maybe even one better,” he said, eyes flicking to Lydia.

“We’re not here to play games with you,” Deaton said.

“Oh, you’re not? That’s a shame. The game I had in mind could prove very beneficial for you. And Stiles, too. But if you’re not interested, then I suppose you’d best make your preparations. I’m sure Allison is anxious to get to her part,” Darius said, finishing off the contents of his glass.

The group looked at each other, alarmed that Darius was apparently already aware of what they were planning to do. Or at least that Allison was waiting for their cue.

“What game?” Lydia asked suddenly.

He grinned. “Getting interested, are we?”

Scott touched her, asking her with his eyes what she was doing, and she looked back at him, urging him to wait. Scott didn’t like the idea of listening to anything the vampire had to say, but he also had a great deal of faith in Lydia’s opinion, and so decided to let her continue. Derek and Deaton seemed to agree with it, because neither stopped her as she addressed the vampire.

“We’ll hear what you have in mind,” she replied, rolling her shoulders back and looking at him haughtily, like he was beneath her. It gave the rest of them a bit more confidence.

“Good. I think you’ll like it. It’s a simple game. All you have to do is get to Stiles before I can bite the three of you. Do that, and I’ll not only let all of you live, but I’ll also leave Beacon Hills forever. If you don’t get to him before that, then I’ll do what I would have done with you, anyway. You’ll all die. Simple, isn’t it? Like a game of hide-and-seek with a twist of tag.”

“What are the rules?” Lydia asked.

Darius brought a finger to his lips, pondering the question for a moment. “I can only bite the three of you. The other two will be off-limits to me. And you must touch Stiles flesh to flesh in order for it to count as a tag. Anything else is fair game.”

“How do we know that you’ll keep your promise if we win?” Derek asked.

Darius frowned at the Alpha. “You don’t trust me?”

“None of us do,” Scott said.

“I’m hurt,” he said, putting a hand over his heart. “But I understand your hesitance. As luck would have it, I prepared for such a situation. It just so happens that I know a spell that will ensure that, should I lose, I keep my word. And since I’m in such a generous mood, I would even consent to Deaton doing the spell, if that would make you more comfortable.”

Scott looked at Deaton for confirmation, who nodded.

“He’s telling the truth,” Deaton said. “I know the spell he’s talking about.”

“Excellent. Then, if all of you agree to play my game, I will make a promise to keep my word, and Deaton here will ensure that I do. Fair?”

The four looked at each other uncertainly and then huddled a little closer, talking in low tones to speak with each other more privately.

“This is a horrible idea,” Derek said.

“We have a better chance this way,” Lydia said.

“He wouldn’t have offered to play this game if he didn’t think he would win it,” Derek insisted, glaring daggers at the vampire across the room.

“True,” Darius agreed.

Scott growled at the vampire, who didn’t seem to care that he was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Our chances of winning this game are a lot better than our chances of actually fighting it,” Lydia argued.

“I would hurry, if I were you,” Darius said casually, putting his glass down on the floor. “Stiles doesn’t have time for you to be indecisive.”

Scott frowned at the vampire’s words. His friend was in the house somewhere, maybe dying, and they were standing down here arguing about how to save him again. “Let’s play the game,” Scott said determinedly. “We can win it. As long as you, Deaton, and Lydia can keep away from him long enough for me to get to Stiles, we can win.”

“He said he wouldn’t bite you,” Deaton said, “he didn’t say that he wouldn’t attack you.”

“Doesn’t matter. We need to do this now. Stiles doesn’t have time for this,” Scott said.

Derek let out a disgruntled huff, but didn’t argue further.

“Then you’ll play?” Darius asked.

Scott looked at each of them for confirmation before turning back to the vampire, nodding gravely. “We’ll play.”

Darius beamed. “Lovely. Now Deaton, if you would the spell out of the way, we can get on with the game.”

Deaton nodded, reaching into his bag and pulling out a small knife. Darius walked up to the veterinarian, holding out his hand palm-up.

Scott, Derek, and Lydia all watched, keeping a close eye on the vampire to ensure he would not make any moves against Deaton, but Darius remained unmoving, watching Deaton with a small smile as the veterinarian began carving strange symbols into the vampire’s palm. Scott swallowed as, with each slice, the cut immediately healed, vanishing without a trace.

Deaton either didn’t care or didn’t notice that his work was disappearing, face concentrated on what he was doing. The vampire, too, didn’t even flinch as the knife dug into his skin, his eyes, which had at some point changed to a vibrant blue, were locked on Deaton, watching the veterinarian intently.

When Deaton was done, he put the knife back into his bag.

“Satisfied?” Darius asked him.

Deaton nodded.

“Well, then,” Darius said, stepping back to the other side of the room before turning to face them again, eyes going all-black and fangs protruding into long, thin points. “Let’s play.”

---

 

Allison wrung her hands together anxious, leaning against the Camaro and listening intensely to the silence. She had, at first, been secretly relieved that she would not have to join the others against the vampire immediately. She thought that it would give her time to center herself; to gather up the courage that had lately been slipping out of her reach. But she couldn’t focus on that. All she could think about was that she didn’t know what was going on in that house. For all she knew, the vampire had already slaughtered them all before they had had a chance to give her the signal. She shuddered at the thought, readjusting her crossbow over her shoulder subconsciously, reassuring herself that it was there.

She hated the waiting. She knew all too well how much could go wrong in a short amount of time. As she worried, she wondered how much longer they could keep this up before someone else died. Her mother had died because of this lifestyle, and she had had years of experience in it. What made them think that they could do it better?

She was broken from her thoughts when a rumbling roar broke the silence. She sprang into action. She had already set up the speakers and recorder on the ground, pressing the button on the recorder, which was connected to the speakers. She couldn’t hear anything, but she could see on the recorder that it was playing the note. Taking a deep breath, she then put an arrow in her bow, raising it up and walking towards the house to help in the fight. She didn’t even get two feet before three people walked around the sides of the house, blocking her path. She paused, raising the crossbow and pointing it at the nearest. All three had vacant expressions, and Allison immediately guessed that these were the thralls Derek had warned them about. All three had long knives.

Not waiting for them to attack first, she let the arrow fly, and it would have shot true had the thrall she was aiming for not twisted out of its way with alarming speed, racing towards her now with its knife extended. The other two followed suit, all three on her faster than she had anticipated. She reacted quickly, slinging her bow over her shoulder and pulling out her own knives, catching the thrall’s from beneath before it could bring it down over her chest. She steeled herself, mind and body, right then, and lashed out.

It dodged her attack by inhumanly bending its back and for a moment Allison thought that it had broken it, but the thrall lifted itself back up and swung its own knife out in a wide curve. Allison jumped back, then glanced over to her left as one of the other thralls approached her, its blade pointed out to thrust at her midsection. The third, however, was making its way to speakers. Allison blocked the thrust of the second thrall, deflecting it with her own blade, and then spun around to stop the third thrall from turning off the speakers. If it shut them off, then they would lose their only advantage over the vampire, and she couldn’t let that happen.

She rushed at the third thrall, jumping in mid-air and raising her knife over her head to plunge it down into its back, but the thrall whirled around unexpectedly, delivering a punch to her side that knocked her out of the air and had her sprawling over the grass. She rolled into it, catching herself fairly quick and going in for a second round. The three thralls advanced on her altogether this time, an intimidating sight, but Allison was past the point of no return. Her eyes narrowed and swung her blade.

---

 

The first thing to happen was Derek’s Alpha roar, signaling Allison outside. Seconds later, there was a sharp, high-pitched note piercing the air. Derek and Scott both threw their hands over their ears, gritting their teeth against the noise.

The vampire’s mouth and eyes got impossibly wide as he screeched, hands gripping his own ears and throwing himself this way and that. He collided with the wall, and then began crawling over it, shrieking in pain and shaking his head to clear it of the noise.

Scott and Derek put their earplugs in their ears from their pockets, and although it didn’t block out the noise completely, it was enough to allow them to move around once more. Scott glanced up as three of the thralls left their posts and made their way to the back of the house. The three other thralls had not moved from their positions against the walls.

From the corner of Scott’s eye, he saw movement. He knew it was Deaton only because he knew what was coming next. If it hadn’t been for the ear-splitting whistle, the ear plugs, and the vampire’s screeching, Scott would have heard the small, glass vial Deaton had thrown shatter against the ceiling, where the vampire was still writhing and shrieking, sending pieces of glass covered in kanima venom flying in every direction.

Scott didn’t wait to see if it had worked. He had his part to play, and immediately set out towards the back of the house, keeping a close watch on the writhing vampire, which was moving about the floor, walls, and ceiling and screeching at the top of its lungs. He caught a glimpse out of his peripheral vision of a mass moving across the wall erratically. Scott knew what that meant: the venom either hadn’t worked, or the vampire had somehow managed to avoid it, which meant that everyone else was going to have to be wary of that area now.

Derek appeared to have noticed the same thing because he let out a roar and launched himself at the vampire as soon as it had crawled low enough on the wall and out of the venom-covered area. Despite the darkness that had blinded them all, the ear-piercing whistle that was deafening, and the smell that saturated the air, the vampire seemed to somehow know that Derek was coming at it. Without any cues or any way of really knowing what Derek was up to, because as soon as Derek was almost upon it, the vampire whirled, latching onto Derek’s throat and releasing a blood-curdling screech as it bared its fangs at the alpha.

Derek roared back, slashing his claws across the vampire’s face, which only angered it and made it toss the werewolf clear across the room and into the wall behind him with a heavy thud.

Following an unspoken cue, the three remaining thralls in the room suddenly seemed to come to life, turning their attention to Deaton and Lydia, who had remained watchfully hidden in the corner. Deaton stood in front of Lydia protectively, watching Derek and the vampire fight while also keeping an eye on the thralls. At their movement, Deaton steeled himself, getting into a defensive position and focusing his attention on the approaching thralls. He pushed Lydia a little farther behind himself with one of his arms, simultaneously shielding her with a sidestep of his body.

The thralls were unimpressed with Deaton’s intimidating stance, approaching with the same intensity as before. As soon as the first neared, it seemed to have acquired a knife from somewhere behind it, likely stuck in its belt at its back, and, holding it with the blade facing outward, swung a slicing punch. Deaton bent backward, avoiding the blade, then reached out, snatching the thrall’s arm and preparing to take the knife. The thrall, however, seemed to anticipate it, because as soon as Deaton had grabbed its arm, it flung its arm backward, sending yanking Deaton forward and towards the other two thralls. Both of them jumped him as soon as he got in reach, and it took a great deal of maneuvering on Deaton’s part to keep out of their grasps. He knew that if any of them got a hold of him, he would be hard-pressed to get himself free again. Now surrounded by the three thralls, he did his best to occupy their attention and keep their focus off of Lydia, dodging and ducking while attacking any that attempted to turn away and go after the strawberry-blonde.

“Lydia, get to Allison!” Deaton called to her as he finally got a good grip one of the thrall’s arm, slamming it down into his own knee and knocking the knife from the thrall’s hand. Deaton immediately snatched it and began lashing out the three thralls once more in earnest, none of whom seemed the least bit concerned that the druid was now carrying a weapon.

Lydia, knowing that she was pretty much useless in an actual fight, did not argue and began making her way towards the door, sliding along the wall and watching the fights to ensure that she did not run into anyone.

Scott, meanwhile, had made it to the back of the house, sniffing around and trying to catch some sort of scent as he searched the rooms, but he smelled Stiles everywhere. His blood had been mixed in with dozens of other people’s, and the whole house was practically painted with it. Scott had managed to get it all over his shoes, the bottom of his jeans, his hands, and even his arms and body when he bumped into something. By the time this was over, he didn't doubt that they would all be covered in it. The lack of senses, however, meant that he had to resort to normal searching, going through closets and cupboards in the kitchen, dining room, spare bedroom, even checking the bathroom, just in case. When he had given the first floor a thorough search, he growled in frustration and turned back towards the living room, where the staircase was located. He crept into the room, looking around at the two fights currently underway. Deaton appeared to be handling himself alright, but Derek was having a much more difficult time.

Even with the vampire needing to almost be constantly covering its ears, it was still managing to not only avoid Derek’s attacks, but also to attack back. At this point, it almost seemed to be toying with the Alpha, encircling him at such speeds that each swipe of Derek’s clawed hand slashed at nothing but air. The vampire would show up suddenly behind him and knock him forward, disappearing again when Derek would turn around to attack.

Scott nearly rushed in to aid him, when Lydia suddenly called out from the other side of the room. “No! Get to Stiles!”

Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to help Derek, but he knew Lydia was right. If he could just get to Stiles and tag him, then they would win the game, and the vampire wouldn’t have a choice but to let them all go. So, reluctantly, but determinedly, Scott started making his way towards the staircase. He knew the vampire saw him and had heard Lydia call out to him, but it paid him no attention, thoroughly engrossed in teasing Derek, much to the Alpha’s fury.

Just as Scott got to the staircase, all of the lights in the house suddenly shut off, shrouding everything in the surrounding area in a thick, black layer of darkness. Scott let out an even longer growl of frustration at the sudden loss of yet another one of his five senses. It wasn’t like he would be able to taste everything to find Stiles. He needed his eyes, ears, or smell to find him, and now he had none of those. The loss of the senses, however, did not lessen his resolve, and he began climbing the staircase by feel alone.

Suddenly the whistling stopped, filling the whole house with the sounds of fighting as Derek growled and snarled and the vampire screeched and laughed. Able now to fully remove its hands from covering its ears, the vampire cackled in almost maniacal glee and before Derek had a chance to stop it, the vampire vanished into the darkness. Derek rumbled angrily, stumbling about in the dark as he tried to relocate it, but it didn’t take long for the vampire to reveal itself.

Lydia had been unnoticed for the most part, which was extremely lucky considering how long she had been struggling to get the front door open, as it had apparently been locked. She had thought to try and get some assistance, but both Deaton and Derek were preoccupied with their own urgent problems, so she had instead thought to try a window when suddenly a pair of hands had wrapped themselves around her wrists and pulled her away from the door. The vampire pulled her close to his own body, taking in a deep breath of her scent before sinking his fangs into the crook of her neck.

Lydia’s eyes widened in horror and she let out a high-pitched scream of pain. Then suddenly her eyes glazed over and as soon as the vampire pulled away, mouth and fangs stained red with her blood, she dropped to the floor and her eyes closed.

Derek heard her drop and let out an enraged roar, arriving just as she fell and bulldozing himself into the vampire, knocking him into the locked door, which jarred violently at the impact. Derek dug his claws into the vampire’s chest, curling his fingers so that they hooked and then yanked the vampire off of the door, lifting it and tossing it across the room.

Darius caught himself on the wall like a spider, wounds vanishing instantly. He laughed wickedly, proclaiming to the room in a mocking tone, “That’s one.” He launched himself up to the ceiling, skittering along until he was right above where Deaton was still trying to fight off the thralls. In his defense, he couldn’t see, and didn’t have any werewolf super senses (like the thralls apparently did), so he was doing extremely well despite the disabilities. He had even managed to incapacitate one, if not killed it completely, but the other two were still going at him, despite being riddled in slices and cuts. Deaton wasn’t aware of the vampire angling itself above him until Derek let out a warning roar.

“Deaton!” the Alpha called as he raced to help the druid.

Deaton looked around the darkness, but didn’t think to look up. Before he had a chance to do anything, the vampire was on him, one hand clenching his neck and the other hand encasing itself over the fist that was tightly clenching the knife Deaton had acquired from one of the thralls. The vampire, in the blink of an eye, turned Deaton’s wrist over and sunk its fangs into the vein.

Just like Lydia, Deaton’s eyes glazed over and he fell limply to the floor as soon as the vampire had released him. By the time Derek arrived, he was immediately having to fend off the two thralls left behind before they could get to Deaton’s unconscious body.

“Two.”

Derek whirled around at the whisper in the dark and then suddenly something heavy was slamming into the side of his head and he dropped to the floor like a rag doll.

Scott, meanwhile, had made it up the stairs when the whistling stopped. He breathed a sigh of relief at finally being able to hear again and paused a moment, listening closely. He could hear the fights and shouts going on from downstairs, and as discomforting as they were and as badly as he wanted to just rush down the stairs and defend his pack, he put it out of his mind, focusing on listening for Stiles. He drowned out the noises from the lower level, listening and listening until, finally, he heard a faint moan and a slow, but steady heartbeat from one of the rooms at the far end of the hall. His heart leaped at the sound and he wasted no time racing down the hallway, throwing open the door where he had heard the noise.

This room was just as dark as the others, but as soon as the door had opened, he heard the heartbeat speed up ever so slightly.

“Stiles?” Scott asked.

“Mph…” came the weak, muffled reply from somewhere on the floor.

“Stiles! Thank god. Hang on,” Scott said, hurriedly walking into the room only to bump into something very solid. He fell back slightly in surprised at finding such a large obstacle in the middle of a room, shaking his head slightly in surprise and confusion. He held a hand out, letting it rest against whatever was blocking him, feeling it give just slightly, like it was not entirely solid. Then suddenly it dawned on him what was in his way: it was mountain ash. Stiles was inside a circle of mountain ash.

Scott felt panic get a tight grip on his chest. Stiles was right there, just within arm’s reach, but he couldn’t get to him. His best friend was weak, probably dying of all of the blood loss, and he couldn’t reach him. Scott growled in fury, a determination suddenly burning in his chest and without a thought to the uselessness of what he was about to do, he began pressing his hands against the barrier. His limbs shook as the invisible wall remained stubbornly solid, but Scott kept pushing, just as resolute in his determination to get in as the barrier was in keeping him out. He let out another roar as strength he didn’t know he had begun pouring into his veins, fueling his efforts and making the barrier bend slightly. The feeling surged through him and he suddenly felt such a strong, almost magnetic connection to Stiles that he thought that feeling alone would break the barrier.

Then suddenly, the feeling vanished when he felt two, sharp points dig into the skin of his neck, penetrating his jugular and drawing blood. Scott screamed in pain, the strength dissipating and feeling suddenly dizzy and weak, and the sounds of the vampire drinking him turning hazy. He could faintly hear a weakened, muffled scream from Stiles on the floor and he tried to hold on to those noises, hold on to Stiles, but he couldn’t seem to stay awake. He dropped to the floor, and the last thing he heard before being engulfed in unconsciousness was the vampire saying, “I win.”

---

 

Chapter Text

---

Stiles’ memory was fuzzy on the events following being practically water-boarded in a bathtub full of blood. Darius had left him in there for a while, draining him until Stiles’ skin was alarmingly pale and his entire body was too weak to even lift himself out of the tub when they finally decided he had drained enough. Two thralls had carried him upstairs and placed him on the floor, duct-taping his wrists behind his back, his ankles, and then wrapping the tape twice over his mouth before leaving him alone in the dark.

He had laid there for what felt like an eternity, fighting the enticing pull of sleep. He wasn’t sure exactly how much blood he had lost, but he was acutely aware of the fact that he could easily go into cardiac arrest if he had lost too much, so he tried to keep himself awake to watch himself. Not that he would really be able to do anything if he did suddenly go into cardiac arrest. Still, he knew that Scott and the others were coming for him, and if he could manage to keep awake, he might could lead them to him.

That was much easier said than done and he found himself on more than one occasion slipping into unconsciousness, only to wake himself up rather abruptly when his subconscious remembered to not fall asleep. He groaned into the tape across his mouth, trying to adjust his position into a more comfortable one, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His limbs were heavy and shaky, and any exertion seemed to make his heart jack-hammer painfully in his chest, so he stopped moving. He knew he desperately needed to rehydrate. His mouth felt almost completely dry, making his tongue feel uncomfortably large and sticky.

His mind began wandering against his will into questions of what if. What if he died here? What if he never saw his dad again? What would he dad do without him? He didn’t know how to take care of himself. Stiles cooked for him. Stiles kept him from drinking too much. Stiles helped him with cases when he was stuck. Stiles kept him company when he was feeling alone. What would Scott do? How would he ever figure anything out without him? What would Lydia do? Would she care?

Suddenly his mind wouldn’t focus on anything but Lydia. He wondered if he’d ever get a chance to see her strawberry-blonde hair again; he wondered if he would ever get a chance to see her actual height (she always wore heels to hide just how short she was, but he always thought that that was just another one of those things that she shouldn’t feel the need to hide); he wondered if she would ever break out of the social expectations that kept her from being the her that had drawn him in. Yes, she was gorgeous, but he knew better than to just look at what she wanted everyone to see. He had known all along just how smart she was and just how short she was and just how sensitive and caring she was, despite the glamorous, dumb mask that she seemed determined to wear.

A wave of nausea suddenly broke him from his thoughts when he had subconsciously tried to shift positions again, making him let out a small, pained moan. He considered maybe just letting his eyes close, just for a bit, when he heard the door open somewhere above his head.

It was quiet for only a moment before he heard Scott hesitantly call his name.

Stiles felt relief wash over him at the sound of his friend’s voice, and he made a noise from behind the tape to alert him that he was there.

“Stiles! Thank god. Hang on.” He heard Scott move forward, then make a small grunting noise, like he had hit something. There was a long moment of silence, and Stiles listening closely, trying to figure out what was going on when Scott suddenly let out a deep roar. It took a moment for Stiles’ muddled brain to figure out that he must have been surrounded by mountain ash, or Scott would have gotten him already. Through bleary eyes, he glanced up as two, bright yellow orbs from Scott’s eyes caught Stiles’ attention. Stiles’ eyes widened when he saw those same orbs change from yellow to a vibrant red.

And then Scott was screaming.

Stiles shouted through the duct tape, wriggling and trying to get free to help his friend, but he was weak and all he managed to do was tire himself out.

All of a sudden, the lights turned back on just as Scott’s body fell in a heap onto the floor. Stiles felt panic seize him at his friend’s still form and he started screaming curses and profanities from behind the duct tape at the vampire standing over Scott. Darius gave him a bloody grin, fangs disappearing into normal, perfect teeth.

“I win.”

Stiles’ struggling escalated, trying to get to Scott and see if he was alright, but suddenly he was hit with a wave of dizziness, making the room spin and he had to stop to gather himself.

Darius watched him for a moment, amused, before kneeling down in front of the circle of what Stiles could now confirm was mountain ash. Darius set his hands down in front of the circle and split them apart quickly, the rush of air causing the ash to separate and break the circle. He stepped inside and knelt down again above Stiles, grabbing his hair and lifting the boy’s head up to look at him.

Stiles grunted, the angle painful, but he still managed muster the most hateful glare he had ever mustered towards the vampire. As usual, this was only entertaining to him.

“What shall we do now, hm?” Darius asked. “Who should I kill first?”

Darius waited for a response, but, since Stiles’ mouth was duct taped rather tightly, all he got were more muffled curse words and threats.

The vampire chuckled and continued on, “I think I’ll drink the druid dry first. I’ll have my thralls empty the huntress for me—I can save her blood for later. The werewolves, I think I’ll drink them slowly,” Darius said, leaning his free hand over to run a finger over Scott’s jaw, which caused Stiles to start squirming again. Darius grinned. “I’ll enthrall Lydia Martin. She can replace the thrall Derek Hale killed… and as for you, Stiles… I think I’ll keep you around for a while. You’re so very entertaining...”

Stiles heaved heavy breaths out of his nose, shaking and feeling completely helpless. He wanted to be able to talk, curse, fight, anything, but he was very rapidly losing consciousness, his vision swimming in and out and struggling to keep his eyelids open.

“Oh, don’t go to sleep yet, Stiles. The fun hasn’t even started! We’ve only-” Suddenly Darius stopped, eyes turning black and tilting his head slightly, looking like he was listening. Then his face became cold, an anger crossing his face that Stiles had not seen the vampire show before.

Stiles watched the change in confusion, waiting to see what would happen, when Darius suddenly released his hair and let his head fall weakly back onto the floor with a thump.

Without a word, Darius stood and exited the room, each step heavy and intimidating. Stiles watched him leave, desperately trying to keep his eyes open, but the world was fading away. He was tired, he was hungry, he was thirsty, and he was dizzy. He had lost too much blood to stay awake. Unable to stop himself, his eyelids shut and he was swallowed up into an embracing darkness.

---

 

Waking up was surprising enough, but waking up at the veterinary clinic was something that Stiles’ mind could hardly grasp. He stared at the ceiling for a long while, hearing the warbled sound of voices somewhere off in the distance. He was vaguely aware of the IV in his arm, but he was still processing the fact that he was there at all, so it took him a moment for the entirety of the situation to sink in.

A pressure on his hand suddenly drew his attention to the side and at a turn of his head, his eyes were met with the dark, mossy green of Lydia Martin’s. She was staring at him anxiously, a manicured hand gripping his limp one, one of her thumbs rubbing his knuckle unconsciously. Her strawberry-blonde hair was put up in a hasty bun and it appeared that she had allowed a long passage of time to go by without reapplying makeup; the whole scene an unusually messy sight compared to the otherwise artistically primped appearance that was the standard for which she typically graced the public with. Even so, she was the picture of beauty and Stiles just stared for a long while, so relieved to see her without the blank stare of a thrall.

“Lydia?” he finally asked, finding his voice. His eyes fell to her shoulder where a fresh bandage had been taped over the side of her neck. “Are you okay?”

A brief flash of relief passed over her face before she gave him an incredulous look as she gently but firmly placed a hand over his chest, keeping him from sitting up. “Am I okay? You’re the one who got bled out. I should be asking you that,” she said, absently moving her other hand, which had been resting on the table and running her fingers tentatively over the bandage on his wrist. There was a matching one on his other wrist, as well as fresh bandages on his cuts and the small bite on his neck.

“Me? I’m super,” Stiles said, moving to sit up. “A little confused that I’m not, you know—dead, but I can’t really complain about that.” He chuckled a little, then looked her over again. “How long have you been sitting there?”

The question seemed to strike her oddly and a look as though she had been caught doing something she should not have been crossed her face as she pulled her hand away from his. “Not long.”

He looked at her, knowing she was lying.

She could tell that he knew, so she let out a resigned and defensive sigh. “Five hours. Maybe more.”

“I’ve been out for that long?” Stiles asked in surprise.

Before Lydia could say anything more, Scott and Deaton walked into the room. Scott hurried over to Stiles’ side with a bright smile. Hey, man. Good to see you awake! How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said quickly, waving a hand dismissively as he hurried into the questions plaguing him; “What happened? Did you beat him?”

Scott shook his head. “No, uh… we actually have no idea what happened. Everybody’s discussing it. It’s like the vampire just… left.”

Stiles blinked, brow furrowing as he tried to process that. “Wait, whoa, whoa, what do you mean, he left?” he asked, attempting to sit up again. “And were are Allison and Derek?”

Scott’s strong hand held him back gently. “Whoa, easy, man. You’re still recovering. Just take it easy. Allison and Derek are fine. Allison went to talk to Chris. Derek’s out looking for any signs of the thralls or the vampire here in town. He hasn’t found anything so far.”

“My dad-”

“He thinks you’re spending the night with me,” Scott assured him.

Stiles nodded. “Great. Now can someone explain to me why we’re all not dead?”

“That’s still being debated at the moment,” Deaton said, coming up beside Stiles and giving him a quick smile before grabbing a small flashlight and shining it into Stiles’ unsuspecting eyeballs. Stiles flinched away from it, but Deaton carried on regardless. After he had gotten a good look at each eye, he had Stiles sit up and then grabbed his wrist with two fingers, listening to his pulse, which was difficult with Stiles fidgeting and flailing his arms with nearly every word that came out of his mouth,

“Being debated? What is there to debate? You’re seriously telling me that nobody saw anything?”

Scott shrugged helplessly. “All of us were unconscious. Nobody saw anything after we lost the game. We woke up a couple hours later and the vampire, the thralls, and the moving van were all gone. They didn’t even leave a scent to track. They just vanished.”

“Game? What game?” Stiles asked.

“It wanted us to play a game with it,” Lydia explained. “It said that if we could tag you before it bit the three of us, then it would let us all go.”

“And you lost?”

“Right.”

“I’m not sure that we did,” Scott said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he said that he would only bite Deaton, Derek, and Lydia and that Allison and I would be off-limits, but he bit me and not Derek.”

Stiles blinked at him, lost. “Wait, why would he only want to bite some of you guys?”

“He was after an alpha, a druid, and a banshee for some reason,” Lydia replied.

“But he didn’t bite Derek. He bit you?” Stiles asked Scott, who nodded, looking as confused as Stiles was. Stiles paused, thinking over the information for a moment. The memory of Scott’s eyes going from yellow to red back in the vampire’s house crossed his mind, but he wasn’t entirely confident with the memory. He had lost a lot of blood, and he wasn’t quite sure that he had actually seen what he thought he had, so he decided to file the information in the back of his mind for later thought.

“And after he bit you guys he just disappeared?” Stiles asked after a moment.

“Right,” Lydia said.

“But… why? He had us. He was pretty proud of himself, too. He did the whole villain monologue thing to me before…” Stiles faded off as the memory of Darius very suddenly leaving him just before he passed out entered the forefront of his mind. “He heard something. Before I passed out… He—whoa…”

“What?” Deaton asked.

“I think something scared him off,” Stiles said.

Scott gave him a skeptical look. “What?”

“Dude, I’m serious. He was gloating to me and then he heard something. He looked pissed. And scared. Mostly pissed, but still scared.”

Lydia looked at Deaton. “What would scare off a vampire?”

Deaton seemed surprised by that and he gave Stiles a very grave expression. “Are you sure?”

“Well, considering the fact that I was fading in and out of consciousness due to severe blood loss, no, I can’t say I’m sure,” Stiles said sarcastically, slowly lifting himself up into a sitting position. “He might have just been pissed.”

“Deaton?” Scott asked, concerned at the veterinarian’s look.

“That’s very disturbing. Vampires are very powerful and there aren’t many things that can stand up to one. Some hunters have the specializations and skill to take on a vampire, but if it had been a hunter, it would have probably killed Derek and Scott, too. So it wasn’t likely a hunter. A particularly powerful druid would be a concern for a vampire, if the druid had access or knowledge of ancient spell-work and magic, but I don’t know of anyone who would be capable of that. The list isn’t very long and none of the possibilities are very likely.”

“Are you saying it’s more likely that Darius just decided, ‘hey, I’ve done enough terrorizing for one day, I’ll call it a night?’” Stiles asked.

“I’m not saying that. But whatever it was, we’re all very lucky to be alive,” Deaton said before turning and leaving the room.

---

 

Stiles, Scott, and Lydia discussed the situation for a while longer and Stiles had formulated at least a dozen theories in that short time as his brain puzzled over the whole thing. Even after Scott and Lydia had both gone, needing to get home and assure their parents of their aliveness (Deaton had refused to let Stiles leave until the veterinarian was certain that the blood transfusion had been successful and that Stiles would need no further medical assistance), he was still puzzling over everything. From what he could tell, Darius had seemed only interested in biting (or possibly just getting a drink or two) from Deaton, Lydia, and Scott for some reason. The game the vampire had designed gave him the perfect opportunity to do so and his interest in the group disappeared entirely once he had managed to do just that. After all, he had told Stiles that he was going to kill them, so whatever it was that the vampire had been after, he had most certainly got it. The question was what it was that he needed. Stiles considered that he might have needed their blood for some sort of ritual or spell, but he couldn’t be sure until he had an opportunity to do some research.

Moreover, he was extremely confused by the fact that, despite having claimed that he wanted an alpha, Darius had bitten Scott instead of Derek. Stiles thought he had seen Scott’s eyes turn alpha-red and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he had, indeed, seen correctly, but he just couldn’t figure how that was possible. As far as he knew, werewolves couldn’t change their status at will like that. He decided he would have to ask Deaton or Derek about it later.

The biggest and most pressing question, however, was why Darius would just leave. Stiles felt fairly positive that something had scared him off, but whatever did so didn’t appear to make the vampire feel like it needed to hurry. Whatever creature or person had sent the vampire away had given Darius enough time to gather up his thralls (including the dead ones, apparently, according to Scott’s account of events) and get his moving truck. That had to have meant that the thing that sent Darius away wasn’t interested in killing him, so what had it been after in getting the vampire to retreat before Darius could kill them? Had someone come to their rescue? And if so, who?

He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the new guest enter the room. When his eyes did land on the man staring at him from the entrance of the room, Stiles jumped in surprise. After the initial fright of being so quietly and creepily stared at passed, Stiles let out a little growl of annoyance. “Dude, knock or something,” he grumbled, swinging his legs off of the table. He wanted to get up and walk around, but Deaton had forbid him from doing so, at least until, the veterinarian had said, he returned and gave him some medication.

Peter only smiled, stepping fully into the room and walking up to the IV, examining it. “I see the transfusion was successful.”

“Yeah, about that—where’d Deaton get this blood from, anyway? And please tell me it isn’t animal blood.”

“It’s not animal blood. I misappropriated it from the hospital,” Peter replied.

“How’d you know what blood type—you know what, never mind. I don’t want to know how you know that,” Stiles said quickly.

“A thank you wouldn’t kill you, you know,” Peter said, taking up the seat Lydia had been previously occupying.

“It might,” Stiles said coldly, glaring at the werewolf as the latter moved around the table and sat. Stiles looked at him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

Peter tilted his head at him confusedly. “Sitting?”

“Yeah, why are you doing that?” Stiles asked, growing extremely uncomfortable with the fact that the werewolf wasn’t leaving.

"I thought I’d see how you were doing,” Peter answered.

“Why?”

“You’re pack,” Peter replied, then looked at him like he couldn’t fathom where Stiles’ attitude was coming from, “Can’t I check in on a fellow pack member?”

“First of all, you’re not pack, and neither am I, okay? Second of all—no. No, you can’t check in on me. Why do you care, anyway? You didn’t care enough to come help fight off the vampire.”

“I’m too weak to be fighting any battles,” Peter informed him patiently.

“Oh, right, I forgot. You’re recovering,” Stiles said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “Real convenient. If you were going to be that useless, why not just stay dead and do everybody a favor?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at him. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“Nice catch, Sherlock. Have anything else painfully obvious to point out?” Stiles asked, eyes glancing over to the door. Where was Deaton? Who was the moron who had left him alone with Peter?

“That’s a shame,” Peter remarked with an unconcerned expression, “I still like you.”

“Oh, yippee for me. The psychotic, homicidal zombie-wolf likes me.”

“I told you before, Stiles: I’m not the bad guy,” Peter replied.

“That line might work on Derek and Scott, but it doesn’t work on me,” Stiles said, staring Peter down with defiant confidence, “Pretend to be a team-player all you want, but when you go dark-side again, I’ll make sure we burn you first before we bury your sorry ass for the last time.”

Peter smiled at him and Stiles had to resist the urge to punch him in the face. “You know, Stiles, you talk a big game for someone constantly getting threatened, beaten, and captured.”

Stiles was about to reply when Peter’s hand suddenly snatched up one of Stiles’ wrists, pulling him forward into Peter’s space, which, considering Stiles was currently sitting with his legs dangling off of the examination table, meant that he was partially bent over himself. Stiles tried to tug his arm away, but Peter didn’t let him go this time.

“I could help with that problem,” Peter said with a sly smirk.

Stiles tensed and he had a brief moment of panic before he was able to think the situation through. He gave the werewolf an intense glare, “You’re not an alpha anymore, remember? You can’t turn me. And besides, I told you no, remember? And I meant it.”

“Yes, you said no and we both know you were lying,” Peter stated and before Stiles could refute him, Peter held up a hand to stop him, “But regardless, you’re right. I can’t turn you. That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

Stiles clenched his fists to convince himself that the feeling rising in the pit of his stomach was anger—not fear. “Whatever you’re suggesting, I’m not interested, thanks. Now let go or-”

“Or what, Stiles? See, that’s your problem. You don’t have anything to back up that mouth of yours. Except for Scott, but when is he ever around when you need him? But… if I scratched you…” Peter began, tracing a nail (which had at some point grown into a claw) over Stiles’ arm just hard enough to threaten breaking the skin, “it would give a connection to the pack. It would be similar to what Derek did to Jackson, without the inconvenience of turning into a giant lizard in your sleep. It would have to be fairly deep, but you would live, I promise. And then the pack would be able to find you when you inevitably get yourself into trouble again.”

“Would that include you?” Stiles asked.

“It would.”

“Then I think I’ll pass,” Stiles said, attempting for a second time to pull his arm away, but Peter wasn’t giving up his grip.

“Would you rather Lydia come upon your corpse? Because at the rate you’re going, Stiles, that’s an inevitability.”

“Peter,” Deaton’s voice snapped from the doorway.

Both Stiles and Peter looked at the doorway, and Peter gave up his hold of Stiles’ arm.

“What are you doing here?” Deaton asked the werewolf and although his voice held the typical degree of control that he normally spoke with, Stiles could see the anger and distrust in the veterinarian’s eyes.

“Visiting Stiles,” Peter replied with a smile and giving Stiles a nonconsensual look of companionship.

“How did you get in?”

“I didn’t leave after you invited me in earlier.”

“That was hours ago,” Deaton pointed out.

“Was it?” Peter asked, voice filled with false innocence.

Deaton stared at the werewolf for a long while, as though trying to decide whether or not to let the werewolf leave alive before turning his attention to his patient. “Still feeling alright, Stiles?”

“I was,” Stiles replied, flashing Peter an impatient glare.

“It’s getting late. Let’s give Stiles some rest, Peter,” Deaton said, the underlying threat in the druid’s eyes impossible to miss.

Peter nodded obligingly, standing from the chair and flicking Stiles a sly grin before passing Deaton and leaving the clinic.

Deaton watched him go, likely to ensure that he actually left this time and then turned his attention to Stiles again once the werewolf had gone. “Did he do anything to you?”

“No, he was just being his usual creepy self. Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Stiles answered. “So you let him steal blood, huh?”

“I didn’t have many options. You were in a very bad positon when we brought you here and I couldn’t afford to wait to obtain any legally,” Deaton replied.

“Well, thanks a lot,” Stiles grumbled sarcastically. “Now he’s going to think I owe him.”

Deaton ignored Stiles’ complaining, looking down at the arm Peter had had a hold of. “Did he try to scratch you?”

“Yeah, he tried. He said it would connect me to the pack.”

“Well, that would be true… if he was an alpha or a beta.”

Stiles blinked at him. “But he’s an omega right now.”

Deaton nodded.

“So what would happen if someone got a scratch from an omega?”

“It give you a connection to him. Not the pack. It’s a way for omegas seeking a new pack to connect to the werewolves in a pack the omega is interested in joining.”

“Like a trial period?”

“Exactly. It’s a sort of shallow pack bond that allows them to be connected to each other, but isn’t as strong as an actual pack bond.”

“So… he was trying to spy on me, basically,” Stiles assumed.

“By the looks of it, yes.”

Stiles grimaced, annoyed at the direction his day had been going. It was bad enough that he had been kidnapped and tormented by a demented vampire, but having to deal with creeper-wolf Peter right after was just the icing on the cake of his crappy day.

“It’s not a bad idea, though.”

Stiles looked up at the druid like he had grown an extra set of ears. “What?”

“Getting a scratch from an alpha to bond you to the pack. You could ask Derek to do it. Even getting a scratch from Scott would work. It would certainly protect you from situations like this happening again,” Deaton replied calmly.

Stiles immediately began shaking his head and shaking his hand passionately. “No. Nope. No. Nobody is scratching, biting, clawing, or in any way touching me with any weird wolf mojo. I’m perfectly happy being one-hundred percent pure, scrawny human.”

Deaton gave a little shrug, but didn’t press him any further. He set up checking on Stiles’ bandages and removing the IV and gave him some medication to take for a week or two. He was about to send him on his way with a good bill of health when Stiles stopped him, turning around at the door before Deaton could send him out to his jeep (which Scott had been kind enough to drive over).

“Can betas become alphas?” Stiles asked.

“If they kill the alpha,” Deaton replied.

“No, no, I mean can a beta become an alpha at… I don’t know… at will? Like maybe under desperate circumstances or something like that.”

Deaton furrowed his brow at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Darius said he wanted a druid, a banshee, and an alpha. Well he got you, and he got Lydia, but he bit the wrong werewolf. He bit Scott.”

“And?”

“And he knew Scott wasn’t the alpha.”

“Yes, that’s very strange, isn’t it?” Deaton asked, looking down and folding his arms as though in deep thought. Stiles wasn’t entirely buying it, though. He got the distinct impression that Deaton knew something that he wasn’t sharing, so he continued on, hoping to catch the druid somehow.

“Yeah, well, something weird happened when I was tied up in that circle of mountain ash. Scott came in and was trying to break the circle and I saw his eyes glowing, except they weren’t yellow. They were red.”

Deaton looked at him for a second too long and Stiles thought he might be about to say something important, but the veterinarian quickly shook his head slowly as though contemplating carefully. “You had lost a lot of blood. It might have been causing you some hallucinations. It could have also been a trick of the light.”

Stiles was quiet, staring the veterinarian down knowingly. It had been completely dark, so the idea that it could have been a trick of the light was absurd. And Stiles could have considered the possibility that it was a hallucination were it not for the fact that he remembered everything else with perfect clarity and vividness. There was simply no way that that had been the only thing that he had hallucinated. After a second or two, Stiles pursed his bottom lip as he pretended to consider those options. “Yeah, you’re right. It was probably that… a trick of the light,” Stiles said, not meaning for it to come out sounding so sardonic, but too late to take it back, he thanked Deaton for patching him up and turned to his beloved jeep, adding Deaton mentally to his list of “Probably Evil” people.

---

 

Chapter Text

It had been the intention of the entire group to investigate the disappearance of the vampire further and figure out what, exactly, had happened and what it had been after, but very shortly after surviving Darius’ game, Isaac had reappeared in the hospital, and before they knew it, they were fighting off the alpha pack. Then soon after that, they were facing off with the Nogitsune.

It was on the night that they had at least defeated the void creature that the issue of the vampire arose again. Everyone had been in a fair amount of shock from the ordeal of the night and it took several hours for everything to settle. Stiles had tried to get some much needed sleep, but hadn’t managed to get a wink. Scott had volunteered to spend the night with him that night, he himself needing some comfort over losing Allison.

Scott drove up to Stiles’ house when the smell hit him and without even thinking about it, he had leaped off of his bike and was running for the house, where they smell was coming from. He skidded to a halt at the door, where one of the vampire’s thralls stood leaning against the door, arms folded and looking up at the night sky as though it was appreciating the sky.

Scott let out a low, warning growl, releasing his claws and letting his fangs flash in the moonlight.

The thrall glanced at him, unimpressed. “Hello, Scott. Alpha is a good look for you.”

The attitude of the thrall confused Scott at first, but he finally realized that it was being puppeteered by the vampire from somewhere else. Without giving it much thought, he started to charge the creature, but the thrall made no move to stop him except to say: “If you kill this thrall, the sheriff will die.”

Scott stopped just as he was about to swipe at the thrall’s throat. It took a moment, but upon sniffing the air a second time, and paying closer attention, he caught the scents of four other thralls. Three of them smelled familiar, two being ones that he had run into at Darius’ house, and one that Scott couldn’t quite place. The other was unfamiliar to him. With a resigned growl, he glared at the thrall in front of him as menacingly as he could. “What are you doing here?”

Believe it or not, I’m here to offer some assistance,” the thrall, Darius, replied. “How about we discuss it inside, hm?” Without waiting for agreement, Darius turned, opened the door, and walked into the house. Scott followed him cautiously, claws still out and ready to attack if it came down to it.

On entering the hallway, he could see the back of the sheriff’s head where he sat in the living room, unmoving. Two thralls stood on either side of the couch, watching him with blank stares. Scott could hear that the sheriff was alive, so he didn’t worry too much over him, although he was more than a little hesitant to leave him alone with the two thralls. Darius, however, didn’t pause to let him check on his best friend’s father, instead climbing the stairs to the second floor and making his way into Stiles’ bedroom.

Stiles hadn’t gotten a chance to clean it, since he had only been free of the Nogitsune for a few hours. There were books, papers, dirty clothes, and various other items strewn all over the floor and Stiles’ chessboard still had the chess pieces tagged with the names of his friends and allies. The wall was covered in Stiles’ work, investigations, and research, red string hanging off of the walls like curtains. The scissors that Stiles had stabbed into his bed to connect all of the strings had been removed. Now lying on the bed, unmoving, was Stiles.

At seeing him, Scott immediately rushed to him, pushing aside the two thralls that were in his path. He sat on the bed and grabbed his friend’s shoulders, turning him over from off of his side to look at his face, which had been facing the wall. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. Scott tried to shake him awake, but he couldn’t rouse him, even when he called his name. After a few attempts, he turned to the one remaining thrall in the room with fear.

“What did you do to him?!” Scott asked in alarm, still partially holding his friend.

“I put him to sleep,” Darius answered dismissively, looking over the chess board on Stiles’ desk with interest.

“Why? With what?”

“Well he wasn’t getting any sleep on his own. Would you, in his position? As for as how, I used a special dream root. Gives him peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. Also has a bit of a healing property to it. After a week or two of use, it will take away some of the emotional pain of what he’s been through. He’ll be back to his normal, sarcastic self before you know it,” Darius replied with a wide smile.  

Scott blinked at him in confusion. “W-why?”

Darius looked at him like that was the dumbest thing he had ever heard and responded like a father reprimanding their unruly teenager; “Because being possessed by a void spirit is an extremely traumatizing event. No one can simply bounce back from that level of chaotic evil.”

“No, that’s not really what I mean,” Scott said slowly, looking Darius up and down with rising confusion and a great deal of suspicion. “I mean why are you… why are you helping? You were going to kill us…”

“Oh, just because I’m a vampire, I can’t do something out of the kindness of my heart?”

Scott stared at him with a bemused look, which appeared to annoy the vampire. Darius rolled his eyes, adding, “I would have killed you that night, I assure you, but sadly I was interrupted. Which is why I’m here now. Helping you helps me, in this instance.”

“What stopped you?”

“Peter Hale.”

Scott’s brows rose in shock. “What? No, that’s not possible. He wasn’t there. He was too weak to fight. He-”

“Is that what he told you?” Darius asked, narrowing his eyes at the boy and began stepping forward, slowly stalking towards Scott. “And you believed him? You’re not the brightest bulb of the bunch, now are you?”

“But… how? Even Deaton said that werewolves can’t take on vampires.”

“Ah, very true! But Peter’s not exactly a normal werewolf, now is he?”

“He isn’t?”

Darius stopped in his tracks, staring at Scott now like he was an imbecile. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “This would be infinitely easier to explain to Stiles,” he grumbled to himself, then seemed to come up with something, turning to Scott and saying, “Why do you think I haven’t come into Beacon Hills? Hm? Why do you think I only send in my thralls?”

Scott thought for a moment, “Because we can smell you-”

“Do you really think that after nearly killing your little baby pack that being sniffed out by you and your kind would scare me? Come now, Scott… try to get the cogs running in that rusted little brain of yours.”

“You… you can’t come into Beacon Hills… can you?” Scott said uncertainly.

“Finally, a spark of intelligence! No, I can’t come into Beacon Hills, and it’s not because of any werewolf pack. You see, the Hale’s established a pack in your little town for a reason. They were protecting something; something very old and very powerful. And you and your Scooby-Doo gang woke it up.”

“The Nogitsune? We beat. It’s gone. Forever,” Scott said.

“Not the Nogitsune, Scott. The Nemeton.”

“What?” Scott asked, confused.

“The beacon. The Hale’s were protecting it. The elder Hale’s were well-versed in magic and spellwork. Beacon Hills has wards to keep me and my kind out, but there are other things out there, Scott. Things that are, at this very moment, being drawn here by that silly little tree stump, that the Hale wards won’t be able to keep out.”

“Is that what you’re after? The Nemeton? Did it draw you here, too?”

“In a way,” Darius replied. “The Nemeton has provided me with something I want. And plenty of it, too.”

“What is it that you want?”

“Power,” Darius said with a grin. “You see, a very long time ago, I discovered something remarkable. I found out that I grew stronger by drinking the blood of other supernatural creatures. The only problem was that they were so few and far between. I was lucky to find one or two a year. But here? They flock to Beacon Hills. Do you know how rare it is to find a true alpha, a banshee, and a druid all in one place?”

“That’s why you bit us? You wanted our blood to make you stronger?”

“Oh, you three gave me quite the power boost. A few more creatures and I’ll be strong enough to enter Beacon Hills myself. But not yet… and, perhaps, depending on you, never,” Darius said, giving Scott a sly look.

“What do you mean?”

Darius looked at the boy seriously, “You’re very fortunate that we share a common enemy, whether you are actually aware that he’s your enemy or not. Peter Hale is the last Hale alive with the knowledge to take on creatures like me. He’s very gifted in the art of magic. His recent tricks have brought him back to life and saved Stiles from a permanent possession. That’s a problem for me. And it’s a problem for you.”

“Why? I mean, I don’t like him and I don’t really trust him, but he’s been helping us,” Scott said. “And now I’m finding out that he even saved us from you!”

“Of course you dislike him. That’s to be expected, after all. And yet you all seem to put a great deal of faith in him. Why? Because he “helped” you a few times? Is that all it takes, Scott? A few helpful words of advice—which, I might add, happened to coincide with what Peter wanted in the first place—and suddenly he’s part of the team?”

Scott stared, not entirely sure what to say. He didn’t trust Peter. Not at all. But so far, his mischief didn’t seem all that pressing, particularly considering what all they had been forced to deal with in the recent months. Peter had been the last thing anyone was worrying about. Even Stiles, who dedicated a great deal of time in trying to figure out what kind of endgame Peter could have, had put the situation with Peter on the side-burner for a while.

“You don’t think he’s a problem?” Darius asked, as though reading the thoughts in Scott’s expression. “Well, he is doing an excellent job at playing you, then. And perhaps you don’t trust my word on the subject. That’s to be expected. But what about Stiles’?”

“What do you mean?”

“Stiles. Clever, clever Stiles knew. Has known. Has warned and continues to warn you repeatedly that Peter is a dangerous ally. Why do you ignore your best friend’s warnings? Your little ragtag team of misfits would be dead or worse if he wasn’t around; figuring things out; puzzling things out. Where would you be right now, Scott? Do you think you’d have managed to get control of your wolf on your own, or do you suppose you would have gone rabid had Stiles not taught you to control it?”

Scott swallowed, silent. He knew where he’d be without Stiles; Darius was right. And yes, Stiles had warned him that putting any trust in Peter was a bad idea, but somehow Stiles’ warnings had just… gotten sidetracked by other things.

“I see. You had more important things to do than listen to the one who always figures it out,” Darius said mockingly, then gave a little shrug. “Well. That’s neither here nor there. You can listen to Stiles now.”

The thrall reached into a pocket on its pants, pulling out a bronze pendant with strange markings on it.

“What’s that?” Scott asked.

“It’s a summoning spell. It will call me, anywhere I am, to where you are when you use it.”

“Why would I summon you?” Scott asked. “You tried to-”

“Kill you. Yes. We’ve been over this already. Don’t be boring, Scott,” Darius said, then took a step closer, making Scott resist the urge to step back. Darius grinned, “I’m betting that you won’t take this as seriously as you should—that is… until it’s too late. Which is what this is for. Here is my proposition, Scott, and I want you to use what little intelligence you possess to really think this through.”

Scott frowned at him, but Darius didn’t give him an opportunity to say anything.

“I will never return to Beacon Hills, nor will I send any more thralls or the like. I will leave this town alone forever. But in exchange, the next time you face off with Peter Hale—which, believe me, will be sooner than you’d think—I want you to kill him.”

Scott blinked at him. “What?”

“Do I need to draw it out for you?”

“I… I’m not a killer.”

“You will be,” Darius replied. “Whether you believe it or not, you will need my help.” He extended the pendant out to Scott, who warily reached for it, but he suddenly pulled it away. “It will only work if you give it to Stiles. Otherwise… it’s just a pendant.”

“What?” Scott asked, confused.

“When you need to summon me, give that to Stiles. Do not give it to him until then.”

“Why will it only work with Stiles?”

Darius tilted his head at him, looking increasingly frustrated. “Scott, you just continue to disappoint. Surely you’ve heard your druid mention his spark?”

“I… thought he just meant imagination…”

Darius pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply, “I’ll let the druid explain it to you,” he said irritably, handing Scott the pendant. “Don’t lose it. Oh, and take this as well. Two drops a night for two weeks will suffice,” Darius said, handing a bottle to Scott as well.

Scott looked at him, taking the bottle, then looked down at the pendant, frowning at the unfamiliar writing on its intricately detailed surface. It looked old and rusted, but he supposed it didn’t really matter as long as it worked.

“What does it say?” Scott asked, looking up, but then noticed something was different. The thrall’s eyes had become dull and, without saying anything, turned and left the room. Scott, confused, followed it down the hall, down the stairs, and then watched as all of the thralls gathered and, one by one, left the house.

As soon as they were gone, Scott immediately went to the sheriff, finding him sound asleep on the couch. Seeing that he was alright, he went back upstairs to Stiles’ room, but stopped before entering. He glanced down at the pendant in his hand, then pocketed it before going to Stiles’ bed and shaking him gently. “Stiles?”

Stiles’ face scrunched in distress, then he began thrashing, making moaning noises.

“Stiles!” Scott said with a bit more urgency, shaking him harder. “Stiles, it’s okay. Wake up!”

Stiles’ eyes snapped open, gasping in air and looking around with a lost expression. It took him a moment to focus on Scott’s face, but when he did, he relaxed, untensing his muscles and falling back a bit. “Scott. I… I guess I fell asleep.”

“It’s okay,” Scott said. “I uh… I just got here.”

Had Stiles not been as tired as he was, he might have noticed Scott’s odd behavior, but he didn’t, and he just nodded, swallowing hard.

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to be okay,” Scott said, fingers brushing against the bottle in his pocket.

Stiles looked up at him, and Scott couldn’t help but stare at the bags under his eyes or the broken look behind those usually so vibrant, keen orbs. “You’re going to be fine.”

Stiles swallowed, giving a small nod. “You will, too, Scott.”

Scott fought the lump in his throat, trying to keep Allison’s face from coming to the forefront of his mind. “Get some sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t have the energy to argue, eyes closing of their own accord and body falling back limply onto the bed.

Scott stared at him for a moment, then down at the pendant.

They would be okay.