Chapter Text
He walked down the alley with confidence, his footsteps barely louder than raindrops as he marched onward. That was power, he thought. He could control sound, perception. He was invincible. He watched as the High Bitch and her cohorts drove into the Martin Manor - of course she would be friends with the werwolves. Didn’t that just make everything proper.
But Adramlech’s werewolf problem was no longer his problem.
He watched for a moment, Allison Argent following the redheaded bitch into the house. The voice had once told him to wait, to weigh his options before making his move. And he was doing that now. He was watching her lock herself in her golden tower. And he didn’t want to wait, he didn’t want to put off what he needed to do. He had weighed his options.He would find another.
He didn’t need to kill her now. He would kill her, no doubt, but he could find a substitute for the ritual. He wanted power, he wanted to feel the heavy blood wet his fingers and surge through his veins. He wanted to finish this. He was ready to be in control.
Oh, Lydia Martin would die. She would regret ignoring him, she would regret being the high and mighty cheerleader. She would regret looking down on the peasants. But on his terms.
Slow down, the voice whispered. He shuddered in relief and in annoyance.
“Not now,” he hissed and pulled the car door shut. “You don’t get to leave me, alone, then give me orders.”
Slow down, the voice whispered, slightly more manic. You will ruin everything. You need the girl.
“No,” Charlie answered. He looked in the rearview mirror and thought he saw the shadow of the demon behind him. “You need her. I just need a prideful spirit.”
He put the car into drive and kept talking, knowing the demon could hear. Knowing the demon couldn’t touch him. No one could. “I did some research. You don’t need five bodies. You need the five elements personified. It doesn’t matter who though, just the element. I’ll find someone prideful, I’ll make them be prideful for you.”
Wretch, the demon screeched. Charlie laughed, he took the exit for the depot and rolled down the window. Cool air blew through the car and brought with it the smell of victory.
“I’ll deal with her,” he promised, “I’ll deal with your wolf problem too. My gift to you, a thank you for giving me this. But I have my own prideful, deceitful, infuriating Self to deal with.”
Charlie stopped and parked behind the garbage dumpster like always. He made sure his car was parked just far enough past it to hide from prying eyes and the potential driver. He had gotten so good at hiding, he had gotten good at knowing limits. And soon there would be none.
With a wave of his hand the dumpster moved slightly, the corner covering the car from view. He grinned. It never got old, he thought. With another wave of his hand he pushed open the door and descended the stairs. This power was his. He was meant to have this power. AND MORE.
He looked at the world he’d created in here: the red rug that covered the blood and painted circle, the candles with their blackened wicks and waxen tears, the plush chairs with feathers and silk. He ran a hand over the herbs, careful not to touch the green sprigs. He thought of the witch who had sold them to him, the glint in her eyes and knew he had found a kindred spirit. One who knew magic and control. He would need another batch of herbs soon.
There was a pile of books to his left and he grabbed the first. Brown, leather, battered. He flipped to the well-familiar page where Adramlech was drawn in crude lines. He looked nothing like the drawing, Charlie sneered. This was a demon of power, this was one that he could learn from. He felt a cold slide of nails dig into the flesh of his shoulders and knew the demon was near.
Charlie rolled his eyes and slammed the book shut, then dropped it on the ground without a second thought.
Do you think yourself better than me? the demon asked, each word tinny and drawn out. Like a snake. Charlie chose not to answer, instead he closed his eyes and drew on his power. He saw Lydia in her home, the brunette with her. They were talking on the phone and Charlie recognized McCall’s voice, then Isaac’s. There was a dynamic there that intrigued him, and infuriated him.
Who were they. Who were they to work against him. Didn’t they know power when they sensed it? Did they not understand fear?
The demon whispered something but he ignored it. Mutterings of a useless has-been. What did it say that the demon needed him? He didn’t need the demon. He didn’t need anyone.
But he wanted. He wanted to watch Stiles die. He wanted to watch as Stiles watched his dream girl die.
HE WANTED TO KNOW HOW STILES KNEW.
HE WANTED TO KNOW HOW STILES HAD FIGURED HIM OUT.
He straightened himself and made himself taller, then focused his thoughts on Stiles. Rage and anger and curiosity fueled him. Rage at his plan being changed, anger at a nobody figuring out what the cops were too stupid to see.
He found him, looking out his open window. The Hale guy was there too, and wasn’t that a curious duo? Charlie tried to focus, tried to hear what they were saying — because they were talking and he might not be able to hear but he could read their lips. Murderer. Lydia. Demon.
HOW DID STILES KNOW SO MUCH?
He saw the peacock feather and new rage burst inside of him. Was that from his witch? Had she betrayed him?
When he pulled back the room was trashed. The rug had blown to the side, the candles all toppled over. His herbs were strewn on the ground, mixed and ruined. His rage burst through again and in an instant the herbs were smoking, filling the air with the scent of power and anger and incense..
He grabbed his keys, swiped his hand to restore the rug and damage, and stormed to his car.
First, the witch. Then the herbs. Then another moment of control. Another ceremony. He already had a substitute in mind.
He would finished this damned ritual and start his life the way it was meant to be. Start the life he was meant to have.
Charlie Harper was done being second fiddle; to a second-rate demon, to a wannabe detective, to worthless werewolves.
No.
Charlie Harper was about to step into the light and take charge. Like a man. Like a god.
~~*~~
He heard the door close downstairs and scrambled on still shaky legs down in time to see his father trudge through the kitchen to the dining room table. He grabbed a bag of cookies and milk carton on the way.
Crap. Nothing good came from cookie and milk nights. Or days, even.
“I’m pretty sure Dr. Monroe would have something to say about the sugar and carb content in the cookie,” Stiles said in lieu of greeting, trying to lighten the already dampened mood. He hoped Derek was listening just as he hoped Derek had taken the cue to leave. “Especially for breakfast.”
His father looked up, met Stiles’s stare, and took a big bite. Then he looked down and Stiles watched him struggle to swallow the bite. The whole act made him smile. His father then drank from the carton and Stiles had to consciously not flinch. Ew.
“I went to that store,” his father said, finally. He took a bite of the first cookie then set the remaining half on a plate and looked up. Expectantly. “Apparently a young man with dark hair, bumbling reflexes, and a blue jeep was there about a week ago. Bought a peacock feather and some other things.”
Stiles swallowed and laughed, feeling his voice crack with the effort. “That’s funny. How many blue jeeps do you think are there in Beacon county?”
“Only one that I’ve ever seen,” his father answered. “Damnit, Stiles. How many times have I told you — THIS MONTH — to stay out of it?”
“Come on, Dad. It’s a lead, right? Would you or your officers have gone there without it?” Stiles yelled, hearing his voice raise with each word.
“Yes!” his father bellowed, “No! I don’t know. That isn’t the point. And I don’t know if there even is a point to adding another avenue into the investigation. A witch store? Jesus. But that’s beside the point. Stiles, you’re my son. Someone is out there killing kids your age.”
Again, Stiles thought. This argument again.
“And I’m a concerned citizen who saw a trend,” he pleaded. Why, he thought, couldn’t his father see what he was doing. Why was it always a struggle.
His father stood and before Stiles could react he had pulled him in for a hug so tight Stiles struggled for a breath. “I can’t lose you to some psycho because you see something I don’t. I can’t chance you being the next kid I find out there.”
Stiles swallowed as tears prickled his eyes, because that was the killer’s plan. The reality of it — not just his Self as victim but his father being the officer in charge, his father being the one to find him — of all of it hit him like a punch. He clung and whispered he was sorry. He clung and desperately wished he could walk away from it.
The sheriff pulled back and coughed, and if his eyes were slightly red Stiles didn’t mention it. His were probably just as red.
“So this store. And the blue jeep.”
Stiles plopped on the chair across from where his father had been sitting and broke off a piece of the cookie.
“Yeah, yeah. Seems the guy who killed the girls might have gotten his supplies from there,” Stiles said around bites.
“That’s what it sounded like to me,” his father nodded, then seemed to mull something over. A heaviness buzzed along his legs and he bounced them as his father grabbed a pen and began drawing lines over and over in the corner of one of the sheets of paper.
“I don’t believe in this voodoo hoodoo,” his father said at last. “But the woman who runs the place?” At Stiles’s nod he continued. “She makes you think, maybe. Maybe there’s something else.”
“She was intense,” Stiles replied and tried to make it light. Instead it felt as heavy as his legs.
“She was very intense. She said the boy who came in, the one with the jeep, could be in trouble. You in trouble, Stiles?” His father set the pen down and looked over at him.
Stiles shook his head, “No. I swear, Dad, I’m fine. I just went there on a hunch. Was barely there for more than ten minutes.”
That at least was the truth. His father nodded and Stiles saw the disbelief in his eyes, saw resignation to the lie as well. He gathered his homework from the night before and made his way towards the stairs then turned back, “Maybe you don’t believe in the voodoo hoodoo, but I bet your killer does.”
He left it at that and ignored the silence that followed him. Derek was still in his room Worse, he wasn’t even doing his usual lurking thing. He was sprawled on his bed reading Stiles’s copy of Lord to the Rings. Derek held it up, “Read it every year in high school until Laura and I left. Sometimes Tolkien just gets it.”
Stiles laughed at the absurdity, “I’ve heard a lot of things about Tolkien but ‘getting it’ isn’t one of them. Wordy, on the other hand.”
“You and your dad will be okay,” Derek said and folded the corner of the page, then set the book down. Stiles ignored the fact that he didn’t care that Derek had, for all intents and purposes, marked his once pristine book.
Stiles didn’t respond to that. He threw his chemistry on the desk, sat at his desk chair, and spun until he dropped his feet on the bed. Derek raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“I can meditate without a babysitter,” Stiles said, repeating the argument from earlier.
“Yes, you can.” Derek agreed. “You can do a lot of things without a babysitter.”
“So you’re still here, because?”
“Because I’m curious what you remember. And, because you always seem to be a step ahead of the rest of us and right now I could use that step.”
Stiles dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, “You want to go to the depot tonight.”
Derek gave a single nod.
“And you want to know who it is so you don’t rip someone’s throat out with your teeth.”
Derek rolled his eyes and had the decency to look offended at that, and crossed his arms behind his head while closing his eyes, “I’d never bite a stranger’s throat. It’s unhygienic.”
Stiles gaped then shook his head when Derek smiled, eyes still closed.
He held a finger up for Derek to wait, then ran down the stairs to his father who was frying up some eggs, hair dripping from his quick shower. It made Stiles’s heart tighten to think his dad was already heading back to work. Gun in its holster, badge pinned to his pocket, the rest of the bag of cookies next to his lunch. At Stiles’s huff his father froze and slowly nudged the bag to behind his lunch.
“What? There was a bakery next to the voodoo store or were you too busy buying feathers and cooking supplies to notice?”
Stiles scrunched his face, “One cookie was enough. Leave the the bag, dad.”
A stare down: father to son, cop to … consultant-son-nuissance. Stiles bit his lip and watched his father’s hand hovering over the bag.
“You stay in the house, the cookies stay here,” his father said. It was a useless attempt to bargain, they both knew it. Stiles knew he’d be out less than an hour after his father left, and he knew that his father would probably assume he would find Stiles either somewhere outside or coming in just after he did. To compromise and ignore the elephant in the room, Stiles went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of carrots, then dropped them into his father’s lunch.
“At least even it out with a vegetable or three.”
He watched his dad leave and felt the heaviness weigh at him. He was sick of feeling heavy, of keeping a huge part of his life from his dad. He was sick of insane problems like serial killers, demons, werewolves, hunters, even magic store witches. He was sick of Beacon Hills and figured he would start a countdown until graduation and until he could leave this beacon of supernatural.
“You should tell him,” Derek said from behind him and for a moment Stiles wondered if Derek had ever even seen his kitchen. He turned back and shook his head.
“He doesn’t need that in his life,” Stiles replied and started walking past Derek only to stop when Derek grabbed is arm.
“And you do?”
Stiles pulled free and shrugged his way up the stairs, “As long as Scott is out there, I’m out there.”
“Stiles,” Derek waited until Stiles turned back, “It’s in his life as much as it’s in yours. And lying to him won’t keep him any safer than keeping it from him.” Stiles shook his head and turned back, knowing that Derek followed, silent, behind him. That silence was louder than the argument he’d had with his father.
It was pretty obvious that it was just because of Scott that Stiles stayed in this creepy world full of things that seemed to find him appetizing. It was obvious that he was pretty damned good at it. It was also pretty obvious, at least to Stiles, that it wasn’t just Scott Stiles stayed for. And, now he had to deal with the obvious fact that his dad was most definitely already surrounded by and influenced by their paranormal problems.
He sat himself against the wall, under the window, and closed his eyes. As a kid he’d used this spot to think about his mom, he’d see her in the sun shining through the window and at night in the moonlight. He’d feel her in the wind that tussled his hair through the opened window and hear her in the creaks of the old house. Like she was still there, like she’d never left and was just playing the world’s best game of hide and seek. It had become his spot, the one place in the house that seemed silent and still even when everything else was a blur around him.
“You should tell him” Derek repeated but Stiles barely heard him. It was easy, he thought, easier than it used to be to shut everything out and drown out the sounds around him. Years of ADHD and creating murder boards in his mind made it nearly impossible to shut the world out. The only way he could slow it down was to find this spot, to count to twenty in Polish, to picture his mom at the foot of his bed. This time, though, it wasn’t his mom at the end of the bed. It was Derek. He thought about the ceremonies they had done, the feeling of stillness in the circle, the feeling of darkness that covered him. It was Derek who was there to pull him back.
It made the memory easier to fall into; like the wall behind him dissolved into that familiar darkness.
He fell back and looked up; he was standing in front of two hallways. The house, again, and the depot. He turned left and had to fight already formed memories of the depot. Of when Derek and the others lived there. He forcefully buried the images of Erica and Boyd that threatened to step out of the shadows and instead focused the demon. The shadow that he could almost make out. He swallowed bile at the image of Annie, he watched her die. Again. And focused instead on the hands that were his, they were just hands.
He moved to the second death and listened as He gloated over her. He knew the voice and couldn’t put the name to it. There was an echo to the word, a deepness that seemed new. The demon was surrounding him like a vice, suffocating him …. No, not him. The demon was suffocating the other. The Other Him. It was surrounding him and wrapping itself around him until there was nothing but the veil of death and power. For a moment, even in the mediation, Stiles felt the pull of that power.
He focused on the third girl, each victim revealing something about the murderer.
Stiles took a breath and turned and saw something new. This hadn’t been in the vision before. She hadn’t been there. He stepped forward and looked at her. It wasn’t Lydia but it could have been her twin. Deep strawberry red hair, porcelain skin, hazel green eyes. Stiles froze and watched the fear seep into her eyes, eyes that were reflected in a mirror above her. He focused on that, on the mirror and not the girl. He focused on anything but the not Lydia.
Her fear was palpable, beating in the air like a drum.
The man above her laughed, threw his head back in gleeful laughter. Man, boy, it didn’t matter. He was powerful and strong, he was in control of the moment. And Stiles was just a voyeur in his madness. A knife in one hand and a bag in the other; Stiles knew that herbs and magic were in the bag. And he saw the fear and confusion grow in not Lydia’s eyes.
Stiles let go, felt his body awaken as he released himself from the meditation. Derek was still with him, sitting cross legged in front of him with his back against the bed and an expectant look on his face.
“Dude, you are not going to believe it,” Stiles whispered. His voice shook and he was sure it wasn’t from fear. It was shock, it was disbelief. It was the ridiculousness of the entire situation.
“You saw him? The killer?” Derek asked, pressing a hand on Stiles’s knee.
“Yeah,” he answered and laughed. Derek tightened his grip and Stiles sobered. “It’s just a kid, like me. Like we thought. It’s a guy from my chemistry class that couldn’t balance an equation before Adramlech.”
“I need a name, Stiles,” Derek ground out. He was standing now and looking ready to pace the length of Stiles’s bed.
“Charlie. Charlie Harper.” Stiles leaned his head against the wall and shook his head, watched Derek for a second before continuing. “You know, I thought it was him for like a second. But then, it couldn’t be. He’s just some random kid in my class who was never gonna be anything better than a fourth string nobody.”
“And now he’s a killer,” Derek finished, he pulled out his phone then looked down at Stiles. “Stay here.”
Stiles nodded, heard Derek calling Isaac and probably Scott, then he leapt out the window. Silence. A car drove down his street and he sat alone in his house thinking about the girl, about the demon, about everything. He saw it. He understood. He understood wanting to be powerful, he understood wanting an easy way out.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t understand the point where you took a life for yourself. He didn’t understand giving up something for something that evil. He didn’t understand the trust in the voice from the dark. Stiles stood and grabbed his keys and wallet, then ran down the stairs. He might not be a wolf, but he knew there was another victim and he doubted Derek was going to give her a second glance. When wolf came to shove, Derek was laser focused in a way that Stiles wasn’t. Derek saw evil and stopped it, Stiles saw the girl and could save her.
He made it to the depot and, as he thought, he saw Derek’s Camaro and Scott’s bike. He ran to the first building and knew it was the wrong one; no sounds of crashing or destruction of property to start with. He glanced at the building where Derek and the others had once lived and for a moment he wanted to forget death, he wanted to forget demons. He wanted to see a beautiful blonde strut around the corner and threaten him with a grin on her face. He swallowed and pushed forward to the next building, to the building with the almost familiar cracked windows and the door slightly ajar.
He kept close to the wall and down in the shadows, he might be human but he was better than most as staying hidden. He was the son of the sheriff and he wasn’t an idiot. He looked down over the railing and saw the fight already had started: Derek and Charlie were hand in hand, Scott was down on the ground with blood gathering at his lip and Isaac was struggling to get up. His shirt was torn and there was more blood beneath him. In the corner, with her hands tied in an ugly knot, was the girl. The girl who wasn’t Lydia.
Stiles stayed low and stayed slow, eyes moving on the girl and Charlie. He knew better than to track Derek; he don’t need to track the two hundred pound werewolf. Said werewolf was focused on the boy, and the demon. He reached the girl in time to hear a crash to the side of him and he saw Charlie hit the ground, head slamming against the concrete floor with a sickly crack. When he opened his eyes gone were the familiar hazel eyes of his classmate that he’d seen in the vision, in their stead were ink black eyes looking at him. Only not. Charlie didn’t see him, didn’t take the time to focus, he was already turned back to Derek.
Stiles pulled the girl closer, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her backwards until his back his the wall and her back was against his chest. He felt her heart thumping against his chest and tightened his hold. He kept hushing her, he tried to turn her focus from the trio of werewolves and demon to him but she wouldn’t turn. For God’s sake, focus on him, focus on the normal one in the room. From the side of his vision he thought he saw the demon flickering into view and wondered if Adramlech was able take his true form in our world. By he way Scott leapt through him, though, Stiles figured not. The girl grunted and Stiles was pulled back to her, he lowered the gag from her wet mouth.
“Help me,” the girl pleaded, tears running dusty streaks down her cheeks. “Please, God, help me. He’s going to kill me.”
“Shhh, you’re okay. No one is dying. I promise,” Stiles whispered; when she turned to face the action he turned her back him and looked her in the eyes. “I need you to listen to me. I need you to do exactly what I say. You need to stay here and stay hidden. He can’t find you.”
The girl clung to him, her wrists bleeding and scratched from the rope and Stiles cursed himself for not cutting her free immediately. He pulled on the knot and finally used his pocket knife to free her. He gently massaged her wrists and felt the heat from the burns with a sick horror. He pulled her fingers into his hands, pulling her wandering focus back to him.
“Please, listen,” he repeated. “You have to stay here.”
He turned to see Derek growl as he leapt from the railing, and how he got up there Stiles had no idea, onto where Adramlech was standing and laughing. The demon was to the side, basking and laughing at the fight. Stiles pulled the girl to the corner and pushed her down, then held his finger up to his mouth and she nodded. He needed quiet, he needed to help. More tears were streaking her face but no sound escaped her mouth.
Stiles kept himself low, he kept himself light. He made it to where his friends were fighting and saw the familiar layout. For a few minutes reality blended with the visions and he fought to find which was real. He looked down and saw dried blood cracking under the ridiculously bright rug, and kicked the corner of it with his shoe. For some reason this struck him as the oddest part of this moment; a bright red and blue and yellow rug in a dingy depot with demons and werewolves. He bent down and examined the stain … no, the stains. He thought he could tell each stain from the others. Each victim from the other. He saw the lines like he’d seen at Annie’s scene, and the lines he’d seen in the visions. Adramlech’s sigil, he figured.
He looked to his right and through the haze of the fight and visions he made his way to the peacock feather standing tall in a pale urn. He recognized the altar from flash he had seen before. He stood where the shadowed figure had stood and wondered if this was what he had seen, or had it been Charlie. He saw the mirror, glowing slightly every time Charlie screamed or called out a spell, and Stiles reached for it. He reached out and immediately pulled back; so cold it burned hot. He swallowed the pained cry that shot up, and pulled his hand back to his chest. The commotion around him was raging, he could hear things breaking and growls and screams coming from somewhere to his left. But the sounds were drowning, bubbling in his ears. Pain seared down his hand and arm.
Run, the voice whispered to him. Take the girl and leave.
He turned and saw the shadow of Adramlech facing him and felt the girl grab his hand. She’d crawled to him, her hands now covered in dirt and blood. Stiles looked over in time to see Derek throw Charlie against the wall and he flinched when the wall cracked beneath the impact. But Charlie stood up, laughing as he did as though it was nothing, and raised his hands. Stiles stared for a moment at the power Charlie possessed; being thrown by a werewolf was no easy feat. To stand and brush it off was a shock. He felt the magic, felt the air still and somehow everything in the room pulled towards the other man. The room was tuned to Charlie, Charlie was centered on Derek.
He reached for the mirror again, ignoring the pain as the icy fire crawled up his skin. Red and white lines followed the icy fire. His body seemed to move on autopilot, his hands shook as he reached for the feather and herbs. Even as he touched them, the brown bag of the herbs rough against his finger tips and the feather dampening against his palm, he felt like an outsider watching himself. He took control and turned to the fight.
“Hey!”
Both Charlie and Derek looked over. He twisted the feather in his hand, grazing one side of the razor sharp vane against the bag. He dropped the mirror on Charlie’s altar and felt the air in the room still. “Looks like your pet is going to have wait for another loser, Chuck.”
Charlie growled, a screamed that sounded more like that of the demon than a man. The shadow that had been watching him slithered to hide behind the boy and Stiles got it. Later he’d curse himself for not getting it before, the demon couldn’t live without Charlie and Charlie couldn’t survive as he was without the demon. Charlie launched himself at Stiles, eyes black and his face a familiar grimace. Charlie’s face morphed into Adramlech’s. And he was close, close enough that Stiles thought he could feel the demon’s breath when Derek pulled Charlie … Adramlech … to the ground. He dropped the feather, torn between watching the scene in front of him and the magic happening on the altar.
The feather … it had made the silver of the mirror ripple. He swallowed and felt sweat gather at his neck. He thought about the mountain ash at the club, the way Deaton had told him to focus. A spark, Deaton had said. Maybe this was another spark. He thought he heard the witch’s laugh, felt her eyes on him as he looked down. He looked up just in case and saw Derek holding Charlie to the ground.
“Finish it, Stiles!” Derek yelled, then screamed when Charlie turned his power onto the werewolf. Derek was on his knees, grabbing his head while Scott and Isaac were circling, trying for a better angle. Stiles froze. He looked from the herbs on the floor to the girl, to Derek, too Charlie.
“I don’t get it,” he said. He looked at Charlie and shook his head, “Why do it?”
“For this,” Charlie cackled. He squeezed his fingers together and Derek’s scream became a howl. “For power. For unlimited power. This beast is nothing compared to me. And look at me!” He turned to Stiles and spread his arms. “I am changed. I’m not some loser. I’m not like the rest of you. I am a God.”
Stiles shook his head, behind him the girl whimpered and screamed out. He heard her try to run and saw her from the corner of his eye. Never run when the maniac is looking at you, he thought. Sure enough Charlie stopped her, dropped her like a puppet until she was in the pose the other girls had been in: arms spread, legs together, a cross and Stiles watched as her body rotated to a quasi contorted cross. He realized Charlie didn’t need ropes, they were for show. They were to build girl’s fear and heighten his own enjoyment.
Charlie got off on it.
Beneath his hand the mirror had begun to warm, the liquid of the silver pulsing as Stiles tapped his fingers in a beat. He looked back down and thought back to the vision, the turquoise and green glimmers that had stayed in the shadow. The demon hadn’t wanted him to see. Was the feather beginning the glow? He licked his lips and nodded to himself. This could be his sacrifice, he knew, or this could be his salvation. He turned and heard the commotion behind him; Scott and Isaac had pounced and the demon was once again distracted. Stiles ran his hands over the altar, pausing over the mirror as he passed. He thought back to the book he and Lydia had dismissed, of the image of the imprisoned goblin. Its face had been twisted in indignation. The demon hadn’t won just yet. He looked back and saw the demon and Charlie and watched, almost in slow motion, as Charlie leap for him, hatred burning aiding him in his rage.
But not in time. Time sped up and Stiles knew what he needed to do. He thought of the prison, thought of the demon’s vanity and focused on it. He looked at himself, locked eyes with the Self and saw the demon flicker behind him. Vanity and power and humanity. He closed his eyes and held the mirror up, felt along the back and turned it to face the mirror above him. The demon’s face, if it was still there, would now flicker between the mirror from the altar and the mirror it faced. When he opened his eyes the mirror was suspended in the air. A chill chased the icy fire from before and the air stilled again. He could feel the magic. He threw the bag of herbs onto the mirror. It landed with a soft sound onto the feather and he watched in fascination as the feather and bag sank into the blackness of the mirror’s reflection.
Almost immediately the demon evaporated, fading into the light with a vicious screech. Charlie fell to the ground, his cries becoming helpless and pathetic sobs. Slowly Derek stood, his eyes blood red and his claws itching to mark. The girl gasped and screamed, she pulled herself up and ran to Stiles but her eyes were locked on Charlie and Derek.
“Don’t,” Stiles warned Derek but it was useless. Derek was already lifting the other boy until they were eye to eye. Derek’s claws digging holes into Charlie’s shirt and Stiles would bet money there there were new scratches on the boy’s chest as well, courtesy of Derek. Scratches that wouldn’t heal like before.
“He needs to be stopped,” Derek said. Stiles heard sirens approaching and closed his eyes because there wasn’t a lie in the world that would convince his father that this happened to be a coincidence.
“Not this way,” Stiles said instead. He picked up the fallen mirror and looked back at Derek, purposely not paying attention to what was driving up.
Beside him Scott was baring his teeth and panting, “Put him down, Derek. We don’t kill.”
“It’s a matter for the cops,” Stiles said. He took a step forward. “We have a witness,” the girl sobbed into her fist and backed up a step. Her eyes was wide, taking everything in and comprehending none of it. She looked at Derek and sobbed, looked at Charlie and turned away, into Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles pitied the girl and the therapy she would unquestioningly need.
Derek released him but leaned down, “Next time,” he warned, “They won’t save you.”
Stiles sighed and helped steady the girl on her feet, he made sure to block her view from the others.
“What’s your name?” he asked. He made sure to keep eye contact and rub the chill from her arms. She looked at him and nodded, wiped her eyes and swallowed the questions he knew she undoubtedly had.
“Mia,” she stuttered. For a second she flicked her eyes to Scott then back to Stiles. “Are they …”
“The good guys,” he answered then nodded slowly. “But the cops can’t know. They don’t know. They can’t know about them, Mia.”
She nodded and for a moment Stiles pitied her again. The lie that she would always carry with her and the trauma. So much trauma because of greed and pride, because of one kid’s desperate need for power and popularity. He looked back at the others and nodded to the window. “Get outta here.”
Isaac didn’t need to be told twice, he jumped to the railing and crawled out of one of the broken windows like a pro. Stiles was sure this wasn’t the first, or the last time, Isaac had escaped trouble through a broken window. Scott stayed, clearly torn between running and staying.
“Go, man. It won’t do you any good to get in trouble,” Stiles sighed. He heard Charlie groan and ignored it.
“I can stay,” Scott insisted. “Tell your dad it was my —”
“In what world has it ever been your idea to sneak out in the middle of the night and look for,” he looked at Mia then back to Scott. Scott huffed and laugh and nodded.
“You too, Wolfman,” he said to Derek. Derek waited, looked at the girl, back to Stiles and nodded. He made a point of walking back to Charlie who seemed lesser now, his body and mind broken. Derek picked him up, again making them eye to eye and Stiles was sure Charlie stared into the red eye stare of an alpha, then dropping him to the floor with a pitiful thump and whimper.
Stiles helped Mia step wide of Charlie. He, slid the mirror into his back pocket and made sure that his flannel covered the shape, then led her to the stairs and helped her up. He took a deep breath before opening the the door and finding three cruisers outside - lights flashing bright reds and blues. Immediately Stiles found his father in the crowd of officers; arms crossed, face set, and shoulders straight.
Crap.
Stiles wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled the girl closer, then led her to his father who immediately transformed from angry and confused father into caring and sensitive sheriff.
“Come on, sweetheart. We have an ambulance on the way,” he spoke in hushed tones but the look his sent Stiles was anything but hushed. In fact, it said quite a lot.
We will talk later.
You lied to me.
Are you hurt?
Not again.
What happened?
Stiles shook his head and waited for his father to come back. Mia sat with a blanket over her shoulders in the back of one of the police cars. Stiles watched as the ambulance came up, sirens blaring and lights flashing. By the time his father had come back to him EMS was already examining Mia.
“So,” his father said. Arms were crossed, sheriff’s face was on.
Stiles grabbed the back of his neck, the lie already beginning to itch there. “So ….”
“What am I going to find down there, son?”
Stiles flinched and nodded. “A guy. Funny story, he’s actually a guy in my chem class. Totally not a chemist but —”
“Stiles,” her father cut in.
“He was into some witchy stuff? Maybe. I guess.”
His father nodded twice, then nodded acknowledgement to the officers already going down. “Witchy stuff, huh? Like from the store you sent me to?” Stiles nodded, eyes on the puddle his father was standing in. It had started to rain at some point, he wasn’t sure when. His father’s shoes were never going to dry. “Interesting.”
“Yeah,” Stiles tried to laugh it off and failed, a hiccup sob coming out instead. Immediately his father pulled him in, holding him tight enough that the breath escaped him. “Stop it,” his father ordered. “Stop coming to these scenes. Stop being too damned smart. Stop making me worried and proud and —”
“Dad,” he whispered and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry. She was in trouble. I didn’t know, I thought…”
“Yeah,” his father pulled back, clapped a hand on his shoulder and used his other hand cupped around Stiles’s face. “We are going to talk about this. But not now. Maybe not even tonight,” he sighed. “You did good, son.”
Two officers were leading Charlie up the stairs, hands cuffed behind his back and raving about demons and werewolves. One of the officers came up and showed his father, and by extension Stiles, pictures of the scene on one of the cameras. There was enough evidence to put Charlie away, more then likely he would be tried as an adult given his age. Even more likely, he would plead insanity. Stiles looked over at Mia who had gone ghost white as Charlie was led to a car, they weren’t close but even he was drawn to the commotion of Charlie’s demented screams.
“Think he’ll get off on insanity?” Stiles asked, thankful for a rumble of thunder covering the shake in his voice.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” his father answered. “What’s the girl going to tell me, Stiles?”
He back looked at Mia and shook his head, and was grateful that he could answer truthfully. “I don’t know.”
“Go home.”
His dad pulled him close again and Stiles knew the truth, the revelation of the truth, was one step closer to his father. He walked past the girl and stopped when she leapt up and grabbed him close.
“Thank you,” she whispered, hugging him tight. When she pulled back the tears were gone, or maybe just mixed with the rain, but a fierceness had replaced fear. He nodded and walked back to the jeep. He wasn’t surprised to see Derek on the other side, opening the passenger door and sliding in when Stiles opened the driver’s side. He tossed the mirror into the backseat and was pleased when he thought he heard a scream.
“Everything okay with your dad?”
Stiles nodded, took a moment to watch the scene behind him. “Not sure how Dad knew to come here.”
“He’s a cop, Stiles. He had more evidence that we did. We were always working with half the story.”
Stiles laughed, “He had all the evidence, man. He could have saved her.” He squinted at the scene outside. “We probably didn’t even need to be here.”
“We saved her, Stiles. You did that,” Derek replied. They drove away from the lights and the scene, and Stiles tried to be inconspicuous with Beacon Hills’s once-most-wanted in his passenger seat.
About half a mile away Derek turned around in his seat and looked at the mirror, Stiles could appreciate the apprehension he saw. “So, what about that?”
He slowed at one of the STOP signs and glanced over, “I figured I know a witch who might be interested.” He drove forward and bit his lips together, seeing the normal world pass by while his werewolf co-pilot looked into the backseat where he had somehow trapped a demon from hell in a mirror. “And about that whole telling my dad, thing.”
Derek nodded and stretched back, he adjusted the seat; for a moment Stiles wanted to tell him to keep it in Scott’s position. Then didn’t.
“Anytime,” Derek said at last.
“Good. Tomorrow sounds good.” Stiles turned on the music, low and hard rock. “You know,” he grinned, “we did the thing.”
Derek opened one eye and looked over, “The thing?”
Stiles’s grin grew, “We saved people, we —”
“Still no, Stiles,” Derek answered, but he thought he saw a smile on the usual sour face.