Archive of Our Own

Stiles’s bad feeling was real, but he didn’t understand where it came from. Scott and Lydia didn’t listen to him and just said he was being paranoid, that he couldn’t enjoy a few weeks of peace. Stiles knew that in the mouth of hell, there wasn’t a single day without supernatural events. If a supposed True Alpha and a powerful banshee couldn’t sense that something was wrong, then they were screwed.

The damp breeze in Beacon Hills was unusual. The hair on his arms stood up right away. The feeling at the back of his neck got worse, that silent alarm that showed up whenever something supernatural was near.

Stiles knew something was watching him. And for once, he was sure it wasn’t the resident zombie wolf.

He needed to talk to someone who would believe him, not Deaton with his vague phrases and blank face. He would go see Derek, and if that didn’t work, he was sure Peter would help him borrow some books and powders hidden in Deaton’s clinic, in the middle of the night.

“Stiles! Where are you going? I don’t get why you always have to make everything so complicated! Nothing is happening!” Scott shouted, slamming his locker door when he saw Stiles with his backpack, ready to skip class.

“Scott, just because you don’t want to listen doesn’t mean others won’t. When something is chasing you in the preserve, don’t come climbing through my window.”

The pack wanted to live like normal teenagers, as if they didn’t grow claws and howl in the middle of the night. They forgot that some of them were just human.

His Jeep started with its usual sputter. The radio was just static—he hit it with his right fist, but the noise only got worse, making his left eye twitch a little. On the way to the loft, fog started to cover the road. Everything felt cold, and there was a strange silence. When he arrived, he ran straight to the stairs and climbed them like something was chasing him. The door flew open with a bang that echoed off all the walls.

“Stiles! What the hell!”
“Your heart sounds like it’s about to jump out of your chest. I hope the devil himself is chasing you!” Derek growled, claws out. Even though he had smelled and heard Stiles since he got there, he didn’t understand why he looked so desperate. Sure, Stiles was never the calmest, but this was too much—even for him.

“My favorite sourwolf, I need your help,” Stiles said, trying to catch his breath after tripping and sliding across the loft.

Derek crossed his arms and rolled his eyes at Stiles’s antics, noticing he smelled like fear and anxiety on top of all the Adderall and coffee.

“I don’t have time for your fights with Scott and Lydia. Something is happening, and I don’t know what. Help, or get out,” Derek told him, but noticed Stiles wasn’t listening.
“Stiles! STILES! What are you looking at the stairs for? I don’t have time for this.”

“I—I don’t know, there’s something… or actually, it feels like something’s missing. Did you change anything?”

“No, I haven’t changed anything.”

But Stiles was sure something was missing at the bottom of the stairs.

He turned to Derek. “Well, you said something is going on. I tried talking to the pack, but they won’t listen. I think something has come to Beacon Hills.”

Derek exhaled as he showed him some photos and a note.
“A young wolf girl contacted me, asking for help to find her little brother, who disappeared at school. But she said she was next. That they’re already here. Honestly, I don’t know who she’s talking about; I haven’t been able to reach her again.”

Stiles stared at him. His hands were shaking when he asked, “Did you check the preserve? Have you seen the fog? Did you call the pack? Haven’t you heard anything running in the preserve?”

“No, I haven’t called anyone. I came to the loft thinking I might find some answers, but that’s not the case. And no, there’s nothing in the preserve—no signs that anything has passed through.”

Frowning and turning around, Stiles saw a flock of crows suddenly fly through the window. Derek jumped to protect Stiles; glass was flying everywhere, and the crows were all over them.

“Stiles, stay down!” Derek yelled, dragging him down the stairs to his room.

“What the hell was that? Derek?” Stiles asked, panicking as he noticed the blood from his wounds—at least Derek’s were already healing.

“Do you think I had time to ask them before they tried to take out our eyes?” Derek grumbled, grabbing Stiles’s face and turning it toward him.
“Let me see how bad it is. They don’t look serious—we just need to clean them up. Wait.”

He sat on Derek’s bed, trying to find an explanation. His mind was racing so fast he felt like he was going to faint.

Oh God, his dad—he needed to call his dad.
“Hey, hey… breathe, Stiles, you need to breathe… Good, follow my breathing. Better. We’ll call your dad once we get out of here; there must be a book in the vault. We’ll call the pack on the way.”

When the wolf came downstairs, he saw a few dead crows and sensed something in the air. A phone call broke the silence in the loft.

“Son! What’s going on? A bunch of deer just caused chaos on 13th Street. You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

“Dad, I’m not responsible for everything that happens in Hell Hills!” Stiles yelled, sounding offended.
“A flock of crows attacked Derek’s loft. We’re going to the Hale family vault. I’ll call you when I know something.” Derek could hear the entire conversation as he dragged the boy by his shirt toward the door.

The animals’ behavior seemed strange; something was really wrong.

When they reached the cars, his wolf shuddered, and he could feel the boy’s nerves beside him. He put him in the Camaro and set off for the vault.

“Call Scott, have him talk to Deaton, and then meet us on the lacrosse field with the pack,” he said, letting out a small laugh at the beta. “I promise you, the Druid doesn’t know anything. We have to wait until nightfall and borrow something from the clinic.”

“We’re not stealing, Stiles—your dad is the sheriff.”

He got worked up, trying to justify that breaking into private property wasn’t really stealing.
“IT’S NOT STEALING! That Druid just spits out random phrases. What’s the point of having a spark and feeling it burn inside me if he won’t help?”
Oops.

If the wolf hadn’t grabbed him, he would have gone right through the window when the Camaro slammed on the brakes.
“You have a spark?”
“You know what, don’t answer that. Of course you do…”