Chapter one

The thing with Gerard Argent had been a turning point.

It had been more than two months since it all went down, and Stiles wasn’t over what had happened in the Argent murder basement. Sure, Chris Argent had let him, Erica and Boyd go, but knowing what Allison had done—to Erica and Boyd and later to Isaac—left Stiles with a distinct desire to avoid all Argents forever.

Meanwhile, Scott seemed to think that Stiles had been given plenty of time to work through any trauma his experiences might have left him with and had reverted to spending all their time together mooning over Allison.

Stiles didn’t want to hear it; had no interest in hearing Scott extoll virtues that Stiles had recently come to suspect were imaginary. When he tried to explain his viewpoint to Scott, Scott got offended on Allison’s behalf and went to hang out with Isaac. If that was supposed to be a punishment, it backfired slightly.

Although it bothered Stiles a lot that Scott didn’t seem to care about his opinion anymore, it wasn’t nearly as much as it would have been six months prior. Hearing about what Scott had done to Derek… It made Stiles look at him differently. 

He didn’t know how to feel; how to reconcile the person he thought he knew, that he loved so much, with someone who could cold-bloodedly plan to remove someone’s bodily autonomy in front of such a dangerous enemy, someone who hated his very being and advocated for him and those like him to be wiped from the planet. Who then took it a horrific step further when he forcibly bonded them together.

And for what? To avoid having to kill a self-confessed serial multi-murderer because of some notion that killing would make him a bad person? Or maybe it was because of Allison, because he desperately wanted them to get back together and didn’t think he’d have a chance if he killed Gerard. As if condemning her grandfather to long, drawn-out torture was the morally correct choice.

Even worse was Scott’s complete lack of any signs of remorse. He was proud of what he’d done; didn’t give Derek’s feelings or the aftermath any thought at all. Derek might not be Stiles’ favourite person in the world, but that didn’t mean he didn’t acknowledge the poor guy’s feelings.

It was going back and forth in his mind; it felt like Stiles was in an inner war, and it was exhausting. All in all, he was just as happy to be able to ignore the whole mess. Scott spending all his free time with Isaac helped with that.

Stiles didn’t want to think about what it said about Isaac’s self-esteem—or lack thereof—that he was willing to sit and listen to lengthy descriptions of Allison Argent’s perfections when the last time Isaac had seen her, she’d apparently slashed open his gut and stabbed him in the back like a psycho.

Concerns about Scott’s choices and worrying about Isaac weren’t the only things on Stiles’ mind. He had plenty to deal with on his own account. Being beaten up in the Argent’s basement made him realise that if he wanted to survive into his twenties, he needed to be a lot more proactive about his ability to defend himself.

Since Stiles was never going to be as strong and fast as werewolves by default, he’d have to train his body more traditionally. With that in mind, he took up running. His plan was to sign up for martial arts lessons once he was comfortable running at least twenty miles without wanting to have a lie down afterwards.

The Preserve was his preferred running ground. It came complete with obstacles and uneven ground to challenge him, and it was also a lot less boring than running around a track. 

To make it more fun, Stiles also decided to try to train a sort of built-in compass into himself. It would come in handy if there was ever a day that he was stuck in an unfamiliar forest or something with a dead phone.

Training his sense of direction involved leaving the paths and running aimlessly through the woods. He would stop, close his eyes, and spin around a couple of times. When he opened his eyes, he would attempt to figure out the cardinal points. There wasn’t much initial luck, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to keep trying.

Stumbling into an active fairy circle wasn’t part of his plan.

v^v^v

Stiles woke up from a strange dream in which he was scolded by a very angry old woman only three inches tall to find that the sun had set while he was sleeping. His situation was concerning on several levels.

Firstly, he didn’t remember lying down to have a nap. Secondly, he’d gone running around mid-morning, which meant he’d somehow slept the whole day away. Thirdly, there was a full moon hanging in the sky. Given that the full moon was just over a week ago, what he was looking at was impossible. Wasn’t it?

Unless he’d lost track of the days and weeks worse than he ever had before. Which seemed unlikely; the only time in his life he’d ever lost whole weeks was when his mother had been sick. As screwed up as his life had become recently, it wasn’t nearly at that level yet.

It wasn’t until he got to his feet that he saw the ring of purple mushrooms surrounding him.

“Fairy rings,” said Stiles slowly, remembering the stories his mother used to read him. In those, humans could get trapped in fairy rings and disappear from the world, only to reappear decades later when everyone they’d known was old and grey.

Those were probably only tales, though, like unicorns and dragons.

Stiles determinedly tried to ignore the part of his brain that pointed out that the existence of werewolves might mean that other fanciful-sounding fairytales might also have a basis in fact and briskly brushed dead leaves and other forest detritus off his clothes.

A breeze whispered through the trees, and Stiles shivered as the hair on his arms prickled. He reached into his pocket for his phone, only to discover it wasn’t there.

“I know I had it,” Stiles muttered, looking around to see if maybe it had fallen out of his pocket while he was sleeping. Nope. Nowhere to be found. Shit. Hopefully, the phone finder on his laptop would work. If not, his dad would be pissed off that Stiles had managed to lose his phone so soon after he killed the last one in the school pool.

In the meantime, Stiles was stuck in the Preserve with no phone—with its handy compass—and no sunlight with which to make a guess at directions. It was like being thrust into an exam situation when he’d only just started studying the material.

“I was running slightly uphill,” Stiles remembered. He turned to face several directions, trying to replicate his earlier trajectory, but nothing he could see triggered his memory. “So…I can either wander around and hope to find my way out—although it’s more likely I’ll just get more and more lost—or I can bite the bullet and shout for wolfy help in the hope that one of them will hear me.” He made a face. “And will be in the mood to lead me out of here.”

It was an unpalatable set of options: the possibility of having to be rescued by the sheriff’s department—and the costs involved—or the certainty of never being able to live down his status as an idiotic human. Which, come to think of it, he’d get either way.

“Who am I trying to fool,” said Stiles. “I managed to get lost in the Preserve; I am an idiotic human.” The thought of putting his pride over his dad’s well-being settled the matter. Maybe if he offered to make his rescuer cookies? Stiles made some damn fine cookies, after all. At least the full moon meant they’d all be out and about.

Probably.

Stiles cleared his throat, lifted his chin, and tried to project his voice. “Calling all moon-obsessed furry friends! Squishy human in need of assistance!” He was as loud as he could be without hurting his throat. “Come on,” he muttered. “One of you has to hear that.” He raised his voice again. “Single white male seeks werewolf companion for nice walk in forest, and possible ear scratches!”

A howl sounded in the distance.

Stiles relaxed. All he had to do now was wait for the cavalry.

It had probably only been ten minutes or so when the small rustling noises forest creatures make at night suddenly ceased. Electric blue eyes blinked at him from the darkness.

“Peter?” said Stiles, surprised. Once Jackson had departed from Beacon Hills, Peter had become the only werewolf in town with blue eyes. “Huh. I wouldn’t have expected it to be you. Unless Derek sent you?” That didn’t seem like something Derek would do. As grumpy and angsty as Derek was, he tended to handle these sorts of things himself.

Peter made a low whining sound, still hidden in the shadows.

Stiles frowned. “Is something wrong with Derek? With the others?” A chill went down his spine. “Is it the Argents? Have those bastards done something? Hurt the others? Come on, Peter, why are you skulking around over there? I’m not in the mood for these games.”

Peter slunk out of the darkness, rumbling low in his throat. As soon as Stiles saw him, he knew something was very wrong.

It was definitely Peter, but something terrible had happened to him. He was in his beta shift, but his usually smooth brow and cheeks were covered in open, festering wounds. Seen closer, his gaze was cloudy and unfocused, leaving Stiles to wonder if he could even see.

Stiles just knew that the Argents were involved somehow. “Fucking Argents,” he muttered. “Peter, can you talk?” He noticed what Peter was wearing, or rather what he wasn’t wearing, and rolled his eyes. It was all very well for werewolves to be comfortable with nudity, but there were some things he didn’t need to see. “Can you even understand me? You’re running around with your junk out, you know.”

Peter’s only answer was half rumble, half whine.

Stiles sighed. What was his life, when coming face to face with naked, bestial werewolves didn’t faze him anymore? “I don’t even know where you’ve been living, dude. Will it be safe? If something happened to Derek, then his place won’t be safe either.”

Peter rumbled again.

“I’m going to take that as agreement,” Stiles decided. “Look, you can’t stay with me—my dad still doesn’t know about werewolves—but if you want, you can come home with me and pick up some sweatpants so you’re not hanging in the wind anymore. You might not care right now, but you’ll thank me when you get your words back and you haven’t been arrested for indecent exposure.”

Peter’s answering rumble sounded vaguely like he was agreeing.

“Come on, then.” Stiles turned and headed back to the path, his mind racing at a mile a minute about what this could mean. Had Chris and Allison called for hunter reinforcements to take out the Hales once and for all? Or maybe Gerard wasn’t as incapacitated as Chris had claimed. It would be just like him to pretend to be out of the picture but end up secretly directing things from behind the scenes.

Stiles had been back on the path for at least a minute when he suddenly realised what he’d done. He came to a halt, staring at the path stretching out in front of him in fascination. Wow. Looked like he hadn’t needed to call for help after all. He only needed to give his brain something else to focus on, and his subconscious was happy to steer him exactly where he wanted to go.

That lifted Stiles’ spirits. His spirits remained lifted until they got to where he’d left his trusty jeep, only to find that it wasn’t there.

“Just what we needed,” said Stiles conversationally to Peter. “I don’t suppose there’s ever a good time for someone to steal your wheels, but if there is, this isn’t it. This sucks. This sucks so hard. It’s a good thing I’ve got my jogging shoes on.” He looked at Peter, still wolfed out, still naked. “I feel like you shouldn’t be running through suburban streets like that. Maybe wait here. When I get home, I’ll call one of the others, and we’ll come and get you.”

Peter made that whining noise again but sat down obediently.

Stiles shook his head. “It’s so crazy to see you just doing what you’re told like this.” He patted Peter on the shoulder. “I’ll be back ASAP.”

Maybe it was the running he’d already done that day, maybe it was something about the fairy circle, but Stiles found himself getting tired a lot quicker than he had expected to. Nonetheless, he kept going. One thing all these supernatural crises had taught him was that dawdling might get people killed and/or sometimes drowned.

It turned out to be a good thing that he wasn’t driving. Being on foot probably made the weirdness easier to notice.

Stiles was the type of person who liked glancing at people’s houses as he went past. On top of just being nosy, he enjoyed coming up with mental stories for the various inhabitants. Like the house with three large trees out front, each with a swing attached. That house clearly had children who weren’t good at sharing.

The house next door to that was dull, but the next one along always had dogs running around. Never fewer than three, sometimes as many as six. Stiles thought that whoever lived there must be a dog trainer or something. Most of the dogs were transient, but two of them were always there. 

Buster and Mopsy, the odd pair, easily identified by the bone-shaped name plaques that dangled from their collars. Buster was a fox terrier who liked to boss all the other dogs around, while Mopsy was a rather shy greyhound. About the time Scott got bitten, Mopsy disappeared for a week and returned missing one of her hind legs.

Today, Mopsy and Buster were joined by a gorgeous red setter, but that wasn’t what attracted Stiles’ attention. Mopsy had all four legs again.

Stiles came to a halt at the gate and stood there, staring at her.

Buster noticed his interest and started yapping, soon joined by the red setter.

The porch light went on, and a small, bent female figure with white hair appeared in the open doorway, emerging from the darkness of the house like a phantasm. She waved. “Did you want something, dear?” Buster and the red setter stopped barking, and all three dogs raced to her side, dancing around her happily.

“Uh…” Stiles looked at Mopsy’s four legs again. “Sorry for lurking; I was distracted by Mopsy’s back leg.”

The lady came slowly forward to peer myopically at him, the dogs remaining at her side. Stiles realised it was probably hard to see him in the dark; the way he was standing, the streetlights shadowed his face. He turned slightly so that she could see him better.

“Oh, you’re the sheriff’s boy!” she exclaimed, relaxing perceptibly. “You’ve noticed something wrong with Mopsy’s leg? I was thinking this morning that she was favouring it slightly, but my son told me I was imagining things. ‘Don’t foist your hypochondria onto the dogs, Mom,’ he said.” She made a rude noise. “I let him persuade me, but if a stranger can see something isn’t right, then I’m going to see what the vet thinks.”

Her son sounded like a dick. “You should always trust your instincts when it comes to your dog’s health,” said Stiles, having heard Deaton tell worried pet owners who’d called for advice something similar several times since Scott had started working at the clinic. “Someone who sees them every day is going to be better able to see small changes that might mean something big is going on behind the scenes, and it’s not like a dog can complain about feeling poorly or having a sore leg or foot.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, that was exactly what I needed to hear.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “What are you doing out and about at this time of night? You’re a bit young to go jogging after midnight.”

Stiles gaped at her. “What? It’s after midnight?”

She laughed at him. “It’s nearly one o’clock. Lost track of time, did you? You boys, always so wrapped up in your own little worlds. Go on then; you’d better get home before your father calls his deputies out to search for you.”

“I will,” said Stiles. “Thanks. See you!” He waved goodbye and, with a renewed sense of urgency, ran towards home. As he ran, he kept his eyes open for other anomalies. Now that he was looking for them, he saw them everywhere.

Fences that were there yesterday had disappeared, and a tree that came down in early January was standing and whole. Combined with Mopsy’s magical re-appearing leg and his sudden lack of physical fitness, things were adding up to a conclusion that was beginning to freak Stiles out.

If he really had travelled back in time, then that wasn’t Peter Hale: resurrected ex-alpha and part of Derek’s pack, that he’d been chatting to and casually ordering around. That was Peter Hale: coma patient, who would one day lure Laura Hale to Beacon Hills so he could murder her for her alpha power, before going on a killing spree.

He had blue eyes, which meant Laura wasn’t dead yet. If Peter wasn’t the alpha, that meant Scott wasn’t a werewolf.

Stiles picked up his pace. He couldn’t wait to get home to find out just what the date was. If he had travelled back in time, then he had the opportunity to ensure that Scott was never bitten. Scott was bitterly resentful of his lycanthropy, and Stiles had the chance to make sure it never happened!

Right now, Peter was probably still out in the Preserve waiting for Stiles to come and get him, just like he’d promised. For a brief moment, Stiles toyed with the idea of just not going back but quickly discarded it. Peter hadn’t been aggressive, had followed Stiles’ instructions without complaint. He’d been almost docile.

What if Stiles could help Peter not become the horrific alpha that he’d been when he’d bitten Scott? Peter’s goal had been to get revenge on the people involved in the death of his pack. If Stiles could nudge his dad into re-opening the case—if he could somehow prove that Kate Argent was implicated—then maybe there wouldn’t need to be a hunter/werewolf stand-off after all.

Things could be so much better!

Whenever the fact that he’d apparently time-travelled tried to send him into a panic spiral, Stiles firmly focused on all the good things he could achieve.

v^v^v

When Stiles made it home, the house was dark. The spare key was in the usual spot, and Stiles was unlocking the back door before it occurred to him that he might be walking into a house that already had a Stiles Stilinski in it. He’d assumed that he’d taken over his younger self’s body, but if that was the case, why was he wearing the clothes he’d put on this morning, in the future? How would that work? If his younger self had just been teleported to the Preserve, why the different clothes?

Heart thudding heavily in his chest, Stiles tried to be as quiet as possible as he walked up the stairs, skipping the two squeaky ones. He hesitated outside his bedroom door, then slowly opened it.

The room was empty. The bed showed signs of being recently slept in, although the mattress was cold, and the police scanner volume was set to low.

Stiles relaxed. All signs pointed to there being only one of him in this time, which was so much better than having to explain to his other self what he was doing here.

The laptop on his desk provided the date.

Stiles had time-travelled an entire year back in time, which…could have been better, could have been worse. It was summer break, which meant that he didn’t have to juggle school with getting to grips with everything and working out what the hell to do.

Stiles already had his provisional licence. He wasn’t supposed to be driving after eleven, but it wasn’t like he’d obeyed that rule before travelling back in time, either.

His keys were where they always were. His jeep was in the garage. Time to go and get Peter and start trying to figure this whole mess out.

v^v^v

Peter was where Stiles had left him and readily put on the sweats Stiles had brought with him—he borrowed them from his father’s room—and got into the jeep when Stiles asked him to.

“That will never not be crazy,” said Stiles, shaking his head. The jeep’s interior light showed the terrible scarring on Peter’s face more clearly, making Stiles wince in sympathy. “What are we going to do with you, dude? This wolf side of you…does it only come out at the full moon? If I take you home, will you be comatose by morning?”

Peter rumbled placidly.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “That was a great help, thank you.” He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. “Do you want me to take you back to the hospital?”

Peter recoiled, snarling.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Peter slowly settled back down.

“At least I know you can understand me.” Stiles sighed. “Okay, I’ll take you home with me. But you’ll have to hide in the footwell or something; the last thing we need is to be pulled over right now. I’m technically not supposed to be driving this late, and too many people here know my face.”

He waited while his strange werewolf companion curled himself up into an area that really didn’t look big enough to fit a full-grown man, blue eyes half-lidded. When Peter looked semi-comfortable, Stiles turned off the interior light and began the drive back to his house.

“I think we’re going to have to tell my dad,” said Stiles, more to himself than to Peter. “We could probably manage without it if I didn’t have to explain what a coma patient was doing in my house. Although, it’s going to be harder without a walking, talking example to show him.” He glanced down at Peter, who was watching attentively, although there was still a strange fog clouding his gaze. “Except for you, and I’m not sure that would be the greatest demonstration.” 

Whenever Stiles had imagined how telling his father would go, having Scott there to simultaneously show that werewolves were a thing and that they weren’t necessarily monsters had always been part of his strategy.

Huh. Scott.

“I wonder if I should call Scott?” Stiles wondered aloud. “Before this latest mess with…everything…I would have called him first thing. But…” Stiles let the thought trail off. 

Scott hadn’t exactly proven himself to be a model of reliability since he’d been bitten. Also, given his vocal bitterness about the supernatural thing, maybe it would be best to …not say anything. He’d already been inclined to blame Stiles since it was Stiles’ idea to go looking for a dead body in the Preserve. How much more would he blame him if he found out Stiles knew all about it and he still somehow got turned into a werewolf?

Stiles sighed. “This is really going to suck.” Especially since there was no way Stiles would be able to spend as much time with Scott as he used to while trying to sort out Beacon Hills’ supernatural issues. Since there was no Allison—yet—to take up all his thoughts, Scott would feel like Stiles abandoned him, and the thought of doing that made something ache in Stiles’ chest. Maybe there was an alternative, maybe—

A perfect solution bloomed in Stiles’ mind. “Isaac! I’ll get him to start hanging out with Isaac! They used to get along great when they were wolfy bros; there’s no reason they wouldn’t get along great as ordinary humans. Then, Scott will bring Isaac’s home situation to Melissa’s attention, and she’ll report his dad for abuse. Problem solved; everyone wins!” He sent a beaming smile at Peter, who rumbled agreeably.

Stiles basked in the glow of a good plan before his thoughts inevitably wound back to his original problem. “Although, that still leaves the problem of my dad.”

Stiles arrived back at his house without a strategy. He ushered Peter inside on autopilot, offering him some leftovers and making hot chocolate.

He watched Peter tuck into his meal, half his mind still working on how he was going to explain everything.

The problem was that Stiles was short on allies right now. The only person in town who could back him up was Deaton, and Stiles didn’t trust him. There was too much ambiguity about his dealings with Scott immediately after he was bitten, followed by the way he’d collaborated with Scott in their plan. Scott wasn’t a deep thinker and might not realise how much of a violation it had been to Derek—enough that it still made Stiles uncomfortable when he thought about it—but Deaton must have known and suggested it anyway.

Stiles didn’t trust Deaton to come to his aid if he wasn’t getting something out of the bargain. He also didn’t trust that Deaton wouldn’t use his time travel knowledge for his own ends, ends that he wouldn’t give Stiles any say in.

His best bets were likely to be Laura and Derek, and he had no way of knowing how to contact either of them. Derek once said they’d stayed off the radar so that the Argents couldn’t find them and finish the job, so he doubted it would be as simple as looking them up on Facebook.

The sound of the cruiser pulling into the driveway broke Stiles out of his thoughts. He was out of time, looked like he would have to wing it.

Chapter two

Getting Noah to believe his crazy story was easier than he thought it would be. 

It was one of those occasions when Stiles’ habit of looking through recently closed files when doing the station filing came in handy. He might not have memorised any helpful lottery numbers—which he was kicking himself about now—but he was familiar with the current unsolved cases, knew where to find as yet undiscovered evidence and who had eventually been arrested for the crimes.

Peter, with his electric blue eyes, lack of eyebrows, and substantial mutton chops, was also a compelling proof. He’d been a little wary when Noah arrived but soon settled down. He fell asleep on the couch halfway through Stiles’ story, at which point his beta shift faded.

Peter Hale, in all his burnt, unconscious glory, was revealed.

Stiles finally finished his brief overview of everything that had happened since half a body had been found in the Preserve and slumped into his chair. He was so tired.

Noah stared at Peter. “Are you sure he doesn’t need to be in a hospital?”

Stiles shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea. I don’t think so. It would probably be best to check with Laura or Derek, if you can find them.”

“The hospital file will have some way to contact them,” said Noah. “Either them or a proxy that they’ve appointed.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes tiredly. “We can’t just keep a man who’s supposed to be hospitalised here without authorisation from his next of kin.”

“If you can get the number, I can do the talking,” offered Stiles. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to convince them that we’re not hunters.”

Noah raised his eyebrows. “What happens if they think we’re hunters?”

“They either disappear and we never find them again, or they decide the best defence is a good offence.” Stiles glanced back at Peter. “It might help our case if you opened the file on the Hale Fire again. If you like, I’ll send all my future knowledge to you as an ‘anonymous tip.’ The Argents aren’t in town right now; if we play our cards right, they’ll stay away. It won’t take long; I can get it done before you go in tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll open the Hale case regardless,” Noah promised. “It always sat wrong with me, that verdict. I’d be glad to get some justice for the Hales, as late as it is.” He sighed. “You really think an open investigation will stop these hunters from waltzing into town?”

“I can hope.” Stiles slumped in his seat, picking at his fingernails. “They’re the worst, Dad. They kill and torture and don’t even care, and their victims can’t complain because they have to keep the secret. Hunters hold that above their heads, the knowledge that all it would take is a half-decent expose, and normal people would get all whipped up and fearful. Humans are far worse monsters than any of the werewolves I’ve known. Even Peter on his worst day—including when he was on his insane killing spree—was less horrific than the Argents turned out to be in general.”

“They sound like psychopaths,” agreed Noah. “As much as I disagree with acting outside the law, murdering someone who is a danger to the public and who can’t be brought up on charges is a somewhat understandable action. Torture, however, is not. Ever.” His eyes narrowed. “And if that bastard, Gerard Argent, comes near you again, I’ll shoot him myself.”

v^v^v

Concerns about how they would care for Peter while he was unconscious resolved themselves later that day. He woke just after lunch, while Stiles was preparing a casserole for dinner, and came to find him.

Noah had left for the station after taking a quick afternoon nap. He promised to call when the hospital reported Peter missing and said he’d be home for dinner. Stiles nodded, too used to being disappointed on that score to bother preparing anything that couldn’t survive being reheated.

It was more good luck than good management that Stiles wasn’t holding a knife when he noticed Peter hovering in the doorway. Having not heard any movement, Stiles nearly went through the roof, which in turn made Peter agitated.

Stiles took several deep breaths to settle his racing heart, observing with interest that Peter’s increasing calm was directly comparative. It was like Peter was an emotional weathervane, mirroring what was in front of him. He was once again in his beta form, his werewolf side active while his human side slept. 

That the human side remained sleeping even outside of the full moon made Stiles suspicious. Surely, if Peter was awake, all of him should be awake?

“Hey there,” Stiles said to the werewolf hovering in the doorway. “You hungry? Thirsty? Help yourself, dude. Or, if you prefer, take a seat at the dining room table, and I’ll throw something together for you.”

Peter immediately sat down, looking hopeful.

Stiles squinted at him, wondering if it was his imagination that his eyes were less cloudy this morning. “I have no idea what you want or don’t want, so how about we go about this scientifically? Meanwhile, here’s a glass of water.”

After some trial and error, Stiles learned that Peter wanted animal protein and green vegetables. He avoided fruit and other sweet things and showed no interest in starchy vegetables, pasta, or tofu.

Aside from his unwillingness to help himself to food, Peter seemed otherwise able to take care of himself. He went upstairs to take care of his hygiene and then settled down happily on the couch. He remained there quietly so long as Stiles left the door into the kitchen open.

Before long, he was silent and still again; beta shift melted back into his human face. The stillness was eerie enough that Stiles found a feather and suspended it from a string so it dangled just above Peter’s face. Even as gentle as Peter’s breathing was, the feather moved enough in response to calm Stiles’ nerves.

When he’d finished his meal preparation, Stiles came into the lounge and just sat with Peter for a while. It might have been his mind playing tricks on him, but it seemed as if the scarring wasn’t quite as bad as it had been the previous night.

So far, nothing from the hospital. That might mean that the staff didn’t bother checking on Peter, or maybe he was in the habit of being absent during the full moons, and no one was worried that he hadn’t returned. Either way, it was unacceptable.

Hopefully, his dad could get Laura and Derek’s contact details because there was obviously something rotten in the county of Beacon Hills. Now was as good a time as any to find and flush it; before it could do more than stink.

With that in mind, Stiles opened his laptop. Time to get up to speed.

v^v^v

Stiles had become so used to Scott having better things to do than hang out with him that it didn’t occur to him that a year ago, they’d spent nearly all of their free time together. So, he was unprepared when his afternoon of researching recent Argent movements was interrupted by a call from Scott, wondering if he’d forgotten their Street Fighter plans.

“Yeah, I got kinda busy with something else,” said Stiles, mind working quickly. 

He didn’t want to leave Peter here alone, and since he’d already decided not to get Scott involved with werewolf business, he couldn’t give an explanation without lying. He really didn’t want to spend all his time lying to Scott; just thinking of it made him feel like a terrible person.

He needed to point Scott’s attention elsewhere. Getting him invested in Isaac would be difficult outside of school; most of the ways Stiles could think of to cross Isaac’s path would have him coming off looking like some nutter. Unless…

What if he leaned into the nutter thing? Told Scott he’d had a dream about someone who needed their friendship and just…let them bond over how weird Stiles was? It would still be lying, but only a little lie. Or not even a lie, more of a re-imagining. The facts were true, after all, and where he got the information was just window dressing.

Wow, now Stiles was even lying to himself! But it was a quick and painless way to get everyone moving in the directions he needed them to be moving in, so Stiles swallowed down the nausea and committed to it.

No time like the present.

“I had this crazy dream,” said Stiles, rolling right into it. He minimised the browser window he was working in and brought up a new one, opening his social media accounts and doing a search for Isaac. “My mom appeared to me—wearing something that looked like a dollar store reject fairy outfit, of all the crazy things—and told me that there was a kid in our town who needed our help. What do you know about Isaac Lahey?”

v^v^v

It took some creative bullshit, but Scott was successfully diverted, giving Stiles more time to continue the research he was conducting. He probably shouldn’t find it as funny as he did that Scott was creeped out enough by Stiles’ ‘dream’ to want to distance himself slightly.

If Stiles was still the person he’d been Before Werewolf Fuckery, and if it had been a real dream and Scott had reacted that way, Stiles would have been emotionally wounded. As it was, current-day Stiles was glad that Scott’s withdrawal would keep him safe. Hopefully, he’d made Isaac and his situation intriguing enough for Scott to follow up on; if not, he’d have to think of something else.

Noah arrived home at six, which was a pleasant surprise. Stiles didn’t say anything, but Noah must have noticed his raised eyebrows.

“Don’t think that I didn’t pick up on how easy my bad working habits made it for you to hide a whole werewolf versus hunter war in this town,” Noah explained over dinner.

It was the first time in ages that Stiles could remember them sitting down to eat together without him having to make a considerable effort to ensure his dad was home for it. As proud as he was of his dad’s dedication to justice, knowing that spending time together wasn’t a priority had definitely been damaging to his self-esteem. After all, if even his own father couldn’t be bothered with him, why would anyone else?

Noah pushed a piece of carrot around his plate with his fork. “I spent the day taking a good hard look at the situation at the station. There’s no reason I should be working the hours I do. No other sheriff works rotating shifts, taking routine patrols. I’ve made an appointment with the mayor to discuss increasing our funding, either from local sources or state subsidies. I’ve decided I’m no longer willing to work myself and my deputies to the bone when it’s glaringly obvious that we need more staff.”

Stiles beamed at him. “That’s great! If you like, I can put together a spreadsheet with comparative information from nearby counties to help your case?”

Noah nodded, his mouth quirked in a smile. “That would be wonderful, provided the numbers worked in our favour.”

“They absolutely do,” Stiles assured him. “I made a whole presentation when Mr Whittemore got you suspended. It proved that our sheriff’s department was run on half a tatty shoestring and the smell of an oily rag, and it had some great graphics. I was particularly proud of the slides showing the number of deputies and the amount of work they do, compared to the number of reported crimes. It clearly showed that there just weren’t enough working hours available in the department. I even included excerpts from a couple of studies into the increased effectiveness of properly rested and motivated law enforcement and the societal benefits of a competently policed population.”

“Did it work?” asked Noah.

Stiles shrugged, letting his gaze drop to where his fingers traced the wood grain on the table. “I don’t know; I never showed it to you.”

There was a brief silence.

“I’ll take you up on that offer; it sounds just like what I need,” said Noah. He swirled his fork around in the mess left on his plate after picking out all the chicken pieces. He stabbed at another piece of carrot and looked at it dubiously.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “The vegetables aren’t going to attack you, Dad.”

“I just don’t see why there have to be so many of them,” Noah complained. “Oh, and before I forget, I managed to get a mobile number for Laura Hale.”

“Excellent!” Stiles rubbed his hands together in glee. “I’ve already worked out the best way to prove we’re not hunters.”

“Oh?”

“Yep! I’ll wait till Peter gets up to eat and drink and then switch to video call.”

Noah chewed his carrot thoughtfully. “Is Facetime secure enough for that?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “If we used it a lot, then it might be worth someone’s while to work on hacking the encryption, but for a one-off call? I’m not worried.”

“Good luck then.”

v^v^v

Stiles spent most of the evening and deep into the night recreating the PowerPoint presentation he’d made back before his fun mambo through the mushrooms. It was much easier than last time; he already knew where to find the information and remembered how to display it to achieve the effect he wanted.

The most significant difficulty was not allowing himself to get distracted by other things. He really wanted his dad to get better working conditions, but it was like re-doing an assignment—so incredibly boring. In the end, he worked out a reward system for himself; for every slide or graph he completed, he’d allow himself to work for twenty minutes on his new project: connecting Argent presence with ‘animal attacks’ and other strange deaths.

Hopefully, there would be enough information for his dad to take action. In turn, that should keep the Argents out of Beacon Hills and away from Scott.

He finished the presentation at three in the morning and sent it to his dad’s email address with a bulleted list of talking points. At five, he was still combing through local newspaper archives for some of the towns that he’d been able to trace Argent presences to.

He woke at ten to find he’d been moved to his bed. There was a note on his bedside table:

I’m getting too old to carry you to bed. I’ve taken the shopping list off the fridge; I’ll stop by the grocery store on my way home. I’ll see you for dinner; good luck with your plans for the day.

Stiles read the note twice, wallowing in the feeling of being cared for and allowing himself to hope that this time, the dinner plans would actually happen. He wanted to call Scott and tell him, but held himself back. He’d just have to remember, and tell him once the supernatural business was out of the way.

When Stiles made it downstairs, Peter was still unconscious on the couch where Stiles had left him the night before. The feather remained in place, wafting to and fro on the gentle breeze of his breath.

Stiles helped himself to the coffee his wonderful father had left in the pot. He ignored the familiar slightly burnt flavour with the skill of someone whose first taste of coffee had been the terrible stuff served at the station. That done, he got to work on preparing food for when Peter would inevitably wake.

Half an hour later, Peter was eating, wolfed out, at the kitchen table, and Stiles was sitting next to him, waiting for Laura Hale to answer her phone. He’d already sent a text introducing himself and explaining that he needed to talk about Peter; hopefully, that would be enough to convince her to engage.

The call connected.

Laura Hale was beautiful, which didn’t surprise Stiles in the slightest. Her eyes were wary, her expression polite. “Hello, Stiles, was it? Why do you want to talk to me about my uncle?”

Stiles waved. “Hi, Laura. Yeah, I’m Stiles. And hey, look who else is here?” He angled the phone so that the camera included Peter, who’d stopped eating and was looking at the phone with confusion. “I found him in the Preserve the other night. You know, the full moon. When I asked him if he wanted to be taken back to the hospital, he—”

Peter growled, eyes flashing.

“Yeah,” Stiles continued. “He did that. So, I brought him home with me. When he’s not eating and taking a shower, he’s motionless on our couch, looking like a burn victim/coma patient who should really be…” He glanced at Peter, who’d calmed down again and had gone back to staring at the phone. “…you know, being taken care of in the big H.”

Laura’s polite façade had crumbled into shock and hope. “Peter? But Deaton said that there were no signs of improvement. How are you—”

Peter whined low in his throat and leaned in, sniffing the phone frantically, looking distraught.

“Alan Deaton, the vet?” repeated Stiles, suspicion rising. “He’s been keeping you updated about Peter’s well-being?”

“Yes, he was my mother’s…friend. He promised to let me know if anything changed, but… Wait.” Laura’s eyes narrowed. “Peter’s been with you since the full moon? That was two nights ago! Why weren’t we notified that he’s not in the hospital?”

Peter growled again, although this time, it was more subdued.

“I have no idea,” admitted Stiles. “Look, it’s not my place to tell you what to do, but if I were you, I wouldn’t trust Alan Deaton to tell me whether it was raining outside. I’m unsure what his agenda is, but I don’t think it benefits you or your brother.”

Peter rumbled.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, or you, Peter. Anyway, I mainly called you because Peter doesn’t want to go back, and if he’s caught here, my dad is gonna get in trouble for kidnapping or something. I know you guys probably don’t want to come back here, but it would help if you could either sign him into our custody or come and get him yourselves.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You should probably also know that my dad has reopened the case on the fire that killed your family. He’ll probably want to interview you both. My dad, the sheriff.”

Laura scowled fiercely, looking so much like Derek that Stiles found some of his tension ebbing at the familiarity. “What do you have against Deaton?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Aside from his obvious lying when it comes to Peter? I have my reasons not to trust him, but if I tell you what they are, you’re going to think I’m a nutcase.”

“Try me.”

Stiles eyed her. “Even if you don’t believe me, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread my story around.”

“I can agree to that.”

Stiles took a deep breath. “I recently had an incident with a fairy ring where I somehow time-travelled into my younger self,” he said. As much as he didn’t like sharing this with a stranger, there really was no other way to explain why he didn’t like Deaton. Besides, Stiles was banking on Laura being like Derek, and Derek hadn’t been interested in flapping his gums about anything. He preferred to let his eyebrows do the talking, and even as eloquent as they were, it would be hard to read ‘Time Travel’ in them.

“I only travelled a year,” Stiles continued, “but a lot has happened in that time. The cliff notes go something like this: You, Laura, returned to Beacon Hills to investigate some strange reports you’d been getting. Peter killed you—although we didn’t know that it was Peter since he was still supposed to be in a coma—to become the alpha, and then bit my best friend, Scott. FYI, at the time, Scott worked at the vet clinic. Deaton was his boss. Despite all his inside knowledge, he ignored the whole situation.

“Meanwhile, sometime around December or January, Chris and Victoria Argent moved here, bringing their daughter Allison, who is in the same year at school as me and Scott. Scott, who’d gone from being an asthmatic bench-warming loser to the lacrosse star in the space of a week, took one look at her and decided they were soulmates. Allison seemed to agree. Spoiler alert: Chris and Victoria were not over the moon.”

Laura winced. Stiles didn’t know if it was because of the obvious upcoming train wreck with Scott and Allison or if she didn’t like puns. Too bad either way.

“A bunch of stuff happened. Derek came to town to find out what was going on and why you were dead. Scott and I were clueless about werewolves, and since Derek was the only werewolf we could find, we didn’t trust him.” Stiles sighed, wondering how things might have gone if he and Scott hadn’t been so sure that Derek was no good. “There was a lot of trial and error, and the alpha was killing people all over town and trying to get Scott to help him. Keeping him from going off the deep end was a nightmare.”

“It sounds tough,” Laura said, sounding slightly impressed. “You did well to keep him stable,” she added.

“It was crazy and scary, and Deaton didn’t bother helping Scott at all. He didn’t help Derek, either. He continued not helping Derek, even after Derek killed Peter and became the alpha. Then, a couple of months before I did my weird time-travel thing, Deaton and Scott conspired to force Derek to bite Gerard Argent, who had inoperable cancer and wanted to be cured.”

Laura’s eyes flashed red. “They what?”

“I know,” agreed Stiles. “When I realised what he’d done…” He sighed. “Scott has always been a good person, one of the best people I know. But now I don’t think I’ll ever look at him the same way again.” He thought about how Derek had withdrawn into himself even further; Scott’s excuses, his lack of remorse for what he’d done, his pride in his ‘Master Plan.’ “That was nearly two months ago, my time. Since then, he’s been busy, and I started trying to get in shape. Then, I somehow wound up back here with a Peter who doesn’t seem crazy. He’s just…disconnected, I think.”

Laura took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know if we should come back right away or avoid Beacon Hills for the rest of our lives.”

Stiles frowned. “Okay, I get that it’s scary and the things I’ve told you aren’t nice. But don’t you think you owe Peter a little consideration here?”

“Excuse me?”

“Peter,” Stiles repeated. “He’s part of your pack, isn’t he? Come to think of it, why the hell is he here while the two of you are on a whole other coast? That can’t be good for him.”

“Deaton said—” Laura broke off and closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, they were filled with grief. “You’re right. We’ll get the next flight out.”

She rang off as soon as she’d obtained the Stilinski’s address.

Stiles dropped the phone onto the table and regarded Peter with satisfaction. “Who’s awesome? I’m awesome. Go on, finish your food.”

Peter obediently went back to eating.

v^v^v

Stiles woke early the following day to the sound of heavy rain. That was unusual; summer storms weren’t exactly common, and there had been no mention of anything odd in the weather forecast.

The hair on his arms was prickling, and Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might be watching him.

Since he wasn’t going to be getting back to sleep anytime soon, Stiles decided to get up and keep Peter company in the living room. He prepared a pot of coffee in anticipation of his dad’s awakening and set his laptop up at the dining room table. He’d just opened his web browser when there was a loud knock at the door.

It wasn’t even seven in the morning yet.

“I bet it’s Laura and Derek,” Stiles said conversationally to Peter as he got to his feet. “It would make sense; they’re knocking now because they can tell I’m awake.” He opened the front door.

He recognised Laura and Derek—Sourwolf looked so much younger without the scruff that Stiles was used to—but not the other two people accompanying them. The taller of the two was wearing what looked like a brown leather hood hiding their face; the shorter one was a woman who looked to be somewhere between Stiles and Derek in age.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “You brought friends.”

“It seemed prudent since we didn’t know what we’d be getting into,” Laura replied. “Are you going to let us in? I want to see Peter.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce your friends?” Stiles returned. Dealing with Derek had taught him that if you gave a werewolf an inch, they’d take a mile. Given Derek’s habit of arriving to ask for help by crawling in Stiles’ bedroom window rather than using the front door, perhaps he shouldn’t find Laura’s lack of etiquette surprising. Anyway, best to insist on respect from the start.

Laura gestured to the person wearing the hood first. “This is Master Chen, one of the most respected magic users in the world, and his apprentice, Amatia. They’ve come a long way in a very short time, and it’s rude to keep them waiting on the doorstep in the rain.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You’re not my alpha, Laura Hale. I’m the person who did you a favour by taking in your wounded pack member and notifying you of a possible problem. Asking to be introduced to someone before allowing them into my house isn’t rude; what’s rude is arriving on my doorstep at seven in the morning with strangers in tow without informing me that the plan had changed.”

“Ha!” Master Chen lifted a hand and drew back his hood, revealing a handsome man of indeterminate age. As far as Stiles could judge, he was anywhere from thirty to seventy years old. “Interesting. You have strength, young one. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Master Chen; this is my apprentice, Amatia. We mean no harm to champions of the just.” He inclined his head, and the woman beside him gave a short bow.

Stiles blinked. He had no idea what the protocol was, but he felt that their greeting required a formal response. “I’m known as Stiles; this house belongs to my father, Sheriff Noah Stilinski. Welcome.” He stepped back and ushered them, glancing at Laura as she passed him. She was giving him the sort of low-eyebrowed glare he was used to seeing on a more masculine face. In contrast, Derek’s face was carefully blank, an expression Stiles had only seen him wear when Scott was making a particularly amusing fool of himself.

To Stiles’ disappointment, Peter didn’t react at all to the presence of Laura or Derek.

“There’s definitely something wrong,” Laura murmured, running a gentle hand over the facial scarring. “If he can heal this much, he should be awake and aware.”

“You were right to call me,” said Master Chen, examining Peter closely. “Magic is at work here.” He glanced up at Laura. “I need access to his blood.”

Laura nodded, transforming a single fingernail into a claw and slicing open Peter’s unresisting palm.

“Give me some cover,” Master Chen said to Amatia. He dipped his index finger in Peter’s blood and brought it to his face. At first, Stiles thought he would taste it, but he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Lightning flickered through the room, and thunder crashed outside.

As the thunder receded, the sound of water rushing through pipes told Stiles that his dad was up and getting ready for work.

Master Chen sighed, then smeared the blood from his finger on Peter’s forehead. 

Peter’s eyes flew open, but there was even less comprehension than Stiles was used to seeing when he was shifted.

“A blood binding,” said Master Chen, “interwoven with an adrenaline enhancer. Someone has primed him to be an instinctual pressure bomb, just waiting for the right circumstances to ignite his fuse.”

“I still can’t sense him,” said Laura. “I can see that he’s alive and healing, but all my instincts tell me he’s as good as dead. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Not if he was the only one bound,” agreed Master Chen. “Would you allow me to test you and your beta?”

Laura’s eyes narrowed. “Is this going to cost more? You only agreed to treat Peter.”

Master Chen stared at her. “Is not peace of mind worth any cost? Are you a dragon, to be content with your hoarded wealth whilst your pack may labour beneath an enchantment?”

“That depends on the cost,” countered Laura. “My mother taught me never to agree to any magic use without getting the terms spelt out beforehand.”

The haggling that followed was a bit of an eye-opener. They were still at it when Noah came downstairs. He poured himself a coffee, raising his eyebrows at Stiles.

“Don’t ask me,” said Stiles before explaining who everyone was. “Want me to make you some toast?”

“No thanks,” said Noah, leaning against the door frame. “I’ll get a bagel from the little place just down from the station. On Saturday, they have those salmon and avocado ones you don’t mind me having, and if I leave soon, I should get there early enough to get one. Hello, Derek. Nice to see you again.”

Derek ducked his head slightly. “Hi, Sheriff.” He looked back at Peter, who was staring at the ceiling.

“Derek didn’t say hello to me,” said Stiles. “What’s wrong, Sourwolf? Cat got your tongue?” He frowned. “Come to think of it, this is the first time you’ve said anything. I know you prefer to let your eyebrows do your talking, but it is okay to speak to people, you know.”

Derek shrugged uncomfortably. “Laura is better at talking to people than I am.”

“Understatement,” Stiles muttered, dodging out of the way of his father’s half-hearted poke in the ribs. “What? He never talks! Why is it my fault for noticing?”

Noah sighed. “Forgive my son,” he said to Derek. “He has open mouth syndrome.”

Stiles would have objected, but he was distracted by Laura and Master Chen shaking hands to signal an end to their negotiation.

“Come on, Derek,” said Laura, turning to her brother with a frown. “Master Chen needs a blood sample from us both.”

Derek nodded, his expression going blank again. This time, though, it felt different: less amused and more…blank. He offered his hand to his sister without comment or objection, letting her cut him without blinking an eye.

Stiles started to feel uneasy. This wasn’t the Derek Hale he’d come to know and rely on to be there to save his life. He’d never thought much about what Derek’s life in New York with Laura had been like. If he’d had to guess, he would have said that it was fine, that Derek and Laura had supported each other in their grief and lived relatively harmoniously until Laura was lured back to Beacon Hills to be murdered.

That was not what he was seeing right now. If anything, Derek looked more repressed than ever. Something needed to be done, but it should probably wait until after Peter was dealt with.

Noah finished his coffee, passing his empty cup to Stiles. “I have to be on my way. Call me if you need me, but try not to need me—at least until lunchtime. My meeting with the mayor is at ten, and I want to get as much paperwork done beforehand as possible.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Stiles. “Good luck.”

When Stiles turned back to the action, it was to see Master Chen doing that weird sniffing thing as lightning flashed and thunder crashed. Stiles was starting to notice a pattern.

“What’s with all the crazy thunderstorm stuff?” he asked Amatia, who was watching Master Chen intently. “Are you guys doing that?”

“Of course we are,” she replied, not looking away. “Don’t distract me.”

Master Chen frowned. “There is outside magic on all three of you, although Derek shows more residue than actual spellwork. Someone with access to your willingly-given blood has worked sympathetic resonance spells.”

Chapter three

Laura’s eyes flashed red. “Can you break the spells?” There was a sub-vocal growl underneath her words that Stiles hadn’t heard with either Peter or Derek.

Master Chen frowned at her. “A basic cleansing ritual would clear the effects, but that doesn’t solve the underlying issue.”

“Whoever it is has Hale pack blood,” Stiles realised. “If they’re smart, they’ll have kept a stockpile. As soon as they discover their spells aren’t working anymore, they can cast new ones.”

Master Chen gave him an approving nod. “Exactly. While whoever cast these spells has any of your blood in their possession, you will remain vulnerable.”

Stiles’ mind worked furiously. “Even if we knew who was responsible, destroying the blood might not be possible. Anyway, what if they’ve got more than one sample, in more than one location? If it were me making a move like this against a werewolf pack, I’d ensure I had backups, even backups of backups.” He already knew who he was nominating as most likely villain. “The only way you can be sure you’ve freed yourselves permanently is to render any remaining blood obsolete.” He looked up at Master Chen. “Is there some way to change their blood so the resonance no longer works?”

Master Chen inclined his head. “There is. Whether those present are willing to do what is necessary, to take the risk…that is another matter.”

Laura had started pacing in a tight circle. “It’s that bastard, Deaton; I know it is. He’s the only one who has our blood. He was our Emissary! We gave it to him ourselves!” Coming to a halt beside Peter, she took a deep breath and let it out again. “What’s involved in changing our blood?”

“You will have to undertake a blood connection, preferably to another supernatural being.”

Laura baulked. “I can’t do that! Blood connections are transformative; it’s how lycanthropy is passed on in the first place. Would we even be werewolves anymore? The Hale lineage is ancient; we have a legacy to maintain!”

Master Chen shrugged. “Blood connections are unpredictable; transformation is only one of the possible outcomes. Whether it’s transformative depends on the entity you choose to link with.

“You must consider if it would be worth the risk of losing your lycanthropy, the legacy tied to your name, to be safe from the one who has harmed you. If you become inconvenient while under their power, they are perfectly positioned to wipe out that legacy you’re so proud of in a single moment.”

Derek looked at the ground, lips pressed together in a hard line. He didn’t offer a comment, and Laura didn’t ask him for one.

Laura’s eyes flashed red again. “How could we be certain that we wouldn’t end up under someone else’s control, someone worse?”

“You can’t,” said Master Chen simply. “There are no certainties in life. But wouldn’t you rather take the chance to escape? Unless you think sitting in your bindings without even attempting to fight is a better choice. Is that the legacy you want to preserve?”

Laura pursed her lips, eyes narrowed. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed. “You’re right. A Hale submits only to a worthy alpha. If I want to be deserving of that title, I must first and foremost take care of my pack.” She looked at Peter again. “His heart rate is increasing.”

Almost before she finished speaking, Peter had shifted into his beta form and lunged off the couch towards her. She stumbled backwards in shock.

Stiles—who’d half expected something like this as soon as he realised that Peter must have been under Deaton’s control when he’d killed Laura in the old timeline—stepped in front of him. “Peter!” he said sharply. “Look at me!” He reached out and grabbed Peter’s head, holding it so he was forced to look Stiles in the face. “Calm down.”

The speed at which Peter went from murderous werewolf back to the placid beta Stiles had been dealing with for the last couple of days was startling.

“Laura,” said Stiles, still holding Peter’s gaze, “your physical presence is obviously some kind of trigger for him. It would be best if you left the room for now.”

“But—”

“Get out!” Stiles shouted, not inclined to argue over something so self-evident. “Derek, come here for a second. I want to see how he reacts to you.”

“Please, Mr Hale, follow the young man’s instructions,” said Master Chen, his imperturbable calm unshaken. “Alpha Hale, you should instruct your beta to cooperate with our host. It will be enlightening to see what behaviours have been embedded into your uncle.”

“Fine,” Laura grated. “Derek, do as they say.” She didn’t quite stomp out, but her footfalls were louder than they needed to be.

Stiles waited until he heard the door close behind her. “Okay, Peter,” he said. “I’m going to let go of you for a moment. If it looks like you’re reacting badly, I’ll grab you again, okay?”

Peter blinked at him with that familiar, agreeable rumble.

Stiles let his hands fall and looked over at Derek, who was staring at Peter with an intense expression that probably looked like an angry glare to anyone less familiar with Derek’s eyebrows than Stiles was.

When Peter didn’t immediately go nuts, Derek came closer. “Hello, Uncle Peter.”

Peter sniffed the air and gave a vaguely interrogative rumble. Then he pulled out of Stiles’ hands and turned towards the stairs.

Derek looked faintly alarmed. “Where’s he going?”

“He only wakes up once a day,” replied Stiles. “Normally around lunchtime. I wonder if Laura’s presence changed that? He goes upstairs to the bathroom, and when he’s done, he comes back down to eat. Then he sleeps again. Aside from the occasional noises, it’s like he’s on auto-pilot.”

“It’s fascinating,” murmured Master Chen. “I’ve never seen a werewolf’s conscious mind reduced this far before.”

Stiles glared at him. “It’s creepy, and if someone did it on purpose, it’s also disgusting and horrific.”

Master Chen inclined his head. “I agree. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not also a remarkable insight into werewolf nature. This beta, who has been through terrible trauma and has been both cut off from his pack and influenced to attack his alpha, is still functional. I would not have expected it, not with his consciousness smothered so much, so far beyond anything I’ve ever seen. The accepted theory has always been that a beta with no pack ties—an omega—rides the edge of insanity. This indicates otherwise.”

Derek cleared his throat. “Laura wants to come back inside.”

“Tell her that unless she wants to fight Peter to the death, she can wait outside until he’s finished eating and gone back to sleep,” replied Stiles, still unnerved by this almost quiescent version of Derek. “If she’s bored, there’s always Candy Crush.”

Then Stiles realised how ridiculous it was to ask Derek to pass messages like this, as if Laura couldn’t hear him perfectly well. He stopped talking to Derek and addressed the rest of his comments to the window. “Look, Laura, it’s not like being outside will stop you from knowing what’s happening.”

Derek winced.

Stiles took pity on him. “C’mon, Derek. Help me get some food sorted out so that Sleeper-wolf can stuff his face when he’s ready to return downstairs.”

v^v^v

Peter picked at his food for half an hour before resuming his place on the couch. He completely ignored Derek, who spent the whole time watching from the doorway with that intense expression on his face.

As soon as Peter dropped into unconsciousness, Stiles told Laura that she could come back in. When she did, she didn’t look happy.

Stiles really didn’t care. “Have you come to a decision?”

Laura’s scowl was impressive. Someone obviously didn’t like feeling left out. “How would we go about finding a suitable person who’d be willing to link with the three of us?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “For a start, maybe look at the people you know. If the Hale pack is as old and respected as you say, you should have allies you can call on, right?”

Laura stared at him like he’d started speaking a foreign language. “Allies?”

“Yes, those people who can be counted on to fight on your side? People who owe you a favour, even?”

“I know what allies are!” Laura looked away. “My mother hadn’t yet shared that information with me.”

“Is there no information in the vault?”

“What vault?”

Stiles didn’t know if she was being deliberately obtuse to see how much he knew, or if she really had no idea. Before he could probe any deeper, Stiles’ phone rang with Scott’s ringtone. “Hang on, I need to answer this.” He turned away for the illusion of privacy, nearly fumbling in his eagerness to answer. “Hi, Scott.”

“Stiles!” greeted Scott. “Have you seen the weather? It’s wild! Isaac and I were going to go mini-golfing, but it’s raining so hard that we changed it to laser tag. There’s a two-hour session starting in half an hour with room for some people; want to come? Mom can drop us off, and Isaac’s dad will pick us up.”

“That sounds like fun,” Stiles said, feeling regretful. It did sound like fun. “But I can’t; I’m busy with something right now. Maybe another time.”

Scott made a frustrated noise. “I wish you would tell me what you’re doing that’s so secret.”

“Well, I can’t,” replied Stiles. Then, because he felt he should give Scott something, he added, “Not right now, anyway. It’s not my secret.”

“At least you’re admitting that there is a secret,” said Scott, sounding mollified. “Fine. I’ll talk to you later.”

Stiles disconnected the call with a sigh. He knew that the distance he’d put between them was confusing and hurting Scott, but he just didn’t know how else to handle it. It hurt him, too, but that was okay since it was his fault.

“What vault,” Laura repeated, an edge to her voice.

“The vault with all the stuff,” Stiles explained, wondering if it was too soon to throw this all in and go be a hermit in the forest. Or maybe that should be too late? “Your family vault.”

Laura turned to Derek, raising an eyebrow. Derek shook his head.

Stiles groaned. “I guess that explains why Derek didn’t say anything about it.” He ran a hand over his face. “As you’ve undoubtedly gathered, there’s a vault somewhere in Beacon Hills. Before you ask, I’ve never been inside; I don’t even know where it is. Peter does, but,” he waved a hand in Peter’s direction, “as you can see, he’s not really in a state to be telling us about it. The only reason I know it exists is that I overheard Peter say something to Derek.”

“So, it’s useless to us,” concluded Laura.

Stiles shrugged. “Right now, yes. Once Peter’s awake and sane, he can fill you in, show you where it is.”

Master Chen had been watching them. “I admit I am slightly confused. How is it that you have so much knowledge, Mr Stilinski? You are too young to have been brought into the Hale’s confidence before the fire.”

Stiles glanced at Laura. “You didn’t tell him?”

“It wasn’t his business, and you asked us to be discreet.”

“I did, didn’t I? Thanks. I appreciate it.” Stiles turned back to Master Chen. “I had a bit of a time travel accident the other day.”

Master Chen’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of time travel?”

“As far as I can tell, the kind you get by blundering into a fairy circle.”

“And it was completely unintentional? There was no thought in your mind that you might use the fairy circle for such a purpose?”

“I didn’t know fairy circles were a thing,” admitted Stiles. “I didn’t even know I’d time travelled at all until I was on the way home and saw a dog that had managed to mysteriously re-grow an amputated leg. In retrospect, the second full moon in a fortnight should have been a bigger clue.”

Amatia was staring at him as if he were an unusual and slightly repugnant life form that she needed information on. “The second full moon in a fortnight wasn’t worth your notice?”

Stiles shrugged. “I know it’s not normal; I guess it’s just the kind of thing that might happen in Beacon Hills. Regrowing limbs on average, everyday dogs? Not so much.”

Master Chen’s mouth twitched. “I assure you that it is far easier to regrow a missing limb than to alter the course of the celestial bodies.” His face grew more serious. “Time travel of any kind is fraught with peril; those who attempt it often go insane.”

“Great,” Stiles muttered. “Something to look forward to.”

“It seems that something—or someone—has intervened to spare you this fate. For what purpose or reason remains to be seen.” Master Chen steepled his hands together under his chin. “Was this fairy ring located very far from here?”

“It was about three miles southwest of the old Hale House,” replied Stiles. “I’m not sure if it was on the Hale land or the Preserve; the boundary in that area isn’t marked particularly well, and several running tracks cross over around there.”

“Ah.” Master Chen turned towards Laura. “To answer your earlier question, I believe your best option for a blood connection is in this room. This young man has a strong gift slumbering within him. What exactly that may be, I cannot tell, and would not if I could. But he has been touched by fairies connected to the Hale territory and survived, and he has already given great assistance to you and your pack.”

“Wait,” said Stiles before Laura could reply. “Sorry to correct you, but I don’t have any special powers, okay? I’m an ordinary human. I don’t see how linking with me would affect werewolf blood at all. Wouldn’t it just make me a werewolf? Also, I’m underage. I can’t do anything like this without my dad’s permission.”

“You say you have no special powers? In the short time since we met, I’ve seen you stand up to an alpha werewolf and step in front of an attacking beta—not in control of himself—redirecting him from his purpose. Both listened to your words. Now you tell me you trespassed on a fairy circle, time travelled and survived? Without being turned into some eldritch monster? No. Whatever you might be, ordinary is something you are not.”

Laura frowned at Master Chen. “You truly think it would be wise?”

“I think this young man has already proven himself capable and brave. Also, he has knowledge of your pack that you might find beneficial.”

“What’s in it for him, though?” asked Derek, staring at the floor. “He doesn’t owe us anything. The shoe is already well and truly on the other foot.”

Laura’s eyes flashed red, but Master Chen raised his hand and forestalled whatever she opened her mouth to say. “In return, he receives the comfort, security and strength that the pack can provide. He may also possibly gain the use of some lycanthropic abilities, just as you may gain abilities from him.”

Laura turned to Stiles. “Are you even interested?”

Stiles looked over at where Derek was standing quietly, eyes on the ground, as he had been for so much of the time since the Hales arrived. If that was the kind of behaviour Derek had expected from his beta’s, no wonder his pack of bitten misfits had combusted so spectacularly. 

It said some things about Laura’s alpha style that Stiles didn’t like, though. “I’m cautiously interested. I feel like I should warn you; I’m never going to be anyone’s obedient subordinate. I say what I think, and I argue if I think it’s necessary. I’ll do what I think is right, not what you want me to do, and I won’t let myself be intimidated by superior strength or disco eyes.”

“Yes,” replied Laura dryly. “I’ve noticed that about you. To be honest, it makes you a more attractive pack member, not less.” She sighed. “My instincts are pushing me forward, but I’m unsure how much they can be trusted right now. I can’t connect with my own beta! A family member that I’ve known all my life!”

“It’s unlikely that Deaton—or whoever else might have done this—would have thought to sculpt your reactions to someone so off your radar as I am.” Stiles sat on the arm of the couch Peter was stretched out on. “Master Chen, you said that I might gain werewolf abilities. Does that mean that I wouldn’t become an actual werewolf?”

“There’s always a possibility,” replied Master Chen. “Such connections are, by their very nature, idiosyncratic to the people creating them. Previous examples can only give possible outcomes, nothing definitive. But I think it unlikely, particularly if it is not your wish.”

Stiles squinted at him. “What does ‘my wish’ have to do with it?”

“You are a being with a strong will and a kind heart. Such things as are able will surely bend to your desire.”

Stiles snorted. “I don’t even know where to start with that one. Strong will, yes. Good heart? Less certain. I’m not evil, and I’ve never killed a kitten, kicked a puppy or ripped open a cute bunny rabbit, but I’m hardly an altruistic sort. I can be petty, and I hold grudges.”

Master Chen raised his eyebrows. “You don’t wish ill on those who haven’t harmed you and are inclined to aid those in peril. Peter’s docility under your care speaks to how safe you have made him feel; a not inconsiderable achievement with the state that he’s in.”

“You never met me before today,” Stiles pointed out. “Maybe I’m just a kickass actor.”

Master Chen shook his head. “The fairies’ senses are alive to those who practice deceit, and they do not allow such to pass their borders.”

“Are you trying to make us not trust you?” Amatia asked suspiciously. “Why would anyone do that? Don’t you know that Master Chen could turn you into a smear on the ground if he decided you were a problem?”

“I didn’t know that, actually,” Stiles replied.

At the same time, Master Chen said, “Hush, child, he’s not attempting to lower our trust in him but to determine whether he should place his trust in us.”

Amatia bridled. “He thinks to judge your worth, Master Chen?” Outside, lightning flashed, and thunder crashed, creating a charming soundtrack that matched her offended expression. “His lack of deference is bad enough, but to offer you insults such as these!”

Master Chen raised an eyebrow in her direction. “You think it unreasonable? He has not heard our names before today; he knows not our Order. Would you so quickly place your trust in powerful strangers? This young man has learnt to be cautious. That is something to be admired.”

Stiles ran his hand over his hair—it was getting long enough to need buzzing again—and examined his feet so he wouldn’t have to see them looking at him. “I’m this weird combination of paranoid and stupidly trusting. Like, this one time, someone told me to my face that he didn’t trust me and I didn’t trust him, and that the only reason I was helping him was so that I would benefit later. At which point, instead of letting him drown and saving myself, I continued to try and save him. We both would have died, if it weren’t for the last-second intervention of a third party.”

When he risked a glance up, he saw the judging stares he’d been expecting from Laura and Amatia. Derek was still looking studiously at the floor—Stiles was starting to hate that look on him—and Master Chen just looked amused.

Master Chen cleared his throat. “I assure you that I have several resources available to me that support my evaluation of your character. I believe it would benefit my client—both in the rehabilitation of her injured pack member and in rebuilding and reconnecting her pack—to form a blood connection with you.”

“I’m paying a lot for the advice,” mused Laura. “And the contract has some hefty penalties in the event of a violation.”

Stiles nodded. “Why hire a dog and bark yourself?” When Laura growled and flashed her eyes, he laughed. “Come on; you can’t blame me for the odd dog joke, not when it’s appropriate.”

Laura sighed. “I’ve suddenly got a bad feeling about this. If you and Uncle Peter join forces, you’re going to make my life hell.”

“Nah,” replied Stiles. “I’m chaotic good. Peter? Hovers between chaotic neutral and chaotic evil.” He laughed at the reaction that produced. “You know, you and Derek have a lot of the same expressions? The variety of glares, in particular. I also love that constipated look you both get where you’re not certain you know what I’m saying but don’t want to admit it. Oh look, there’s that glare in stereo.”

“He’s right,” Master Chen said sotto voce to his apprentice. “There’s a strong family resemblance.”

Stiles got to his feet. “Well, I won’t be making any life-changing decisions till after my dad gets home, and that’s still hours away. Anyone up for board games? We’ve got Clue!”

v^v^v

“I accuse Professor Plum of perpetrating this foul murder, in the Ballroom, with the Candlestick!” Stiles gave his opponents a quick glance to be sure that no one was preparing to speak up, then reached for the envelope in the centre of the board. “Hah!” He pulled out the three cards and showed them around. “Looks like I won again.”

Laura threw her cards onto the board. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader or something? You’ve won four times in a row!”

“I thought the werewolves would have the advantage,” admitted Amatia, gathering her cards into a neat stack and then pushing them towards Derek, whose turn it was to deal.

Master Chen had handed his cards over as soon as Stiles made his accusation. “I’m beginning to feel we might be sharing a table with a hustler.”

“Slander!” said Stiles. “I’m just good at connecting patterns. I love this game, but no one will play it with me anymore.”

“I wonder why,” said Derek under his breath. He’d relaxed a bit while playing, as if the unambiguous social aspect allowed him more freedom to be himself. He still wasn’t what Stiles would call chatty, but then Derek never had been.

Stiles elbowed him in the arm companionably. “Personally, I think a candlestick is a rubbish weapon if you want to go out murdering. What if you don’t hit them hard enough? What if it breaks?”

“When we played at home, we always substituted out the weapons,” said Laura, watching Derek sort the pack into the three categories. “The Knife became Claws; the Revolver became Teeth; the Lead Pipe became Smashed, and so on.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Smashed?”

Laura shrugged. “It started out as, ‘Using her werewolf strength, Mrs White Smashed the victim into the Study shelves,’ but soon ended up as, ‘Mrs White, Smashed, in the Study.”

Before Stiles could delve deeper into this glimpse of pre-fire Hale family life, the sound of the cruiser pulling into the driveway drew his attention. A quick check of the time showed that it was nearly midday. “That’s Dad. We should put this away and get on with the blood link thing.”

Noah put his gun away and came to join the rest of them in the lounge. “Good news! The mayor was very impressed with your presentation, and he—” He stopped short when he saw Stiles putting the lid back on the box. “Oh no. Don’t tell me he conned you all into playing Clue. Has anyone managed to beat him?”

“Not yet,” admitted Laura. “It feels like we’d just get started, and he’d be right in there, making accusations and getting them right. I’d think he was cheating, only I’ve observed him, and he doesn’t even glance at the solution envelope.”

Noah snorted. “He is cheating, although it won’t be as bad with you folks since he doesn’t know you as well. Instead of using the game mechanics of saying, ‘I suspect, etc.,’ and building his knowledge from the given answers, he watches everyone’s expressions for tells and figures out what cards they’re carrying from that.”

Stiles opened his mouth to refute such scurrilous allegations before remembering that the werewolves would be able to tell he was lying. He changed tack. “You’re just sore because you couldn’t win a board game against a nine-year-old.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But enough of that. There’s something we need to discuss with you.”

Noah listened intently to the explanation of the blood connection and how it would circumvent whatever Deaton had done to the Hales. He wasn’t happy to learn that the repercussions for Stiles were unknowable. He especially didn’t like how officially connecting himself with the Hales would put Stiles firmly in the crosshairs of hunting nutjobs like the Argents. He said so.

Stiles shrugged. “Gerard Argent didn’t need me officially connected to the Hales to abduct and beat the crap out of me. And Chris—arguably the least bad of the Argents I’ve met—was only too happy to shove me around and intimidate me and Jackson even before Jackson got his power-up. The Argents will target anyone who stands up to them, and I, for one, am not willing to ignore them running around killing people just so that I can stay safe.”

Noah sighed. “No, of course you’re not. You wouldn’t be your mother’s son if you did.” He squared his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll allow this blood link, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?” asked Laura. “I’m open to negotiation.”

“I want to be included in it too.”

Stiles blinked. He’d never considered joining his father to the Hales—either before the time travel or since. His mind immediately leapt to all the things that could go wrong, and he opened his mouth to voice some of them, only to realise at the last moment that he would be arguing against himself. What a diabolical trick! “Sneaky.”

Noah smirked. “I do have one or two skills in my repertoire, you know.”

“I’m fine with including you,” said Laura, not reacting to their byplay. “Werewolves know the importance of pack. I don’t suppose you have any supernatural connections we don’t know about, Sheriff?”

“If I do, then I don’t know about them either,” replied Noah.

“Wait,” said Stiles, addressing his father. “Are you really not going to object more? You didn’t need much persuading that I’d time-travelled either. I mean, I know that having a werewolf for show and tell is a convincing prop, but I thought it would take a bit more than that.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware that you’re mentally of age, son, and I know that in the last six months of your life, you’ve faced death and torture more than any father cares to hear. In all honesty, I think I would have believed you even if you didn’t have a werewolf prop. Overnight, you changed from a distractable child to an intensely focused adult. You even hold yourself differently. If you hadn’t made at least three sarcastic comments about my dietary habits during the initial reveal, I would have wondered if it was a doppelganger.”

“I’m not that sarcastic.” Stiles looked around. Peter was the only person in the room without a sceptical look on his face, and he was unconscious. “Wow. Look at that. Maybe that’s my superpower, uniting everyone around me by giving them a common experience, i.e. annoying the crap out of everyone.”

“How do we do this?” Laura asked Master Chen. “Normally, we bite people to bring them into the pack, but I doubt that’s the best way forward.”

“You’re correct,” Master Chen replied. He turned to his apprentice. “Amatia, what would your suggestion be?”

Amatia’s brow furrowed as she considered the matter. “A ritual of assimilation, adjusted for reciprocation?”

“Close. It needs to be refined slightly. What else needs to be taken into account?”

“…I’m not sure what you mean,” Amatia admitted.

“What is the base purpose of the ritual? What is it that our clients specifically want to achieve?”

“They want to change their blood enough to make any stored blood invalid as a conduit for blood magic. The least complicated way of achieving that is the ritual of assimilation adjusted for reciprocation; each party will gain from the other.”

“But with assimilation, there is no guarantee that a blood change will be one of the effects.”

Amatia blinked. “In all known and documented cases, the recipients’ blood changed.”

“But that happened as a side effect,” Master Chen pointed out. “There is nothing in the ritual of assimilation that specifies such an outcome. In most cases, it’s irrelevant; the parties were working towards a result where the change in blood didn’t matter one way or the other, but in this case, it’s the primary goal. So how do we ensure it?”

Amatia opened her mouth, then closed it again. After several moments of thought, her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know, Master Chen.”

“No need to rebuke yourself,” Master Chen said, briefly resting a hand on her shoulder. “This is your apprenticeship period, yes? It is to be hoped that you use this time to learn. We require a ritual not only of assimilation but of foundational assimilation—adjusted, as you said, for reciprocation.”

Amatia’s frown returned. “In order to make it foundational, one of the aspects has to be living tissue. Which means blood magic, which… No. It is…” her nose wrinkled, “abhorrent.”

Master Chen raised his eyebrows slightly. “What, exactly, do you find abhorrent about a ritual where all parties are informed and consenting? Blood magic is like any other magic: neither good nor bad. It is those who practice it who turn its purpose either to good or evil.”

“It is forbidden! The masters warned us that if we were caught experimenting with it, we would be expelled and have our magic drained!”

“That is because blood magic is volatile and transformative. Until a mage has at least a hundred years of study behind them, it’s unwise even to touch it. The smallest deviation from known practices can produce horrors, and because blood magic is both foundational and transformative, there is no sure way to fix errors. But blood magic itself is not inherently evil.”

Amatia didn’t look convinced but didn’t argue further.

“Do not fear that you will be censured,” Master Chen reassured her. “I will perform the ritual; you will merely help me prepare and observe.” He turned to Laura. “Your pack lands include a wooded area, yes? I ask your leave to wander it in search of certain ingredients for the ritual.”

Laura nodded. “You are welcome in Hale territory and on Hale land until either the current situation is concluded to my satisfaction, or a Hale alpha rescinds this permission.”

“Then my apprentice and I shall depart. Do not remove the talismans I created for you. Providing we can find what is needed, the ritual can be done at dusk. I will contact you if we have any difficulties that require a postponement.”

Without waiting for a response, he moved to the door, Amatia trailing in his wake.

“I’ve got another half hour before I’m due back at the station,” Noah said. “Time to eat, if it’s quick. Did the two of you have plans for lunch?”

“Derek and I can get drive-through,” replied Laura, not even glancing at Derek to get his opinion. Derek had gone back to staring at the ground.

“Nonsense,” Noah dismissed that plan with a wave of his hand. “Why make an unnecessary trip when you can eat with us? We’ve got fresh bread, smoked chicken, cheddar, and tomatoes, and I’m sure my son can rustle up some soda from wherever he’s got it squirrelled away so I can’t find it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes but obediently went to fossick in the fridge. “Right, because soda is the beverage I’m determined to restrict for your health.” A thought occurred to him, and he turned to Laura with hands full of chicken and tomatoes. “It might not be a good idea to show your face in town until Master Chen has removed those spells on you.”

Since none of them wanted to risk whoever was casting spells on them accidentally discovering that the Hales were in town, Laura agreed that she and Derek would stay at the Stilinski house until the ritual had been performed.

Lunch was delicious, and all too soon, Noah reholstered his service weapon and bid them farewell for the afternoon, assuring them that he’d be back by sundown for the ritual. That left Stiles, Laura and Derek with several hours to kill.

“We could play Monopoly?” Stiles suggested. “Or Trivial Pursuit?”

Laura gave him a look. “Given what we learned about your Clue tendencies, I think we’ll give board games a miss for now. Do you have Netflix?” 

“No,” said Stiles regretfully. “Dad said that since we haven’t watched half the movies we actually own, he wasn’t going to waste money just so we could not watch a whole lot more. But you can look through the DVDs to see if there’s anything you like. We could have a Star Wars marathon!”

Derek turned hopefully to Laura, who was already shaking her head. “I have nothing against Star Wars, but I don’t want to watch it again. What about Lord of the Rings? I never got the chance to see the extended edition—”

“Say no more.” Stiles dug out the boxed set and set it in front of Laura. “You get this started; I’ll make some popcorn. Derek can help me.”

His plan to get Derek to open up in the kitchen failed; not surprising since microwave popcorn didn’t give him enough time to even start being annoying enough to get a reaction.

They were nearly through the Fellowship of the Ring when Stiles heard the familiar sound of the cruiser approaching. He glanced up at the clock, frowning.

“Dad’s early,” he said, unease churning in his gut. The feeling got worse when Noah came inside.

Something was terribly wrong.

Stiles rose to his feet, heart thudding in his chest. He gave his father a quick once over, just in case. Noah seemed physically fine, which helped with the worst of his fears, but the look on his face and his red-rimmed eyes practically shouted that he had terrible news.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, dreading the answer.

Noah sighed. “It’s Scott. The first responder notified me, and I came home immediately. There was a car accident; the car he was in ran a red light and was hit by a truck. He was pronounced dead on the scene.”

“No.” Stiles couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No, this isn’t right. This was never supposed to happen.”

“I’m so sorry, son.”

Chapter four

Stiles sat, staring at nothing while he tried to make sense of how quickly everything had changed. The thought of Scott not being there anymore was just…unthinkable. He felt like one of the foundations of his world had shifted; nothing seemed real anymore.

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice brought him out of his stupor. His brain was conditioned to notice what Derek was saying in case mortal danger lurked around the corner.

“I killed Scott,” he said blankly. “He was fine in my original timeline, which means that something I said or did changed things enough that Scott is dead.” He remembered what Noah said. “Wait, the car he was in ran a red light? Who was driving?”

Noah sighed. “Dwayne Lahey.” He paused. “It’s not confirmed, but there are suspicions that he might have been drinking.”

Of course he was. This was more proof that it was Stiles’ fault; if he hadn’t practically thrown Scott in Isaac’s direction, it would never have happened. “Melissa,” he said, looking up at Noah. “Did you tell Melissa? Is she okay?”

“Deputy Graeme went to inform her,” Noah replied, his eyes sad. “She volunteered.” It went unsaid that she would have known that Noah needed to get to Stiles; she’d been a deputy for years and had watched Stiles grow up.

“Will you still want to do the ritual?” Laura asked abruptly. “If you like, we can wait.”

Stiles shook his head, forcibly putting his grief to one side and gathering his wits. Although a large part of him wanted to have a breakdown, Scott was already beyond help. There was no point in focusing on him to the detriment of Derek, Peter, and Laura. He had to stuff the grief and guilt he felt about being the cause of his best friend’s death away for later, when he was alone. “No, we should do the ritual as soon as possible.” He gave a broken little laugh. “And hey, silver lining! At least I don’t have to find a way to explain to Scott that his boss is a shady mofo.”

Noah shook his head but didn’t chide Stiles for his gallows humour.

Laura’s phone pinged a notification. “Master Chen and Amatia will be ready in half an hour,” she reported. “He’s asked that we find a space three feet squared that we don’t mind setting on fire.” She looked up at Noah. “We should probably head out to the house.”

That distracted Stiles from his grief. “You mean the burnt-out wreck where your family was murdered?” he asked before Noah could reply. “Bad idea. For a start, Deaton—or whoever the bad guy is, if it’s not Deaton, which I doubt—might have set some kind of warning traps to let them know if you ever come back.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Stiles shrugged. “Why not find an abandoned warehouse? There are tons of them, and no one ever seems to care about what’s going on inside them.”

“I’m the sheriff,” Noah said with a pained expression. I can’t break into abandoned warehouses and set them on fire.”

“No, wait,” Laura interjected. “We can. My family owns property in the warehouse district. I don’t know the exact addresses, but at least one shouldn’t be hard to find. It’s an old bank; my mother was in the process of having it prepared to use as a—”

“I know that one,” Stiles interrupted her. “Do you mean the old First National Bank?”

Laura blinked at him. “Yes…”

“I know where that building is, too,” said Noah. “It was closed down and sold after a string of robberies back when I was a deputy. I didn’t realise that your family bought it. Let me do a quick search to see if it’s still listed as a Hale asset.”

Laura bristled. “Well, I haven’t sold it, so it better still be in our name.”

“Have you been paying the property taxes?” Stiles asked. “If they fall into arrears enough, the city council can confiscate and sell the land to cover outstanding costs.”

“Our lawyer should be dealing with all of that.”

Stiles and Noah exchanged looks.

“We can talk about that later,” Noah suggested, using his ‘dependable law officer’ voice. “Let me make a phone call; I’ll find out the current legal situation. If it’s still in your name, then we should be able to get away with it. It’s still not technically legal, but I doubt the mayor would insist on prosecuting.”

Thankfully, the Hales still owned the property in question. Stiles really didn’t want to see how Laura would react to being told otherwise. The more time he spent in her presence, the more he realised just how ill-equipped Derek had been to handle things after her death.

She didn’t let him make any decisions on his own. Even something as basic as going to the bathroom was an instruction that she gave him. Not only that, but for the most part, Derek didn’t speak unless explicitly addressed in a way that made it clear that a response was expected.

Stiles was clinging to the hope that this dynamic had been imposed on them externally, that the blood magic on them was creating this horrible facsimile of an alpha/beta relationship. It wasn’t healthy for either of them, and it wasn’t something that Stiles was willing to put up with—not for him, his father, or even Derek.

Regardless of origin, things were going to change.

v^v^v

Laura texted Master Chen the address; he and Amatia met them there.

Setting up for the ritual didn’t take long. Master Chen had gathered various herbs and piles of earth, which he used to make a hexagonal shape on what had once been the lobby floor. Then, each participant took a spot at one of the points. Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about what Scott would have thought of all this. No doubt he would have refused to take part and insisted he didn’t need to join the Hales.

It hadn’t even been a day, and Stiles already missed him so much. Why had he ever thought that changing things was a good idea? Everyone knew that time travel was full of pitfalls for the arrogant, and Stiles was now living proof.

“How ethical is it to do a transformative ritual on Peter when he can’t consent?” Noah asked as Laura and Derek carefully placed a still unconscious Peter where he needed to be.

“I’m his alpha,” Laura explained. “It’s my right, even my responsibility, to make that choice on his behalf.”

Noah narrowed his eyes and stepped away from the hexagon, looking prepared to dig his heels in.

“It’s no different from an Enduring Power of Attorney,” Master Chen pointed out in his usual calm, reasonable tones. “Look on it as a life-saving medical procedure.”

Noah considered that before making a face. “I see where you’re coming from, but it still seems wrong.”

Master Chen shrugged. “I can assure you that the magic recognises his participation as willing. Believe me, if it were possible to gain his informed choice, I would ask for it. However, the situation is such that it will be impossible until afterwards.”

“Dad, you can’t expect everything in the supernatural world to be governed by the same laws that regular humans use,” Stiles reminded him. It was something he’d been trying to get Scott to consider. Stiles was heartened that his dad was at least willing to try and think it through.

“I understand,” said Noah with a sigh, stepping up to the point of the hexagon that he’d been assigned. “Come on, let’s get this over and done with.”

“Are you sure?” asked Master Chen. “If there’s any doubt or reluctance, then the ritual might not work or have sub-optimal results. If you don’t feel committed, then it would be better to sit the ritual out. We can reset it for four participants without too much trouble.”

“No,” Noah replied, his face hardening. “My son and I are a package deal.” He looked at Stiles for a moment. “You knew Peter. Do you think he would have agreed to this?”

Stiles thought about Peter, as he’d been as an alpha, and how he’d seemed in the few times Stiles had seen him following his resurrection. “I don’t know what his thoughts would be on undergoing a transformative ritual,” he said slowly. “What I do think is that he’d hate the thought of being controlled, especially by someone who’d proven themselves to be an enemy of the Hales. I think he’d want his mind back as soon as possible.”

Noah nodded. “Okay then.”

Master Chen stared at him through narrowed eyes before nodding his head. “Very well. Let us begin.”

The ritual itself didn’t take very long. They all contributed blood to a rough bowl fashioned from what looked like fresh, raw, unfired clay. Master Chen mixed it together while muttering over it in a language Stiles didn’t understand. Then he asked each of them formally if they were there of their own free will and if they consented to the joining. Laura answered on Peter’s behalf.

Then Master Chen used a ‘brush’ of bound fresh herbs to swirl the blood in the bowl before dabbing it on their foreheads. He said something else over what remained, and suddenly, the blood on Stiles’ forehead started to burn. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain, which went on for what seemed like ages before it suddenly stopped. 

When Stiles opened his eyes, he saw that the bowl Master Chen was holding had gone from raw clay to the paler bisque stage of unglazed pottery, and the blood that had pooled within it was gone.

Even as he started doing a mental inventory of his body, Stiles looked over to check on his father. Noah seemed slightly surprised but had already gathered himself and was checking on Stiles. A quick visual exchange was enough to satisfy them that the other was fine; then Stiles turned his attention to the rest.

Neither Laura nor Derek looked any different, and they were both watching Peter.

Peter’s eyes were open and alert, and he’d lost that calm blankness that had characterised his non-Laura interactions over the last few days. He wasn’t looking at any of the other participants of the ritual; instead, he was focused on Master Chen with an intensity that sent a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

“The ritual worked!” Stiles said, hoping to forestall any precipitous action Peter might take if someone didn’t make it clear that what was happening was a good thing. “Peter, the magic holding you in thrall has been broken!”

Peter’s electric blue gaze swung towards Stiles. “Pardon?” The words came out as a hoarse croak, which startled Peter into blinking. He cleared his throat and then tried again. “What magic? Who are you, and what have you done to Laura and Derek? Where is my sister?”

“Peter!” Laura finally said with relief, “It worked; it really worked!”

Derek’s initial relief faded into something Stiles suspected was guilt, and he hunched even further in on himself than usual, eyes dropping back to the ground.

“It’s been five years since the fire,” Noah gently informed Peter. “You’ve been in the hospital in an unconscious state for most of that time. We recently discovered that you were being kept that way by an external influence, and one of the main purposes of this ritual was to resolve it.”

“A blood shackle was suppressing you,” said Master Chen. “I could have broken it easily enough, and without all these dramatics,” he gestured to the remains of the ritual, “but that would have left you susceptible to renewed attack from your original assailant. There was also the possibility that others may have used your vulnerable state to harvest your blood. To prevent that from happening, we worked a joining. At this moment, you are safe from blood ensorcellment.”

Peter turned to stare at Laura, who lifted her chin and stared back.

Glancing down, Stiles saw that the whole ritual area looked like it had been torched; the plants had become ash, and the damp earth was now a dry powder. “I don’t feel any different.” He looked at his father, eyebrows raised in question.

“Neither do I.” Noah didn’t sound sure, though. “At least, nothing I can put my finger on.”

Laura and Peter were still having a staring contest. “I do,” she said without dropping her gaze. “Derek, I have so many apologies to make. What you’ve been putting up with… I’m so sorry.”

Derek continued staring at the ground. “It’s okay. It’s nothing more than what I deserve.”

That made both Laura and Peter turn to stare at him.

“We’re done here,” Master Chen said, passing the bowl he was still holding to Noah, who hesitantly accepted it. “Alpha Hale, do you have any further need of my services?”

Laura opened her mouth and then paused, closing it again. “I’d like to have a quick conference with my pack. There may be something I’ve overlooked. If you could excuse us for a minute?”

Nodding, Master Chen retreated to Amatia’s observation point and engaged her in low-voiced conversation.

Laura, Derek, and Peter drew closer together, and Laura jerked her head in Noah’s direction. “That means you too, Stilinskis. We’re all in this together, after all.”

Brightening at being so openly acknowledged as part of the pack, Stiles hurried over.

“Peter, this is the Sheriff, Noah, and his son, Stiles,” said Laura, gesturing to them. “So, quick recap: I hired Master Chen to find out what was wrong with Peter and to fix him if the problem turned out to be something magical. It was and he has, so technically, his service is over. But before he leaves, is there anything I’ve overlooked that we should get his help with?”

“Deaton still needs to be taken care of,” Stiles pointed out.

“We don’t know for sure it’s Deaton,” Noah reminded him. “We shouldn’t prejudice our investigation by focusing on one perpetrator before gathering sufficient evidence to prove it beyond reasonable doubt.”

Stiles frowned. “If it’s not Deaton, then who is it?”

“That’s exactly my point.” Noah turned to Laura. “What sort of cost are we talking about? Is finding and apprehending a magic user even something we can do?”

“Everyone has their weaknesses,” said Peter.

At the same time, Laura said, “It was a 50k engagement and travel fee, a 5k examination and consultation, and then the ritual was another 20k. If we want his help, we should get it now before we have to lay down another 50k to get him here.”

Stiles and Noah both winced. Neither Peter nor Derek reacted to the sums involved.

Stiles was suddenly reminded of the Camaro, not what one would call a cheap, affordable car. Despite Derek’s habit of squatting in burnt-out houses and abandoned train stations, the remaining Hales seemed to have plenty of money to throw around.

“Who exactly is he?” Peter asked, his blue beta eyes still at the fore.

“Master Carlos Chen,” replied Laura.

“I’m surprised it wasn’t more than that, then,” Peter said, blinking twice. “You hired a known mastery graduate of Baleari? You didn’t think it might be overkill?”

“It was the only way I could be sure he wouldn’t have ties with whoever was messing with you,” Laura explained. “I remember you once telling Mama that the magical world was small and incestuous. I didn’t understand what that meant at the time, but when Stiles showed us the condition you were in…” She shrugged. “Even under whatever spell had been cast on me, I didn’t want to risk it.”

Peter regarded her with surprise and what looked like the beginning of respect. “Thank you.”

“Of course I was going to help you if I could,” said Laura, rolling her eyes. “We’re pack. I think I must have been spelled to leave you here because right now, even the thought of it is enough to make me want to smash something.”

Peter laughed, a short, sharp sound without humour. “Not thank you for saving me—although yes, thank you for that too—thank you for listening. Your mother never did.”

“Whoever was casting spells—I still think it’s Deaton but will keep an open mind—had a supply of Hale blood,” Stiles reminded them. “If his purpose was the destruction of the Hale pack, then he probably wouldn’t want the alpha listening to sound advice.”

Peter considered that for a moment before nodding. “You could be right.”

“Or, she might have been dismissive and overbearing on her own account,” added Stiles. “It’s not likely we’ll ever know. Unless Deaton—or whoever—keeps a journal with helpful entries like: ‘Today I cast a spell on the Hale alpha to turn her into a bitch of a different kind, mu-ha-ha-ha haaaa!’” Stiles waved his hands in his best gothic villain impression.

“If we’re lucky, he’ll follow the trope and give a lengthy monologue where he admits to all of his crimes and outlines his future plans,” said Noah, smiling slightly.

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “I really hope not. That kind of villain is so inefficient; it would be a sad reflection of our own capabilities. You know that old saying, you can measure a man by the enemies he makes.”

“I think I’d cope,” Noah disagreed.

This time, Peter’s laugh sounded genuine. “I know exactly what you both mean. And with that in mind, perhaps we should put practicality before pride and ask Master Chen for his aid in identifying and subduing our enemy.”

“It’s not going to help our reputation,” Laura warned.

Peter shrugged. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck. We can deal with territory challenges if and when they occur, but we can’t achieve any significant rebuilding if we’re constantly wondering if we’ll get a knife in the back the next time we turn around.” He paused. “Would you…allow me to handle the negotiations?”

Laura beamed at him. “Thank you, Uncle Peter. That would be wonderful.”

Watching Peter do a lousy job concealing his surprise and pleasure, Stiles wondered if it was his imagination that the scarring on Peter’s face already looked markedly less inflamed. He glanced at the others to see if they’d noticed what he had, but Noah and Laura were now regarding the still silent and withdrawn Derek with concern.

Given some of the things Stiles had pieced together about Kate Argent and her actions in Beacon Hills around the time of the Hale fire, the reason for Derek’s reticence seemed all too clear. And knowing more of the background—the knowledge from the old timeline combined with seeing how Laura had been treating him since the fire—Stiles felt he understood Derek a whole lot better.

Sure, Derek had been an asshole—his actions and manner hadn’t engendered trust in Stiles and Scott at all—but given where he was coming from—and what he’d already been through—he’d actually done well. It was amazing that things hadn’t imploded even more than they had.

Poor Derek really hadn’t deserved what Scott had done to him.

Scott. Huh.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said slowly, “I just realised that I’m not nearly as upset as I was about Scott being dead. Weird.”

Noah blinked. “Huh. That’s funny. I’m less bothered than I was, too.”

Stiles put the pieces together. “The circumstantial evidence against Deaton just keeps climbing. Although, I have to wonder why he would want us so focused on Scott. What on earth did he hope to achieve?” When Noah opened his mouth, Stiles rolled his eyes. “Or whoever, if it wasn’t Deaton, I get it.”

“It may have been more about what he was trying to avoid,” said Master Chen from behind him. “I told you that you have something powerful within you. Perhaps your enemy felt that keeping your attention focused squarely on another would make you less likely to pay attention to your own changes.”

“But I didn’t change,” Stiles objected, before stopping to reconsider. “Except, I did, didn’t I? I worked with mountain ash twice. The second time, I didn’t think there was enough, yet I somehow made it stretch. Not to mention the thing in the pool.”

“What pool? What thing?” asked Peter.

Stiles cast a quick glance in Derek’s direction. “There was this time when I had to keep someone who was paralysed afloat in the school pool for at least two hours. Someone who, while not that much taller than me, had a great deal more muscle mass than I’ll ever have. Looking back, I don’t know how I managed it.”

“There are other signs,” Master Chen said. “When I pointed out how you stood up to an alpha werewolf, I wasn’t just admiring your self-possession. As evolved as humans have become, we still maintain an instinct that allows us to identify powerful, dangerous beings.” He tilted his head. “When they do not actively hide from us, that is. Alpha Hale was not concealing her power when you met, yet you stood toe to toe with her and demanded respect. To someone who knows how to read these things, that spoke volumes.”

“If it isn’t Deaton, it’s someone who knows both us and Scott and has had access to Hale blood,” said Noah, running a hand over his face. “Unless there are two magic users who’ve been messing with us independently.”

Stiles shook his head. “Occam’s Razor. Plus, I just…” He screwed up his face, wondering how to say it without sounding like a woo-woo hippy. “I just never could bring myself to like him, you know? Not even when I was trying because Scott did. When I really don’t like people, like hate them, they usually end up being evil or somehow terrible.”

“Really?” asked Noah. “Like who?”

“Well, I never liked Coach Lahey, and he turned out to be a child abuser who covered up a bunch of teenagers drowning a kid for fun. I hated Creepy Kate and Granddad Argent on sight. Then, there was this one guy at school I hated, Matt. We found out he was a stalker who used Jackson Whittemore as a murder weapon—long story— to kill people he wanted revenge on, or even who got in his way.” He slid a sideways look at his dad. “He walked into the station one night and casually killed everyone on duty.”

Noah’s face hardened. “Yes, you mentioned something along those lines. You can give me more details about that later. I hear what you’re saying, but are you sure you’re not re-writing history once you have more information?”

“There’s no real way to prove it,” said Stiles, folding his arms defensively and wishing he hadn’t said anything. Now, they were all going to think he was a nutjob.

“I suppose we’ll have to keep it in mind,” Noah promised. “In the meantime, why don’t we go back home where we can be more comfortable?” He looked at Laura. “I forgot to ask; did you sign your uncle out of the hospital?”

Laura shrugged. “I informed them that he’d been found awake and wandering and that I was considering suing them for neglect. I still might. I’m not pissed off with them that he got out; I’m pissed off that they didn’t contact us about it.”

“What if they’ve been spelled too?” asked Stiles.

Laura scrunched her nose. It should have made her look comical, but instead, she looked cute—stupid Hale genetics. “You’re probably right. It might be better to keep the favour in hand, anyway.” She sighed. “Derek, Peter, and I need to find a place to stay. Master Chen, Amatia, you’re welcome to join us.”

Master Chen shook his head. “No, letting our guard down in a hostile magic user’s domain would be foolish. There is a warded waystation within travelling distance, but only Amatia and I will be able to use it.” He paused, eyes resting on Stiles. “If you wish, I am willing to place basic wards around the sheriff’s house, free of charge. They won’t do much to stop a hostile magic user, but they will alert you that outside magic is being used. Not that I think there is any immediate danger, but caution is preferable to reckless confidence.”

“Thank you,” said Noah. “You Hales are welcome to stay with us. There’s one spare bed, two couches, and whatever floor space you can claim.”

Laura exchanged a long glance with Peter. “Thank you; that would be most welcome, at least until we take care of Deaton.”

“Then let’s go,” said Noah, turning towards the entry. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but loitering in an abandoned building doesn’t engender a feeling of comfort or safety. Not even when it’s a bank.”

v^v^v

Back home, Stiles was all ready to start devising a plan to deal with Deaton, but Master Chen advised otherwise.

“You’ve all been changed on a cellular level. Take the evening to talk, to get to know one another and nurture the bonds that have formed. You will be relatively safe; either the enemy will have no reason to suspect his spells have failed, or he will be suffering from the backlash of a spell ending prematurely and without proper preparation.”

“Unless he found out that Peter had escaped and tracked his location before we did the ritual,” Stiles muttered.

Master Chen shook his head. “That is very unlikely; you shouldn’t borrow trouble. I will be back tomorrow, and we may begin the process of tracking and trapping the culprit.” He paused. “Will you object if I bring another student? This could be a useful learning experience.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “You’re changing the terms of the agreement,” he pointed out. “We’ll allow it…for a five per cent discount.”

“The aid of another magic user should be worth more, rather than less.”

“A magic user of unknown ability. No, we’ve paid a premium because—as you already said—you are the best in the business. The addition of lower-skilled people dilutes rather than enhances that claim.”

“That is factually incorrect. My acolyte would take no action that I didn’t approve of, and adding another perspective is always helpful.”

Peter pursed his lips. “You take your responsibility as an instructor seriously.”

Master Chen nodded. “It is the highest calling a childless man can aspire to.”

“Then you should be open to considering taking another student.”

Master Chen’s eyes gleamed. “Are you suggesting that I should accept a student as an exchange? For how long would I be expected to train them? Your business should be over fairly quickly, but training an apprentice takes years, sometimes even decades.”

Peter shrugged. “Until you’re satisfied that they achieved their potential.”

“I have certain rules that my apprentices are obligated to follow,” Master Chen pointed out.

“Wait,” Stiles interrupted. “Are you talking about me?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

“Well, thanks for the attempt, but I don’t think gaining me a forced apprenticeship is a good price. You should bargain for something else.”

Peter frowned at him. “Are you aware of how highly regarded Master Chen is? How many young people would literally sell an arm and a leg to be taken as his student?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I did pick up on that a little, yes. The thing is that I won’t just take the first offer that appears, no matter how respected the offeror is. What if there’s someone who fits my personality better? Or who aligns better with my morals and goals?” He chose not to say his real reason, that it just didn’t feel right.

Peter sighed. “Very well. But I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I’m sure you have other contacts,” Stiles pointed out. “Maybe, before diving into an apprenticeship, I should finish school. Or try out a magic school or something. Maybe something near enough that I can still check in on my dad and my pack.” Stiles fancied that Master Chen’s blank face was hiding a frown.

Noah laughed. “That’s my boy. Unless it’s a matter of life and death, he wants to research everything.” He smiled fondly. “Your mother was just the same, you know. She wouldn’t even buy a new brand of flour at the supermarket without researching the company that made it.”

“Whereas you just buy the first one you see,” grumbled Stiles. “Yes, yes, I like to make informed choices, okay?” He looked at Peter, who was still frowning. “I’m sure. Find something else to bargain with.”

Peter nodded slowly. “On your head be it.” He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed as he gazed at Master Chen. His nostrils flared briefly. “There needs to be some forfeit for changing the parameters of the agreement after the bargain was struck. You’re getting something you want from it; what’s in it for us?”

Stiles looked at Amatia’s aghast and affronted expression and turned so she couldn’t see his smirk. He had nothing particularly against her, but her overly serious demeanour and puffed-up pride at being Master Chen’s apprentice could use a bit of shaking up.

He left Peter and Master Chen to their haggling and wandered into the kitchen, thinking about dinner. Werewolves were big eaters but luckily weren’t all that picky—comatose Peter notwithstanding—so it would be easy to stretch the meat and vegetables out with added rice and sauce.

Master Chen and Amatia declined an invitation to dinner. Stiles shrugged and figured the extra food he’d already begun cooking could be used as leftovers. He let the challenge of cooking on a much larger scale than normal settle his mind and even found himself humming while he sliced the onions.

Scott’s death notwithstanding, things seemed to be going well.

Chapter five

Once dinner was eaten—despite Stiles’ initial expectations, there were no leftovers—and everything had been cleaned up and put away, the new Hale pack sat down for a long talk.

It was a harrowing discussion, and no one came away dry-eyed.

They started with Stiles giving them the entire backstory, telling them everything had happened before he’d time-travelled, beginning with the fateful night he’d heard that half a body had been found in the woods.

At first, there was a lot of stopping and starting as Stiles interrupted himself to explain things or answer questions.

“This isn’t working,” said Noah half an hour in when Stiles had just managed to get back to the part where he’d figured out Scott was a werewolf. “Go back to the start and tell it in order. Including when you discovered things. The rest of us can make notes about questions to ask.” He went into his tiny office and came back with printer paper and pens, handing them out. “Write down your questions, and then cross them out if he answers them further along the narrative.”

After that, the telling went a lot quicker. It was a much more in-depth recitation than the brief one he’d given Noah, and Stiles found himself squirming with embarrassment over some of the decisions past-him—or was that future him?—had made. With hindsight, there were times he’d been extremely callous. On top of that, his constant focus on Scott’s well-being to the detriment of everyone else—including himself—was eye-opening.

Never mind. He could think about that later, when he didn’t have an audience of four hanging on his every word.

An hour and a half later, Stiles got to the point where he woke up, lost, in a circle of purple mushrooms, and had called for wolfy help.

“I was hella surprised that it was Peter who turned up to save me,” he said. “He was obviously not in his right mind, and I immediately thought the Argents had happened to him again. I told him to wait at the edge of the Preserve while I went to get us some transport, and he just… sat down.” Stiles shook his head. “Weirded me out. Then, on the way home, I noticed some temporal discrepancies: a dog that had regrown a leg, a tree that was uprooted in a storm was back and looking fine. So, I figured it was time travel.”

Laura stared at him. “I don’t what it says about you that time travel was a legitimate option, that you didn’t just consider that you’d been mistaken about those things.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m a bit young for dementia, and the only other option was parallel universes.” He paused. “Technically, I haven’t ruled that out. In fact, there’s an argument that the only way you can effect change in a time travel situation is if you’ve also travelled universes. Otherwise, you’d be creating a paradox, which could unmake everything, so… in that case, I’ve done both.”

Peter leaned forward. His scars were definitely healing much faster, and he looked much better. If it continued at this rate, Stiles estimated he could even be scar-free by morning. “Really? My understanding of time travel theory is that the universe would actively work to set things back on track. What makes you so sure that it won’t happen that way?”

“Scott died. In the original timeline, he did a lot of stuff that will never get done now. If this were traditional time travel, he’d be alive. Either the car accident wouldn’t have happened, or he would have been the sole, miraculous survivor, or something.”

“But what if Scott’s actions weren’t his own?” asked Peter intently. “If his actions resulted from the manipulations of another, as you have suggested, then his death doesn’t necessarily mean an incontrovertible break from the timeline. All that needs to happen is for the manipulator to switch their attention to a new patsy.”

Stiles considered that. “You could be right,” he admitted. “In the end, I don’t think it matters. Whether it’s time travel, a parallel universe or dimension, both, or something else, what matters is the situation we find ourselves in.”

Peter shook his head. “Not so, young mageling. I agree that our primary focus has to be on now, but knowing how and why we got here could be vital. I don’t like that you don’t know what caused the intervention you experienced. Maybe knowing won’t change much—it likely won’t allow us to alter the situation—but having some idea of what to expect can make all the difference.”

Stiles really didn’t like being told he was wrong twice in as many minutes, especially when it was Peter doing the telling. He wanted to argue, to find some reason to prove his rightness again. If he were still the person he was before Scott was bitten, perhaps he would have given in to the impulse.

As it was, he bit his tongue and just nodded.

Noah’s mouth twitched in a brief smirk. It was only there a moment before it smoothed out, giving way to a frown. “When you gave me the highlights the other day, I didn’t realise you had been in such constant danger.” His gaze flicked briefly to Derek. “I’m glad someone in that other timeline was looking out for you.”

“Yeah.” Stiles sighed. “You know, it’s only now that I realise just how bat-shit crazy the whole thing has been. It’s like, it never seems to end. Crisis after crisis, and no time to catch our breaths in between.” His fingers twisted the edge of the cushion he was holding nervously. “I should have told you what was going on. Even if I thought hiding it from you was a good idea at the start, after the thing at the station, you really should have known.”

Noah shook his head. “I apparently had my head right up my ass if you felt you couldn’t confide in me.”

“It wasn’t about that,” Stiles insisted. “I didn’t want to put you in any more danger than you already were. That and… well, Scott didn’t want you to know, and we both felt like I owed him for getting him turned into a werewolf.”

That remark provoked frowns all around.

“That’s rubbish,” said Laura. “Blaming you for an assault perpetrated by a whole other person is nonsensical.” She patted Peter on the shoulder. “I don’t blame you either, in case you were unsure.” She levelled a direct stare at her brother, who slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread, raised his gaze from the floor to meet her eyes. “Nor you. You were preyed on by a serial killer while you were still a child, Derek. How could you think I would blame you for what she did?”

“We all know why he blames himself,” interrupted Stiles, since it didn’t look like Laura’s reassurances were having any effect on Derek. “The Argents manage to look so normal and nice, right up until they don’t. Derek, I know you know that, or else you wouldn’t have warned Scott the way you did. At the time, we said that Allison wasn’t like her family and that you were paranoid, allowing one bad experience to colour your entire existence, but dude,” Stiles shook his head. “You were right.

“They really are all psychos. Even if it doesn’t look like it on the surface, even if they’re not psycho in that moment, the psycho is underneath, waiting. Knowing Allison, knowing Chris… I bet Kate had a way of sounding reasonable and sane, even when she was torturing you, and that messes with your head. Because maybe, just maybe, they’re right. Right? But they’re not. They’re not right, Derek; they’re the most monstrous family I’ve ever heard of. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Once we’ve dealt with the immediate threat, we can consider finding some therapists,” Noah said firmly. “I’ve also started the ball rolling on an investigation into the Argents.”

“You should be very careful,” Peter warned. “Even before my extended nap, I’d been receiving worrying news about the hunting families—the Argents, Calaveras, Tods, etc—and their infiltration of law enforcement. They’ve probably left someone sympathetic to their cause in Beacon Hills, someone who’ll warn them if the wrong questions start being asked.”

“Or the right ones,” Stiles muttered. “The other thing to worry about is Chris and Victoria bringing Allison here. I never did find out what that was about. Was it in response to the animal killings that brought Laura back? Was it something that Gerard told them to do? Were they thinking that with Kate killing all the Hales, the town would be a werewolf-free paradise? That last one seems unlikely; they certainly kitted out their murder basement like they expected furry visitors.”

“Where were they living?” asked Derek, the first proper question he’d asked all evening.

Stiles rattled off Allison’s address.

Derek’s already tight expression tightened further. “That’s the house Kate was living in before.”

“So, they own it, then,” Noah mused. “Which means there’ll be a legal paper trail. That’s useful; no legal trail exists in a vacuum.”

“They might have bought it under an alias so they can pretend to rent it to themselves,” warned Peter. His eyes widened. “Which could also be helpful.”

Noah nodded. “Very helpful indeed. Leave the initial investigation to me. If it comes down to it, I have a couple of contacts that owe me some favours.”

Stiles wasn’t sure his father understood just how dangerous the Argents were. “Dad,” he said urgently, “you have to be so very careful. Don’t trust anyone. Gerard Argent managed to get himself made Principal of the school. Principal! Of the high school! No way was he properly qualified for that; he spent his whole life either killing people or running an arms business! Yet no one said anything.”

This was why he hadn’t wanted his dad involved. He was going to poke the wrong bee’s nest, and then the Argents were going to swarm him and—

“Breathe, Stiles,” Noah said gently, patting him on the back. “I promise I’m being careful. But remember what you said to me not long ago? That you can’t just sit around and let the Argents go on murdering whoever they like just because it might be dangerous?” He smiled fondly. “Where do you think you got that from, kid?”

Stiles could barely hear him. He’d already gotten Scott killed; what if his dad was next? Oh god, he was the worst screw-up ever! He could just imagine Gerard, Kate, Victoria, and Chris standing over his father while he bled out on the floor of their basement, the Hales hanging where Erica and Boyd had once hung, helpless and tortured.

“Stiles!” A familiar voice broke through his panic, a voice that meant both danger and safety and pulled him back into himself.

Derek crouched in front of him, holding his upper arms in strong hands, hazel eyes intense as always.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped, grabbing at him. “Derek, they’re going to kill him! There are so many of them; what can a tiny group like ours do against all that firepower? We have to… we have to…”

“We’ll stop them,” Derek promised. “We won’t be the only ones fighting. We’ll drain the Hale accounts dry to hire mercenaries, if that’s what it takes. What use is money if everyone’s dead?”

Derek was many things, but he wasn’t a liar and didn’t make empty promises. Stiles felt himself calm. He took a shuddering breath and released it slowly. “Okay. Okay.”

Derek let go and stepped back, rising to his feet in one of those fluid werewolf moves that were just a little too effortless to be human. He retreated to where he’d been sitting before Stiles nearly fell into a panic attack.

Stiles slumped back into his seat and tried to make his mind work normally again. “Okay. So, I guess we have to find out as much as we can. We can start with Deaton; even if he isn’t the one behind all this, he’s a shady bastard who knows a lot. How do we get him to share with the class?”

Peter and Laura exchanged glances. “We can pick out lies, but that doesn’t help much if the person we want information from doesn’t talk.” Peter pointed out.

“And Deaton is the most enigmatic asshole I’ve ever met,” Stiles agreed. “Is there such a thing as a truth potion or something?”

Peter frowned. “I’ve heard of one, but I don’t know how effective it is. Also, I’m unsure how we’d get him to take it. It’s not like we have a history of providing him with food or drink. If he’s smart, he’ll be cautious about anything he accepts from another’s hand.”

Stiles looked at Noah. “We might have to restrain and force him to drink it.”

Noah sighed. “You’d be breaking so many laws. I’d be breaking so many laws.”

Peter shook his head. “The sad truth is that we won’t get anywhere if we stick solidly within human law.”

“He—or whoever it is behind this—certainly isn’t following the law,” added Stiles.

“No, and I understand that we can’t just ask him before we violate his rights because if he is the bad guy, that would defeat the whole purpose.” Noah still looked troubled. “It’s just not so easy to ignore the creed I’ve lived by my whole career.”

Laura shrugged. “He was my mother’s Emissary; he had a duty to her, us, and the territory. Given that we have evidence he defaulted on their contract, to say the least, our options are actually quite broad. It might not be human law, but it’s accepted practice in the supernatural community.”

“The supernatural community can’t be held to the same standards,” Peter put in. “We can’t be imprisoned in an ordinary jail; no prison cell would hold us. Not to mention that magic users and others sometimes have other options up their sleeves.”

Noah shook his head. “I’ve already accepted that the standards of justice I’m used to won’t apply. I’ll do my best not to get in your way as you plan.” His gaze rested on Stiles for a moment. “I trust you to only go as far as we need to.”

Stiles groaned. “Ugh, I hate it when you play the ‘trust’ card.”

“In this situation, it feels like the only card I have.”

Stiles shook his head, thinking of the months he’d lived through after Scott was bitten, where his father’s trust had been eroded steadily until there was practically nothing left.

“Maybe Master Chen will have an idea on how to get Deaton to take a truth potion,” Laura suggested. She got out her phone and sent off a quick text. We need to plan for if we find out that Deaton isn’t the bad guy—both how to placate him and how to go about finding the real culprit.”

“And how to take down the hunters in a way that won’t get us either killed or locked up,” Peter added. “I don’t look good in orange.”

“If the bad guy isn’t Deaton, then either a hunter, or someone hunter-related, is the next logical suspect,” Stiles pointed out.

“There’s no point in making any plans about hunters until we have more knowledge,” stated Laura. “The sheriff has already said he’s working on the Argents. Who does that leave?” She raised an eyebrow at Peter.

“Another pack?” Peter said slowly. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but it’s not impossible. A pack with a strong Emissary, perhaps.”

“But why?” asked Stiles. “What possible motive could they have? And if it was another pack, why haven’t they moved in while the territory has been all but abandoned?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” agreed Peter, “but I can’t rule it out completely.”

“So, three broad categories,” Stiles said, making a note on his paper. “Hunters of all kinds, people inside the territory wanting control, and people outside the territory wanting control.” He tapped the paper with the pen. “If it’s people outside the territory, we need a motive. Is there anything about the territory that would make it particularly desirable? What about the Hale vaults? Could this whole thing be an effort to get into them?”

“Not the vaults,” Peter said, sounding certain. “Only someone with Hale blood can access them, and not if they’re under any form of compulsion. Those protections have been laid down for over a century and grow stronger each year and with each Hale generation.”

“Not to mention that they’re a big secret,” said Laura acidly. “So secret that even the acknowledged heir didn’t know about them.”

“You would have been told about them on your twentieth birthday,” said Peter. “It’s a tradition. You know that time when Talia and I went out for the morning and no one was allowed to come with? That was so I could do the ritual that added to the protections.”

Laura leaned forward. “How important is the twentieth birthday? Can Derek and I still do the ritual?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It was about the tradition, not the age.” He tipped his head back and stared at the slowly rotating ceiling fan. “The only thing I can think of that made this territory different from others is the nemeton, and Talia had it cut down.” He grimaced. “On Deaton’s advice.”

“What is a nemeton?” Stiles asked, making a note. Even if it turned out to be a dead end, he wanted to keep track of anything Deaton was putting his sticky fingers on. “Why is it important?”

“It’s a special tree,” said Peter. “I think it has a certain significance to magic users. Deaton told my sister that it had gone bad and would start to attract trouble. It was cut down a couple of years ago.” He blinked. “A couple of years before the fire,” he corrected himself. “It’s nothing but a stump now.”

Derek winced. “I think I know the one you mean.”

Stiles stared at them. “You think a dead magical tree is something people would fight over?”

“It’s something that makes the territory unique,” Peter corrected. “Whether it’s worth fighting over or not is outside my expertise. I suggest we ask Master Chen. Other than that…bragging rights?”

“I really don’t think it’s another pack,” Laura said slowly. “First, the fire was years ago, yet we’re not all dead. Until we all die or ritually renounce our claim in favour of another, the territory will remain hostile to any new pack. Too many Hales have spilt their lifeblood over the land in its defence.”

Stiles tapped the end of his pen rapidly against the paper, annoyed. “So you’re saying that if the threat is from outside, it’s not another pack?”

“I can’t say that for sure,” said Laura, shrugging. “It just doesn’t make sense. Peter was vulnerable for years. In the future you lived in, I might have been killed, but Derek survived despite being alone. Lone wolves don’t hold up well under attack, yet Derek wasn’t attacked.”

“Which doesn’t fit with the idea of a careful plan, not from another pack anyway,” Noah agreed. “So we’ll mark that down as unlikely but not completely disproven.”

Stiles turned to a fresh sheet and began jotting down questions to ask Master Chen in the morning, muttering to himself, “I wish I had an investigation board.” There was something very stimulating about seeing all the information laid out, and being able to display various connections helped spark his mind towards an answer.

Not that he felt that he would need one in this instance. He was still sure it was Deaton despite his agreement to consider other possibilities. ‘Why,’ ‘how,’ ‘when,’ and ‘where’ might be up in the air, but his gut said ‘who’ was in the bag. All he needed to do was prove it.

Or let Master Chen prove it, since Stiles didn’t have the foggiest idea about how to go about it.

“You know, I think that’s me done for the day,” Noah said, getting to his feet with a yawn. “Stiles, are you okay getting our guests sorted out for the night?”

“Sure,” Stiles replied absently, still writing. “Sleep well.” He finished getting his immediate thoughts down and looked up at the three Hales. “How do you want to do this? There’s a twin bed in the spare room, a slide-away bed in my room, and what you can see down here.” He gestured to the couch.

Laura shook her head. “We’ll stay together and take the floor, if that’s okay.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Be my guest. If you like, I can dig out the camping mattresses we’ve got stashed in the basement? They might be a bit musty to a werewolf nose, though; we haven’t used them in years.”

“The floor is fine,” Laura assured him. “We’re werewolves; we don’t find it that uncomfortable.”

“If you say so,” Stiles replied, finally cluing into why his dad went up to bed so early. The Hales needed some time: to reconnect as a family and talk about stuff they might not feel comfortable talking about in front of relative strangers, new pack members notwithstanding. “Why don’t I show you the linen closet? You’re welcome to use anything you want.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles probably didn’t need to actually show them—it wasn’t like they kept it hidden—but he knew he was getting off lightly with his hosting duties, so he did it anyway. That done, he said goodnight and retreated to his bedroom and his trusty laptop.

He had plenty to keep himself occupied before sleep could be expected to claim him.

v^v^v

Stiles woke to his father’s hand on his shoulder, gently jostling him. “I’m awake,” he mumbled, pulling back and turning over.

The sound of his curtains being pulled open was accompanied by the morning sunlight streaming into the room, bouncing off the wall mirror and hitting him full in the face.

He recoiled, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes. “What was that for?” he asked grumpily.

“Get moving if you want to eat this morning,” said Noah unsympathetically. “Peter’s cooking breakfast, and Master Chen and his apprentices are due back in just over an hour. Don’t you want to be awake and aware when they arrive?”

Stiles was just awake enough to know that he did. He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, setting the water cooler than usual to help shock himself awake. His tiredness was his own fault; he’d lost track of time the previous night and hadn’t rolled into bed until nearly five.

By the time he got to the breakfast table, laptop and charging cable in hand, his brain had started working properly again. He was alert enough to notice the Hales had managed to work some things out. Peter and Laura both seemed more relaxed as they argued over something too quietly for Stiles to hear, and Derek’s silence was more the silence of someone who didn’t feel like talking than someone who felt like they shouldn’t speak.

Stiles had just opened his mouth to congratulate them when he noticed his father shovelling bacon from his plate to his mouth with all the finesse of a child who, caught with his hand in the cookie jar, is determined to get the most out of his crime before the jar is taken away and he’s faced with his inevitable punishment.

“How much bacon have you had?” Stiles asked accusingly, putting his laptop on the counter before glaring at Peter. “Where did you even get it? We don’t keep bacon in the house!”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Technically, it wasn’t. I found it in the garage freezer underneath the—rather old, I might add—fish bait.”

“What am I missing?” asked Laura, looking from one Stilinski to another and back again. “What’s so important about bacon?”

“He’s not allowed it,” explained Stiles, sighing. “Except on very special occasions. That doesn’t stop him from trying to sneak it, though.” He shook his head. “It never occurred to me that you would use the bait freezer to hide it.”

Noah finished his mouthful and reached for a slice of buttered bread. “I got the idea from you in the first place. You think I don’t know about the Doritos you keep in that box in the basement?” He used the bread to mop up the bacon juices on his plate.

Stiles lifted his chin. “I was trying to be considerate; I thought waving something you couldn’t have right in front of your face would be cruel.”

“Back up a bit,” said Laura. “I’m still not clear on why bacon is forbidden. Do we need to see a doctor? Noah, do you need treatment? One of those pen things?”

“No to all those questions,” Noah answered before Stiles could say anything. “A bit of bacon won’t hurt me.” He folded his bread and took a bite with every evidence of enjoyment.

“He had two bad physicals in a row,” Stiles disagreed. “His doctor warned him his cholesterol was higher than it should be, considering the family history of heart disease, and suggested some dietary changes.”

“Which I followed,” said Noah, using what was left of his bread as an impromptu pointer. “I’ve had three physicals since, and my doctor told me everything was fine.” He took another bite.

“Everything is ‘fine’ because I limit your bad choices. Which means no bacon!”

“His heart is fine,” Laura assured him. “Werewolves can smell sickness and ill health; we’ll pick up anything as soon as it happens.”

“A-ha!” Noah was triumphant. “See? Bacon’s back on the menu.”

Stiles wasn’t sure how to feel about that plan. On the one hand, he couldn’t exactly access a study on the effectiveness of werewolf sniffers on human heart disease and other general health. On the other hand, Laura seemed very sure of herself, and neither Peter nor Derek appeared to disagree.

Scott had never said anything about being able to smell if Noah was sick, but then Scott hadn’t been a werewolf all that long. Derek had always seemed several levels above the other werewolves when sensing danger; maybe it was a born wolf thing?

He had no reason not to trust Laura, and since she was his alpha now, he should probably give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Alright,” he capitulated, “maybe there can be more bacon. That doesn’t mean you can go back to getting a burger every day for lunch, though. Aside from everything else, you need to get a good range of nutrients.”

Noah’s triumph softened into understanding. “If I can have one bacon burger a week without everyone in my department looking like I’ve just slaughtered a kitten in front of them, I promise to be good the rest of the time.”

“Fine.” Stiles sat down and glanced at the table. There was some bread, some scrambled egg and a lone sausage left. He shifted the bread and sausage to the egg bowl and pulled it over, snagging a fork. “Looks like I missed quite a spread.”

“You snooze, you lose,” said Peter unsympathetically. “As soon as you’re done with that, you three youngsters can get on with the dishes.”

“I am the alpha, you know,” Laura grumbled half-heartedly. She got up and began stacking the empty dishes. “I’m on dishwasher duty; Derek, you and Stiles can argue about washing and drying between you.”

Mouth full, Stiles raised his eyebrows interrogatively at Derek.

“I’ll wash,” Derek decided.

“Good plan,” Stiles agreed when his mouth was free. “I bet werewolves can stand much hotter water than us mere mortals.”

“Being a werewolf doesn’t stop things from hurting,” Laura pointed out. “It just means we heal faster.”

“Do you know that for sure?” asked Stiles. “Because Scott certainly seemed to care a lot less about hurting himself after he was bitten. Clearly you still feel pain; I’m just not sure you feel pain as much.”

“You may have a point,” Peter admitted. “I don’t know how we’d ever find out though. It would require a lot of testing of werewolves, both before and after they took the bite, and even then, it wouldn’t address the possibility that born werewolves might experience things differently.”

Stiles was chewing the last of his breakfast, so only nodded in agreement.

“Either way, we won’t know the answer today, and Derek already offered to wash, so it’s academic anyway,” said Laura. “Derek, you might as well get started; we’ve only got twenty minutes until Master Chen arrives.”

For all the weirdness of having the Hales at the breakfast table, it was surprisingly comfortable.