Come Away

Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski grew up knowing that there was always someone, or something, watching him from the shadows. It didn’t bother him; he thought it was normal.

When he turned five; his mother explained that the watchers were faery. “They might approach you and ask you to come away with them,” she warned him. “You must always say no, my love. If you say yes, they will be able to take you away. You might never come back.”

That had frightened him. “You mean, never see you or dad again?”

She gave him a comforting hug. “But don’t worry, kochanie. They can’t take you away without your spoken agreement. So, you must never tell anyone that you will go with them, no matter who they are.”

He nodded hesitantly. “Not even you or dad?”

“Not even us.” Claudia gently stroked his hair back from his face. “Some faery are shapeshifters; they might try to pretend to be us to get your agreement. Or they might lie.”

His lip wobbled. “But won’t I get into trouble?”

“Not while I have anything to say about it,” Claudia promised. “If anyone tells you that you’re in trouble, you send them to me.”

A few months later, Stiles was playing outside when a lady appeared in a group of trees, on the other side of the back fence.

Her eyes were iridescent—one moment they were brown, and the next a golden yellow—and she had green-tinted skin and wild green hair that moved when she walked. As she got closer, Stiles realised that she wasn’t much taller than him.

She smiled at Stiles and held a hand out toward him. “Hello, pretty child. Would you like to come away with me and live in a tree?”

Stiles shook his head and put his hands behind his back. “No, thank you. Mommy said if I go away with you, I might never come back.”

The green lady laughed like happy birds. “Of course we would bring you back if you wanted to come!”

“Mommy said that you might lie.”

“Are you sure of your answer?” The green lady’s smile went from happy to sad. “If you come away with me, you will be able to play in the trees all day.”

Stiles didn’t like making her sad, and playing in the trees all day did sound like fun. If his mother hadn’t warned him that going away would mean never seeing her or dad again, he might have said yes. “No, thank you,” Stiles repeated. “I like you, but I won’t come with you.”

She nodded. “Goodbye then, pretty child.”

She turned and drifted back toward the trees, fading from his sight as she went.

Stiles went inside and told his mother.

Claudia hugged him tightly and kissed his forehead. “Well done, my słoneczko!”

Stiles decided not to tell her just how much he’d wanted to go.

v^v^v^v

Not long after Stiles’ eighth birthday, Claudia fell ill. Instead of being sick for a while and then getting better, she got more and more unwell. Over the space of a few weeks, she changed from being the picture of good health to a mere shadow of herself.

His dad had been called away by an emergency, and so Stiles was alone in the hospital waiting room—while the doctors ran more tests—when the vampires approached him.

There were two of them, a woman and a man. Their skin was pale in the fluorescent lighting, and their eyes glittered strangely. Stiles eyed them warily.

“We can save her, if you come with us.” The woman’s voice was low and persuasive.

“You can?” Stiles asked hopefully, before remembering his mother’s orders. He shook his head.

“We are vampires,” she said. “With our help, the sickness your mother is currently experiencing will be no more. We can ensure that she will never be sick again, nor grow old.”

The man cocked his head to one side. “It is her only chance. Without our gift, her power will eat her up from the inside. Very soon, there will be nothing left but a husk.”

Stiles twisted his fingers together. “But mommy said never to agree to go.”

“Your mommy will be dead soon; her opinion won’t matter.” The woman’s voice was matter-of-fact.

Stiles stared at his shoes, thinking hard. He didn’t want his mom to die. Maybe if they could save her, it would be alright? “I have to ask her first,” he said finally. “Will you wait for my answer?”

They nodded in unison.

“We will be back here in twenty-four hours,” the woman said. “Any longer than that and our gift will no longer be of use.”

Together they walked away.

The two hours before Stiles was able to see Claudia again dragged by. Finally, he was let back into her room. His voice shook with excitement as he outlined the vampire’s offer.

“Kochanie, no,” Claudia said, squeezing his hand. “If my time is up; my fate is set. Those who try to circumnavigate fate always end up paying for it in the end. You must not go with them, Mieczyslaw. Not even for this.”

“But they said you were going to die.”

“Everyone dies.” She ran a trembling hand over his head. “Soon after you were born, Mrs Renwick came to see you. She has the sight, you know.”

Stiles nodded. Everyone knew about weird Mrs Renwick. She sometimes said strange things to people, and what she told them often came true. She had a habit of staring at him that made him uncomfortable, so Stiles usually avoided her.

“She picked you up—you weren’t even a day old yet—and said, ‘A marked child. His power will cause his undoing and the undoing of–’”

“The undoing of what?”

Claudia sighed. “She never got to finish. The doctor came in and interrupted her. But you must be very careful, Stiles. This power we have is rare. It is rare and coveted, and has run in my family for generations. My father told me it was a sacred trust, that it must be preserved.”

Stiles frowned. “Preserved for what? Why does that mean that you have to die?”

“I asked him that same question. He didn’t know, he told me only what his father had told him.” Claudia shook her head. “This power that runs in us is far stronger in you than it is in me, than it was in my father. I can feel it. I know that you will do the right thing and safeguard it against those who would use it for harm. Promise me you will be strong, Mieczyslaw.” As she spoke, the strength seemed to drain out of her. Her hand lay heavy in his. “Promise me you will make us proud.”

“I promise.” Stiles’ throat was aching with the effort of holding in the tears gathering in his eyes. He didn’t want to cry; Claudia was always sad when he cried.

She gave him a faint smile. “You need to look after your dad,” she whispered. “He’s going to need you, kochanie.”

The tears he’d been holding back spilt over, and he nodded.

The next day, the vampires returned.

Stiles did his best to be brave. “I won’t be coming with you.” He said it as fast as he could, wanting to get it over with. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

The woman’s expression didn’t change; the man looked disappointed. They didn’t speak, only gave him a short bow before leaving.

Later that same afternoon, he was sitting beside her when Claudia Stilinski took her last breath.

Stiles rested his forehead on her hand and cried his heart out. He should have saved her.

v^v^v^v

The next time the fae approached him was after his tenth birthday.

Stiles and Noah had been muddling along, slowly learning to adjust to life without Claudia’s warmth and joy permeating everything.

Some days were better than others. There were even some days that might be considered ‘okay’, days when Stiles wasn’t constantly reminded of his failure by the way Noah found it hard to look at him.

More often, the days were something to be endured.

Old Mrs Renwick passed away, and Stiles didn’t know whether that should make him happy or sad. He wondered if he should have talked to her when he had the chance. He tried sounding out some of the adults around him to see if they knew about the fae, drew as accurate a picture of the green lady as he could and showed it to them. No-one reacted right, they just praised his vivid imagination. He decided he would just have to deal with it on his own.

His tenth birthday was the same as his ninth, just him and his dad.

The centaurs showed up halfway through September. They were bare-chested, rippling muscles on display. They looked almost identical, the only discernible difference between them the colour of their tails. The one who did the speaking had a tail so dark brown it was almost black, while the other’s tail was a much lighter brown.

The dark-tailed centaur told Stiles that if he came away with them, they would teach him to fight. “We will make you a warrior of renown, respected throughout the world.”

Stiles thought about that. Becoming a bad-ass warrior sounded pretty great. “I thought that if I left with you, I’d be leaving the world.”

The dark-tailed centaur scoffed. “Not renowned in this world, child. I speak of the world that matters. Where strength and talent are recognised and rewarded. You could become mighty.”

“But I won’t be able to see my dad.”

“It is the way of things. The young inevitably grow up and leave the shade of their parent tree, or they find themselves withering for lack of sunlight.”

Stiles frowned. “I’m not sure I like this analogy. Because when it comes to trees competing in the upper canopy, it tends to be one or the other, not both. Either I can thrive, or my dad can.”

The centaur frowned back. “It is the way of things.”

Stiles stepped back. “Then my answer is no. I fully intend to make sure my dad thrives for as long as humanly possible.” He reminded himself of the words his mother had said on her deathbed. He had to be strong, to avoid the temptation the faery races would dangle before him.

The dark-tailed centaur snorted, rose up on his hind legs and did a neat swivel. He trotted off without further discussion. His light-tailed companion nodded once at Stiles and then did the same.

It was probably for the best. That dark-tailed guy seemed like a dick.

v^v^v^v

After that, various fae came and made offers on average of once a year. The dwarves, the naga, the coyote, the kappa. When he was fifteen, it was a kitsune. They were all fairly polite after he dismissed them, although the kitsune seemed particularly mournful. Then, in his sixteenth year, the offers stopped.

Stiles didn’t even notice at first. It’s not like they were all that regular to start with.

He spent most of his sixteenth year distracted by the need to take better care of his dad, who’d received some alarming cholesterol results in his yearly health check.

Stiles was far more concerned about this than Noah was, going by how often he ate fast-food for lunch.

“You can’t eat this sort of stuff anymore!” Stiles wailed. “Oh my god, it’s like you want your heart to be clogged full of gunk and stop working!”

Noah rolled his eyes. “It was one bad physical.”

“What if it’s the pebble that starts the avalanche?” Stiles countered.

“I’m pretty sure that cardiovascular problems aren’t anything like an avalanche.”

“How would you know?” Stiles folded his arms across his chest. “Are you a doctor? I think not.”

“You’re not a doctor either,” Noah pointed out. “I’ll be fine. I’m not going anywhere, kid, okay?”

Stiles was unmoved and stepped up his campaign to ensure that Noah was taking care of himself. He took online cooking classes, teaching himself how to cook tasty, healthy food. He made sure his dad ate healthily at home, and he put together packed lunches and snacks that he could take to work.

He began to stop by the station daily; he did his best to make friends with as many of his dad’s deputies as he could.

Noah shook his head but otherwise took it with good grace. “Are you organising a mutiny?”

Stiles gave his best innocent face. “I don’t think looking out for the captain’s health and well-being can really be considered a mutiny, Dad.”

“Uh-huh.”

Not long after that, Noah hired Derek Hale.

At first, Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of him. Derek looked like he should be modelling expensive men’s underwear or running up and down beaches in slow motion, not working as a deputy in an out of the way town in California.

A sneaky look at his employee file didn’t make things any clearer. Derek Maxwell Hale had graduated salutatorian in his high school and had completed a criminal justice degree before applying to the Police Academy. There, Derek had excelled; he’d been so impressive that he’d been encouraged to apply to the FBI. Why would a hotshot like Derek stall out what looked like the beginning of a promising career? Maybe he had personality problems?

It didn’t take long for that theory to be debunked. Derek was polite and intelligent. He was quietly friendly, yet he didn’t share much of himself with his co-workers. He didn’t appear to be interested in any of the people that threw themselves at him; no one had ever seen him on a date. He was a mystery; Stiles loved mysteries.

“Leave him alone, Stiles,” Noah sighed when he came across Stiles working on it. “He’s one of my best deputies, and I’ll be very annoyed if you chase him away with your shenanigans.”

Stiles was indignant. “I’m not going to chase him away, Dad! I just want to solve the puzzle.”

“There is no puzzle,” Noah insisted.

Stiles flapped his hand at him and went back to his research.

“If you chase him away, I’m going to eat a whole pizza for lunch every day for a week,” Noah threatened.

Stiles looked up, horrified. “You wouldn’t.”

“Meat-lovers. With extra cheese.”

Stiles jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t!” At Noah’s raised eyebrows, he sulkily closed his laptop. “You would. Oh my god, this is emotional blackmail!”

Noah smiled smugly. “I’d hate to have to do it, but if you force my hand…”

“Fine! You win. Gloating is really unattractive, you know. And just for that, we’re having steamed fish and wilted spinach for dinner.”

“Great.” Noah’s smug smile turned strained. “I’ll look forward to it.”

v^v^v^v

When a whole year had passed, and Derek had still failed to do anything nefarious, Stiles grudgingly decided that maybe he just wanted to live in a quiet town. He became mostly convinced that Derek was asexual, since he couldn’t think of anything else to explain such a complete lack of any kind of romantic interest in anyone at all.

Stiles, on the other hand, had privately come to the conclusion that he was bisexual. He had this inner awakening when he realised that his infatuation with Lydia Martin had faded and he was spending most of his ‘private time’ thinking about Derek.

In many ways, it was considerably more pleasant to have a crush on Derek. For one, Stiles was pretty sure that Derek actually liked him. Derek thought he was funny, if the adorable little smiles he gave him were anything to go by. And since Derek was asexual—probably, unconfirmed at this time but it fit all the evidence—Stiles didn’t feel compelled to make elaborate plans to woo him.

Noah wasn’t fooled. “If you chase him away with your pining I’ll enact the same penalty that I threatened you with last time.”

Stiles threw up his hands. “I’m not going to chase him away, okay? That’s the last thing I want to do.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t have a secret stash of gifts that you’ve been compiling for his birthday?”

“What?” Stiles wasn’t proud of how squeaky his voice got. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, just leave me alone, old man! I know that he’s asexual, alright? I’m not going to make him uncomfortable, I just want to let him know that he’s…appreciated.”

Noah snorted. “Well, maybe try to ‘appreciate’ him a little less obviously.” He turned to leave.

Stiles pulled the finger—and an admittedly childish face—at his back.

v^v^v^v

Lydia Martin graduated valedictorian of their year, and Stiles was salutatorian. He could probably have achieved valedictorian if he’d worked for it—Lydia might have been a genius in chemistry and math, but Stiles could easily outperform her in everything else—however it didn’t seem worth the effort when he didn’t really care one way or another. He had already been accepted to Stanford and had a college fund set up by his maternal grandparents, whereas Lydia was aiming for MIT and needed all the endorsement she could get.

Not that Stiles planned to head to Stanford straight away; not when it meant leaving his dad unsupervised to eat his way to a coronary. He managed to sweet talk a deferral of two years out of the admissions committee and then, with his diploma in hand, Stiles applied for a job as a receptionist at the sheriff’s station.

When Noah found out, he immediately confronted him. “What are you thinking?”

Stiles raised his chin. “I’m thinking that I’m going to work at the station for a year or two, get some real insight into the inner workings of our justice system. While I’m doing that I’ll take a couple of classes that can be credited over, and then, when I’m ready, I’ll begin Criminal Justice at Stanford.”

“Working as a receptionist isn’t going to get you all that much more ‘inner knowledge’ than you already have,” Noah pointed out.

Stiles shrugged. “True, but putting, ‘Used to hang out with dad down the station’ doesn’t look as good on a CV.”

Noah sighed. “Do you promise me that getting this job won’t stop you from going to college?”

“I promise.” Stiles meant it, and perhaps Noah could see that because he capitulated.

v^v^v^v

The two years that Stiles worked as a receptionist for the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department were good. The work—the nuts and bolts of filing, answering calls, dealing with disgruntled people who had a bone to pick with law enforcement—wasn’t terribly enjoyable, but the atmosphere was.

Stiles had always been an outsider at school. He wasn’t athletic enough or willing to brown-nose enough to get an in with the jocks—even if he had wanted to—and his attention problems made him too disruptive to be a favourite with the teachers, despite his consistently high grades.

At the station, he felt much more welcome. It might have been because his dad was the sheriff; or perhaps because a lot of the deputies had known him since he was a toddler. Regardless of why, Stiles found himself actually enjoying day-to-day life for the first time since his mother died.

Derek figured out Stiles’ ‘secret agenda’ as soon as he applied for the job. “You know, this kind of obsession could be called creepy,” he pointed out.

Stiles made a show of surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t really think you’re fooling anyone?”

“I’m not trying to fool anybody.”

Derek sighed. “He’s a grown man, Stiles. He’s fully capable of looking after himself.”

Stiles gave him a wide smile. “I’m glad you think so. Now, do you mind? I’m busy with these—” he looked down to where he was affixing prong fasteners to file folders, “—very important matters.”

“Right.” If Derek’s voice got any dryer, a drought would be announced.

Stiles didn’t care that he was being obvious. His dad mattered more to him than anyone else in the world, and he was going to do everything in his power to ensure that he lived to a ripe old age.

A year and a half into Stiles’ career as a receptionist, Derek brought up the subject again.

“This is getting ridiculous. What if I promised to monitor his food intake and report to you faithfully once a week?”

Stiles squinted at him doubtfully. “You’d spy on your boss for me?”

Derek used his finger to make an imaginary cross symbol over his chest.

Stiles pretended not to see Noah eavesdropping from his office. “Well, if I can’t trust one of Beacon County’s finest, who can I trust?”

Derek smiled that gorgeous tiny smile that he aimed at so few people. “I’ll look after him for you, Stiles. I’d do it anyway, but I’d also promise a lot to put an end to this heinous criminal act.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and smiled back. “It’s not really stalking, you know. I live with him!”

“No, I don’t mean the stalking. Although living with him doesn’t mean that you can’t also be stalking him. I mean the waste of your potential.” Derek levelled another adorable smile at him and then went back to his desk, exchanging a thumbs-up gesture with Noah on the way.

v^v^v^v

In the August of his nineteenth year on the planet, Stiles began a Degree in Criminal Justice at Stanford. He planned to fast-track it; despite Derek’s promise, he wanted to get back to being able to watch over his dad as soon as possible.

In November, he was approached by a kelpie.

It was early on a Wednesday morning. The little cafe that provided Stiles with his pick-me-up had been unusually quiet, and so he had fifteen minutes to spare before his class started.

He wandered down towards the lake, wishing he’d been able to spend the extra time in bed.

Stiles sipped his coffee and watched appreciatively as a figure emerged from the water, rivulets gliding down defined musculature. If it weren’t for all the seaweed entangled in his hair and his glowing green eyes, he would have looked just like any other buff dude.

Stiles was pretty surprised. He thought the fae had given up years ago. Since it appeared that they hadn’t, it was probably a good idea to see if Stanford’s excellent library held anything that would help him figure out what exactly all these fae wanted with him, and why.

The dude walked closer. “Come away with me.” He extended a hand to Stiles and smiled invitingly.

“Uh, no.” Stiles backed away.

The young man shifted instantaneously into a black horse, shiny with moisture and with seaweed tangled in his mane and tail. His eyes glowed brighter, and he lunged forward, his sharp, jagged white teeth showing.

Stiles dropped his coffee, smacked the horse thing in the face with his satchel—wincing at the crunching sound that spelt out bad things for his laptop—and ran. By the time the creature had recovered, Stiles had reached the relative safety of a well-traversed pedestrian area.

Other students walked past obliviously, giving Stiles a cursory glance and then ignoring him. Stiles got his breath back and watched the kelpie retreat back into the lake. Well, that answered the question of whether he was the only one who could see them. Also the question of if it was all just a figment of his imagination.

“Well, fuck.” Stiles looked at his damp satchel. It had picked up an ominous rattle, like loose plastic pieces being knocked together. Heaving a deep sigh, he continued on to his morning class. Thank god for his educational trust.

Eight hours of combing through the library later, and Stiles was still largely in the dark. He considered asking for help, but what was dismissed as a charmingly vivid imagination in a child would probably be looked at with a lot more concern and suspicion in an adult, and he didn’t even know where to start. Maybe he should concentrate on protecting himself first, and then think about some more in-depth research when he wasn’t tied to one place.

The next weekend, Stiles enrolled in a local Krav Maga program. If the faery approaches were going to get violent, he needed more than just a smart mouth and quick feet on his side.

v^v^v^v

He had a whole year of quiet and began to wonder if the fae had given up again.

Before he could get too complacent, he was approached by two harpies. The Krav Maga turned out to be very useful when they threw a fit at his refusal and attacked. At that point, Stiles decided that it might be worthwhile to start carrying a blade and enrolled in Filipino Martial Arts so he could learn to use it effectively.

He was grateful to have it when the hellhound stopped by in December.

“This is getting pretty fucking ridiculous,” Stiles muttered to himself as he treated the burns on his arms. “What’s next, a dragon?”

What was next was maenads. Thankfully, they didn’t bother him during his graduation, or during the hectic summer that followed.

Stiles had finished his Criminal Justice Degree in three years rather than the usual four, and his marks were so consistently high and his course work so well thought out that his advisor agreed that he could try for a fast-tracked master’s.

After a discussion with his dad about the benefits and drawbacks, Stiles signed up for a year of academic exhaustion. His social life—which had never been all that exciting—became almost non-existent. Stiles’ time was entirely consumed by his studies, both in academia and martial arts.

The trio of maenads approached him one evening in November. Stiles was just beginning to feel that he’d got a handle on his new schedule, and was on his way home from a Krav Maga class.

He was tired, sweaty, looking forward to dinner, mentally going over some of the arguments that he would be putting forward in the paper he was assigned that morning, and texting Derek about why the flavoured yoghurt from the grocery store wasn’t actually a healthy option.

He was pretty distracted, but not distracted enough that he didn’t notice the trio of wild-looking, naked, woman-things that walked up to him like the temperature hadn’t been dropping steadily for the last few weeks.

“We are representatives of the maenads,” the tallest one said, her smile revealing pointy teeth that looked almost black in the low light.

“Come away with us,” the shortest one said, beckoning invitingly with a slender hand.

The middle one didn’t say anything, just smirked and ran one hand slowly and suggestively over the tallest one’s bare breast, tweaking the dark nipple as she went.

Stiles’ mouth went dry. “Oh,” he said intelligently. His phone beeped. He glanced down reflexively to see a new message from Derek. That broke him out of the slight stupor that he’d fallen into, and he shoved his phone in his pocket.

He gripped the handle of the long knife at his belt and swallowed hard. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

The tall one hissed at him, no longer looking quite so friendly. The small one looked sad, but the middle one leaned forward, eyes glinting with a reddish tint.

Stiles drew his blade.

“You think you have the answers, don’t you?” Her voice grated on his nerves like a knife on glass. “You’re going to regret this later, that is a promise.” She eyed his blade dismissively. “You won’t be needing that today, little boy. If you had an ounce of foresight, you’d turn that little piece of metal on yourself rather than face what’s coming for you.”

“What’s coming for me?” Stiles asked.

They didn’t answer him. The middle one just laughed, and they faded from view.

Stiles was left standing on his own, brandishing his knife at nothing. He sighed and put it away. “Fucking cryptic fae and their stupid temptations.” His phone beeped again. It was Derek, asking if he was okay. Stiles felt deliciously warm all over even as he responded that he was fine. He carried on home, trying to put the maenads and their obscure warnings out of his head.

v^v^v^v

On a Friday morning at the start of June—just as Stiles was finishing up the requirements for his master’s—he received a call from Derek that Noah was shot outside the Beacon Hills Sheriff Station and rushed to the hospital.

Derek had already arranged for a helicopter at Palo Alto airfield, and so Stiles shoved some stuff into a bag and called an Uber. While in the car, he called his advisor to let him know what was happening. He climbed into the chopper fifteen minutes after Derek called him.

He made it back to Beacon Hills in about an hour and a half, but it was still too late. Noah died while Stiles was somewhere over Nevada City.

v^v^v^v

Stiles drifted through the next few days on auto-pilot. He signed whatever Derek put in front of him after making the barest effort to understand what he’d been given. He stared into space as Derek made phone call after phone call, talking to lawyers, and the coroners, and lots of other people that Stiles had stopped paying attention to.

Stiles didn’t even have the consolation of finding the killer to distract him. The shooting had happened in broad daylight, in full view of everyone in the street, and had been captured on more than one CCTV feed. The killer was immediately identified as Bradley Roberts, a man recently released from jail after serving a ten year sentence for aggravated assault. Noah Stilinski had been the arresting officer, and had supplied much of the testimony that had sent him away. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who had done it or why, it only remained to catch him.

Which left Stiles with nothing but grief and bureaucracy to occupy him.

There was something so very lonely about being an orphan. He wondered if he would feel quite so cut-off if he had siblings to share his grief with, or anyone really.

Derek hadn’t left his side since he got off the chopper.

“Shouldn’t you be doing cop-type things?” Stiles asked when the first shock had started to lift. He was sitting at Derek’s dining-room table, staring at the coffee he held cradled in his hands.

Derek—standing at his kitchen counter and chopping carrots and potatoes for a slow-cooker beef stew—shook his head. “We’ve been given temporary leave. The State Attorney General has assigned the CBI to the investigation; such as it is—we’re all considered too compromised.”

Stiles nodded slowly. “I suppose that makes sense. You’re the newest hire, and you’ve been there, what, seven years now?”

“We’re a small, tight-knit group.” Derek shrugged and slid the chopped vegetables into the pot. “It’s pretty cut and dried, in any case. There wasn’t a lot of subtlety about the shooting.” He turned to face Stiles. “I’m sorry I didn’t—I should have saved him. It’s my fault, I was supposed to be looking after him.”

“Hey, no!” Stiles replied, startled. “No one is blaming you, Derek. It’s not your fault, okay? No more than it’s mine. The only one to blame is the bastard who shot him.” He hesitated. “I’m a little bit surprised that you aren’t agitating to be the one to bring him in, though.”

“I want him to pay,” Derek admitted. “I admired Noah immensely, and I’d love to be part of the team that catches his killer. But taking care of you right now is more important.”

Stiles tried to smile, but it felt wrong on his face, and he couldn’t keep it going for long anyway.

Derek washed his hands and sat in the chair opposite Stiles. His eyes were gentle. “Are you ready to talk about the funeral arrangements now?”

“I suppose I should get it over and done with.” Stiles let out a tremulous sigh.

v^v^v^v

With Derek’s encouragement, Stiles steeled himself to go back to his dad’s house to pick up some clothes. Derek had invited him to stay with him until he had sorted himself out, and his hastily packed bag only held so much.

Stiles shoved the clothes from his drawers into whatever bags he could find as quickly as he could. He was glad that he didn’t have to sleep in his old bed.

“How do you want to handle all of this?” Derek indicated the living room furniture from his spot at the base of the stairs. Stiles hoisted his bag over his shoulder and joined him.

“I don’t know.” Stiles stood staring at Noah’s chair for a moment. “I should sort through everything, I suppose. See what can be donated to charity, what can be sold. Is it even legal to do that yet?”

Derek shrugged. “We can ask the lawyer. What I meant was, are you going to want to do that right away, or would you like me to arrange to have everything stored until you feel like dealing with it?”

“This is the detritus of my dad’s life,” Stiles said, not sure why he was suddenly so angry. “I’m never going to feel like dealing with it.” He blinked furiously to disperse the tears that had suddenly gathered in his eyes.

Derek didn’t say anything, just waited him out.

Stiles sighed. “Can I just leave everything for now? I’ll think about it later.”

“Absolutely.” Derek bumped his shoulder into Stiles’ gently. “Whatever you want.”

v^v^v^v

The funeral was well attended. Bradley Roberts was apprehended.

The Will was obtained from Noah’s solicitors without a fuss. The house and major assets were in a Living Trust, and Stiles was the direct beneficiary of the trust and the life insurance, so all he had to do was swear out a Small Estate Affidavit to skip the probate process on the rest of his dad’s assets.

Derek continued to be a big help. He persuaded his uncle—an attorney—to guide Stiles through the process and made sure that Stiles ate regularly, and didn’t subsist on energy drinks. Stiles’ long-held crush was deepening and developing into something stronger, and there were times when Stiles was almost sure that his feelings were reciprocated. It was comforting, and something that he planned to deal with at a later date.

On his way back from the court after filing the affidavit, he detoured through the cemetery. Noah had been laid to rest beside Claudia in a lovely peaceful area studded with beautiful mature trees. There was bench conveniently situated close by—one that Stiles had been using for years when coming to spend time at his mother’s grave—and Stiles sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and just let himself feel all the despair that he’d been trying to hide from everyone.

It was the smell that gave the intruder away, not that the crazy looking creature seemed to be making much of an effort to hide itself.

“Wow.” Stiles mentally tagged the lion-like head at the front, the goat-head protruding from the back, and the snake-head twisting sinuously around at the end of the very snakey tail. “I see subtlety is dead.”

“Come away with us,” the thing said, its voice all growly and its breath hot. “We represent the chimaera, and—”

“No shit,” Stiles snorted. “You sure as hell aren’t representing the Lollipop Guild, and that’s a fact.”

The snake-head gave a warning hiss, and the goat-head pulled its lips back to display a mouthful of discoloured teeth. The chimaera took a deep breath and expanded, doubling its size and mass.

Stiles eyed the three teeth-filled mouths, and the paws tipped with long, wicked-looking claws, and began to worry. After arriving back in Beacon Hills, he’d stopped carrying his usual weaponry around, since even before leaving for college, the faery creatures had stopped accosting him here. He’d begun to think of it as a fae-free zone, which with hindsight was clearly a mistake. All of a sudden, he felt very underdressed.

“Come away with us,” the chimaera repeated, the words sounding less rote and decidedly more threatening.

Stiles got to his feet, wondering if he had a chance of outrunning it. He was hopeful that the chimaera would be as philosophical about his refusal as the maenads had been, but not optimistic enough to discard any reasonable option of escape from this situation.

“No,” he said warily. He hastily tacked on a, “Thank you!” Politeness might help matters. It couldn’t hurt.

The chimaera gave a rumbling growl and increased in size again.

Stiles gulped. Was this what the maenads had meant about regret? Because the chimaera just kept getting bigger, and he was beginning to doubt he was going to make it out of this confrontation alive.

“He gave you his answer.” Derek appeared out of nowhere. He stepped up to Stiles’ side and frowned at the chimaera. “That means that you leave.”

Stiles felt overwhelming relief. “You can see it?”

The snake-head hissed again, the goat-head gave a braying laugh, and the lion-head tossed its mane. It ignored Stiles and spoke directly to Derek. “Do not think that one such as you has the authority to give us orders. Besides, your presence means that you’re in violation too.”

Stiles blinked. “Wait, what?”

Derek ignored him and stared down the chimaera, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “I haven’t made an offer, so my presence contravenes no rules.”

The chimaera sat, shrinking back to its original size. Stiles stifled a sigh of relief, even as he started connecting the dots. Derek was fae? He’d been fae all along? Or was this a shapeshifter who had taken Derek’s form?

The snake-head hissed something into the lion-head’s ear. “You appear to have successfully exploited a loophole,” the lion-head grumbled. “Not that you have any more guarantee of success than the rest of us. Your time grows short, wolf.”

Derek offered a smile that showed all his teeth. His very glinty, pointy teeth. “And you have outstayed yours. Leave. You have no further business here.”

The chimaera stayed put. “You think not? When there are now two prey offerings standing before us? Why should we allow another to take that which we covet? Better to destroy it than let it fall into the wrong hands.”

Derek’s fingernails turned into claws. He moved directly in front of Stiles, posture screaming ‘threat.’ “Excuse me? Prey? Are the chimaera really so eager to declare war on the Hales?”

“Hales? You’re a Hale?” The chimaera recoiled visibly and got to its feet. “Fine. We have better things to be doing.” It faded from view slowly.

As soon as it was gone entirely, Derek somehow got rid of his claws and turned to face Stiles.

“You’re a faery.” Stiles was well on his way to hopping mad. “You’ve been a faery all along. Wow, you really dedicated a lot of work into your pitch. You’ve been here, what—” he did some rapid mental calculations, “—seven years? That’s one hell of a long time, given the high prospect of failure.”

Derek sighed. “I was going to tell you, Stiles, I promise. I was waiting until you got back from college, but then—”

“What kind of fae are you?” Stiles interrupted. “Come on, out with it. Show me what you really look like.”

“This is what I look like,” Derek said gently. “I’m a werewolf, and all werewolves have at least two forms that are equally us.”

“At least two? Meaning possibly more? Well, show me your other one then.”

Derek shrugged. “I’m one of the rare non-alpha weres who has three,” he said. “My third form is a bloodline gift that’s run in my family for our recorded history. But this is my beta shift.” Between one moment and the next, his whole face changed. The brow ridges changed shape and place—his eyebrows disappeared completely, what the fuck?—his ears grew pointy, his ever-present facial scruff lengthened, his eyes turned yellow and started glowing. He opened his mouth to display an impressive set of fangs.

He was still recognisably Derek Hale, if a decidedly more bestial version.

“Is that it?” Stiles asked, trying to brazen out the adrenaline rush that the sight of those teeth bared in his direction sent flowing through his body.

The unfamiliar features melted back into Derek’s usual visage. The scruff receded—did it go back into the skin, or what?—and the eyebrows reappeared.

“The other shift is a full transformation into a wolf,” Derek said. “An alpha werewolf also has the option of something called an alpha shift—it’s something generally only used in alpha confrontations, and I’m not an alpha so I can’t show it to you anyway.”

“What about the full transformation? Are you going to show me that?”

“Not in a graveyard.” Derek sounded slightly offended.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Why not in a graveyard?”

Derek looked uncomfortable. “If I don’t want to wreck my clothes, I have to take them off first. And your parents are buried right there.”

Stiles’ dwindling temper rose again. “And are you going to threaten me if I don’t agree to go away with you? Is that what this has been all about?”

“No, of course not. I would never—”

“There is no ‘of course,’ I don’t even know who you are, dude,” Stiles said, stepping back. “I’ll get my stuff from your place. I don’t need your help.”

“Stiles, you don’t have to—”

“Just leave me alone!”

v^v^v^v

Getting his things from Derek’s didn’t take long. Rather than go back to his dad’s empty house, Stiles booked into a motel.

He endured the commiserations of the woman behind the desk. He listened to her long-winded story about the time his dad didn’t give her a speeding ticket—even though she had been totally speeding—because his dad was sympathetic about the child leaking mucous all over the back seat, with as much patience as he could muster before escaping, armed with a room key and a sizeable discount.

Huddling on a motel room armchair and wrapped in the blanket from his childhood bed, Stiles felt more alone than he ever had before. His anger had mostly burnt itself out, leaving him miserable and wondering if he’d maybe reacted a little harshly.

He fell asleep while contemplating the pros and cons of going back to Derek and pretending none of this had happened.

v^v^v^v

Stiles still hadn’t made up his mind about what to do with the whole Derek situation when he ran into yet another faery type person.

“No,” he said before the conspicuously armoured woman with the winged helmet could even open her mouth. “No, I don’t want to come away with you, I don’t want to buy life insurance, and I don’t want to hear about Jesus. Leave me alone.”

“You may call me Valkyrie.” She ignored his opening speech with the talent of someone who’d been ignoring people for years. “I am here to offer you a bargain, Mieczyslaw, son of Noah. You would be wise not to dismiss me until you’ve heard me out.”

Stiles sighed. “Alright then, if you must. Give me your pitch.”

She studied him thoughtfully. “Noah Stilinski was warrior,” she began. “He was fated to die in battle and to join my kinfolk and those like him in the feasting halls of Valhalla. Unfortunately—owing to the machinations of a werewolf—that fate has been obscured.”

“What?” Stiles asked, as taken aback by her calm delivery as by what she was saying. “What do you mean, the machinations of a werewolf? And obscured how?”

Valkyrie looked down her nose at him. “You think that the man who murdered him found him by chance? That he just happened to be waiting when Noah Stilinski emerged?”

“Uh, yes?”

“The actions the werewolf has taken to isolate you have meant that Noah Stilinski is no longer eligible for his destined afterlife,” Valkyrie went on. “He is lost in limbo, where he will remain alone until the end of days.”

“What happens at the end of days?” Stiles asked.

Valkyrie rolled her eyes. “Everything ends, of course. The clue is in the name.” There was an unspoken ‘moron’ tacked on the end there.

Stiles frowned. “What, are you saying that he was never going to be reunited with my mother in the afterlife? What kind of sucky afterlife planning is this?”

She sighed. “Once a soul has reached their just reward, they are permitted to travel between realms,” she said impatiently. “Those who wish to may stay where they are, those who wish the companionship of others may seek it. Currently, Noah Stilinski is a ‘non-completion’ black mark on my otherwise perfect escort history, a black mark that I would like to remove.”

“So, you’re saying that my dad is facing an indeterminate amount of time alone, before being wiped from existence along with everything else,” Stiles recapped. He folded his arms the way that Derek did sometimes when he wanted to make a point. “That’s all very interesting and everything. I really don’t know why you’ve come to me about it. What can I do?”

“By yourself? Nothing. With my help? Perhaps something.”

Stiles eyed her suspiciously. “Only perhaps?”

She shrugged. “There are no guarantees. But I would not be offering this to you if I didn’t feel there was a greater than average chance of success.”

Stiles considered that for a minute, studying her. She stood calmly and confidently, but there was something about her that seemed a bit off. “What are you offering, and what exactly would I need to do?”

Valkyrie smiled. “The power of selfless sacrifice is one of the greatest forces in the universe,” she said. “You are a born witch, and that would make any sacrifice of yours even more potent. Join your power with mine, give me complete access to it and mastery over it, and I will be able to move your father through to Valhalla.”

“Right,” Stiles said rudely. “You just want me to sacrifice myself? Because, according to you, my dad is cosmically screwed if I don’t? What proof do you have? How do I know that you’re telling the truth, that this isn’t a trap? And why do you even care, anyway? Is a single ‘black mark’ really worth all this effort?”

“Sacrifice your power. If it is done right, it should not require the price of your life.” She ignored the rest of what he’d said. “You have seven days to decide. Do what research you wish, and I will meet you in the place where Noah Stilinksi’s remains rest, in one week’s time.”

Rather than fading from view as a lot of other faery types had done, she walked away. Stiles was left wondering how the hell he was supposed to be able to research this stuff. He’d already exhausted all the avenues available in his search for a supernatural library.

Except for one.

Taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he realised that he could no longer put off talking to Derek. He had some questions, and Derek might have the answers.

v^v^v^v

Derek had the door to his apartment open before Stiles was within ten feet of it.

Stiles marched through without saying anything and took a seat at Derek’s dining room table.

“Come in, Stiles,” Derek said, following him in and taking the seat across from him. His tone was only faintly sarcastic. “Have a seat. Make yourself at home.”

Stiles squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. “Did you arrange for my dad to be shot?” he asked bluntly, watching closely for a reaction.

“What?!” Derek looked as shocked and horrified as Stiles would have expected. “No! How could even think such a thing! Noah was my friend!”

“Someone told me that a werewolf orchestrated the shooting,” Stiles said, still watching carefully. “Are there any other werewolves in town? Would you be able to tell if there were?”

Derek slumped slightly in his chair and ran a hand over his face. “To the best of my knowledge, there are no other werewolves in town,” he replied. “However, there are several potions and spells that I know of that a werewolf might use to disguise themselves from my senses, so I can’t be absolutely certain. A disguise like that wouldn’t last long, though, and finding a magic user to cast them can get very expensive. If someone did hide that way, it wouldn’t have been for very long.”

Stiles nodded. That sounded reasonable, insofar as werewolves and witches and other fae were reasonable, anyway. “I need to do some research on a breed of faery called Valkyries,” he said. “I was approached by one, and she gave me some information that I need to check out. Do you—or maybe your uncle Peter—have any resources that could help me with that?”

Derek didn’t answer, just reached over and scooped his phone off his kitchen counter. He held Stiles’ gaze while he called Peter, and then put the phone on speaker and laid it between them.

“Ah, nephew.” Peter’s smooth drawl was as annoying as always. “Are we over our little tantrum then? Far be it from me to say ‘I told—’”

“Stiles is here with me,” Derek interrupted him. “He’s looking for some information on Valkyries. Is there any info on them in the repository?”

“There’s bound to be something in there somewhere,” Peter replied. His drawl had disappeared, and he was all business. “I’ll do a search and let you know what I find.”

“I need it as soon as possible,” Stiles said. “I’ve got a week to make a decision, and knowing if I can trust what the Valkyrie said is critical.”

“What did they offer you?” Peter asked sharply.

Stiles shook his head. “That’s not important. I need to know what powers they have and whether or not they have a reputation for lying to get what they want.”

“Understood,” Peter said. “I’ll be in touch. And Stiles…”

“Yes?”

There was a moment of stillness. “Never mind. I’ll get on to this right away.” The call disconnected.

Stiles continued staring at it, glad to have something other than Derek to look at. “Why did you do it?” he asked when the silence threatened to draw out too long. “Why spend seven years here if it wasn’t to trick me into accepting an offer?”

Derek sighed and got up, heading over to the small espresso machine in the corner where he began fiddling with the grinder. “Werewolves are pack oriented,” he said, turning to face Stiles. “Many of us stay within a hundred miles of our pack lands our whole lives, aside from occasional inter-pack events. Those are organised primarily so that young wolves can mingle with others like them, maybe see if they feel like spending time with others like us.”

“Are you seriously giving me Werewolf 101 right now?” Stiles asked incredulously.

“I’m trying to give you context,” Derek snapped. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Sure, fine,” Stiles relented. “Just maybe stop mucking around with that machine and actually make me some coffee.”

Derek’s shoulders relaxed slightly as he began measuring out beans. “The point to what I was saying is that werewolves are a pretty insular society. We’re careful about who tell our secret to, because when the wrong people find out it gets…messy.”

“Messy how?” Stiles asked cautiously.

“Messy as in there used to be a pack that lived here,” Derek said sombrely. “The Leyatis.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “You mean that big house fire out in the Preserve just before I was born? The one that killed over two dozen people? It wasn’t a wiring fault?”

Derek snorted. “It was a deliberate attack, and it worked. A peaceful pack that had resided in this area for hundreds of years—gone forever.”

Stiles frowned, feeling sick. “There were kids in that house. Toddlers even, and a newborn baby. And someone killed them on purpose? What happened, were they caught?”

“Oh, they were caught,” Derek replied. “They were dealt with, too. But it’s better all around if situations like that don’t arise, and so we’re cautious about who can know.”

“Okay, I can understand that,” Stiles allowed. “But that doesn’t explain why you came here in the first place.”

Derek sighed. “This part…is a bit harder to explain. Werewolves—when we marry another like us, special bonds form. They bind us together tight and close, and so it’s uncommon for those bonds to be severed.” He gave a half-smile. “We’re also not fussed about gender roles or racial profiles. It’s corny and trite, but werewolves generally care more about what’s on the inside than what’s on the outside.”

“That’s lovely, really,” Stiles said flatly. “What’s your point?”

“Werewolves don’t have soulmates,” Derek said, bringing Stiles’ finished coffee over and sliding it onto the table in front of him. “Not generally. Every once in a while though…”

Stiles sipped his ambrosia and waited for Derek to continue.

“Sometimes we feel a connection to someone we’ve never met,” Derek said eventually. “It’s not a soul bond or a destined pairing or anything. Just a nascent bond that can either be ignored or explored. Historically, though, exploring those connections has always proven to be highly beneficial. For all parties involved, not just the werewolves.”

“And you felt one of those connections,” Stiles said, understanding where Derek was going with this.

Derek nodded. “It led me here, where I found you.”

Stiles thought about that for a few moments. “So, you what, decided to join the Sheriff’s Department so that you could get to know me better? It was just good luck that my dad happened to be the sheriff?”

“A lot of werewolves go into local law enforcement.” Derek poked aimlessly at his phone. “It’s a way for us to keep connected to our communities and lets us have our ear to the ground, so to speak. Occasionally one of us gets ambitious and aims higher. Sometimes a lot higher.” He smirked to himself.

“You were being encouraged to apply for the FBI before you came here,” Stiles pointed out. “Was that something that you wanted?”

Derek shrugged. “I was feeling restless. I might have joined the FBI if I hadn’t felt a tug in this direction. I don’t really know, and I’m not bothered by might-have-beens. I made my choice, and I’m happy with it. It’s been strange to be so far away from the rest of my pack, but in a lot of ways, it’s been good for me. I feel more centred within myself now. Less dependant on my alpha.” He twiddled with his phone again.

“So, did you have a plan?” Stiles asked. “Faery and fae have been trying to lure me away with them since I was five. How were you going to do it?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to lure you away, Stiles. I came here to find the source of the connection that I could feel, and I stayed…I suppose I stayed because I liked it here. I liked you, I liked Noah, and it seemed that this is where I should be. I won’t lie and tell you that I didn’t know you had magic. I did. It just wasn’t an important part of my decision making.”

“Just…were you ever going to tell me?”

Derek smiled sadly at him. “As soon as you came home after getting your master’s I was going to ask you out. I figured I could sound you out a little, and if you seemed interested and not repulsed, I could tell you then.” He shrugged. “I never said it was a good plan.”

“But what if I said no?”

“Then that’s a no. Just because I feel a connection to you, it doesn’t mean that you’re obligated to me. That’s not how it works.”

Stiles drained his cup. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “My mother told me that I should always say no. That my power must be preserved.” He told Derek about Mrs Renwick and her cryptic prophecy, and how his mother had chosen death rather than becoming a vampire.

Derek listened carefully. “It sounds like you’re one of the star-touched,” he commented. “A spark.”

“You can’t tell?”

“I can feel that you have magic, but that’s pretty much it,” Derek replied. “Werewolves are a little different from most faery. We’re an in-between group. Although we’re more connected to fae than to humans, we live within humanity’s boundaries, on the same plane. We’re not like the centaurs or the chimaera. They live completely apart, and they only travel between planes when directly summoned or when searching for something specific. That’s why their supernatural senses are more finely attuned.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay, I can buy that.”

“An available spark—well, that would be reason enough to draw most fae.” Derek tapped his fingernails on his phone, thoughtfully. “Werewolf packs don’t deal with magic users very often. It’s not that we’re incompatible or anything, there just isn’t usually very much to draw us together. We’re like different species of birds using different ecological niches of the same tree. So long as we don’t get in each other’s way, we mostly just ignore each other.”

“So you’re saying that you don’t know anything about sparks or whatever?”

“I’m saying that what I know is not necessarily the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Derek responded. “According to what I’ve been taught, spark magic runs in families. It’s said that a spark can be recognised by their magical signature. It’s like a radiation output, and it gets stronger with age and with each generation. Sparks are also known to be unpredictable and dangerous. They attract the fae races, since spark magic added to fae magic can mean a huge boost in power. Bonding with the fae stabilises the spark as well, making it a beneficial arrangement for both parties.”

“Right,” Stiles said sarcastically, pushing his empty mug away. “How convenient. So why is it that when I was a kid I was being approached by the nicer, friendlier fae, and now I’m getting asshole chimaeras who don’t want to take no for an answer?”

Derek shrugged. “I think that as you get older, the radiation intensifies and shifts into a different spectrum, one that the more predatory of the fae can detect. That’s only a theory, mind you, I haven’t done any studies on it or anything.” He hesitated. “I have heard it said that sparks rarely make it to old age.”

“Great.” Stiles got to his feet. “I think I’ve heard enough for one afternoon. Can you let me know when Peter sends through the info?”

Derek stood up as well. “I could ask him to send us everything he’s got on sparks as well, if you like?”

Stiles hesitated for a moment, but shook his head. “Maybe once this Valkyrie business is taken care of. One thing at a time.” It might end up all academic, anyway.

“As you wish. I really am sorry, Stiles.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

v^v^v^v

First thing the next morning, Stiles received a Dropbox link to a pile of scanned research that Peter had gathered together for him.

From the looks of it, Peter had some sort of database and had done a global search for ‘valkyrie’ and then just dumped whatever showed up for Stiles to sort through. That suited him just fine. If he hadn’t been on a deadline with the state of his dad’s immortal soul on the line, Stiles would have greatly enjoyed sifting through all of the information, and would no doubt have started pestering Derek for access to the full database.

As it was, the results were inconclusive. As far as he could tell, Valkyries were considered to be one of the more rigidly controlled fae societies, with honour and duty held paramount. It was agreed that they couldn’t lie, although they were apparently masters at shading the truth in their own favour. They were known to be linked with the death realms and Valhalla, although how and why was only speculated on.

Fully armed with his trusty blades—just in case—Stiles went for a walk. His feet eventually led him to his parents’ graveside, where he sat on the bench to think things through. The research indicated that it was entirely possible that the Valkyrie was precisely who and what she said she was, and therefore telling the truth. In which case, the sacrifice of power—a power that he’d never asked for and had no intention of ever using—seemed like a perfectly reasonable price to pay to ensure the well-being of his dad’s soul.

But.

Something about the whole thing was holding him back. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, exactly, but there was something about Valkyrie that was putting him on edge.

v^v^v^v

On Thursday morning, Stiles was waiting outside Derek’s door when he came off shift.

“Stiles,” Derek greeted, ushering him inside.

“I need to ask you something,” Stiles said, following Derek into the kitchen. “I want an honest answer.”

Derek finished stowing his service weapon in the gun safe hidden in the cabinet beside the fridge—perhaps one of the weirdest places Stiles had seen someone stash their gun safe, but whatever—and turned to face him. “I’ll do my best to give you one.”

Stiles took a deep breath. “Do you love me? I mean, are you in love with me? Or are you only interested in me because of some mystical connection that I can’t even feel?”

“No, of course not!” Derek exclaimed.

Stiles felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“No!” Derek said hurriedly. “I mean yes! I mean, yes, I love you, and no, I’m not interested in you only because of the connection. God, sit down, please. You went white.”

Stiles sat where he was told to, feeling grateful for the chair’s support.

“I came to Beacon Hills because I was curious about the bond,” Derek said, looking him in the eye. “I stayed because of you. There you were, barely sixteen years old and running around, showing all the traits that werewolves admire. You’re loyal, and brave, and hard-working, and intelligent. And god, you make me laugh like no one I’ve ever met. How could I not fall in love with you?”

“Does that mean that you’re not asexual?”

Derek laughed. “No. Not asexual, more like demisexual. But you were sixteen, and you deserved to be able to go away to college and experience life. So I was going to wait. And when I realised just how important it was to you that Noah was taken care of, I decided that the best way I could be of use to you was to make sure you had someone you could trust to do that.” He sighed. “In the end, I failed. I’m sorry.”

“We’ve gone through this before,” Stiles replied. “It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you. Law enforcement in this country is an incredibly dangerous job, and both he and I always knew the risks. Why do you think I was so militant about his health? That was the one aspect of his life that I had some control over. Given the risks he was taking every day just putting on that uniform, I wanted to make sure that anything preventable or manageable wasn’t going to get a chance.”

“It still feels like I failed. I promised you I would take care of him.”

Stiles reached across and took his hand. “You gave me peace of mind while I was away at Stanford. Having me away at college undoubtedly gave him peace of mind—don’t think I don’t know about that little pact you made together about convincing me to go. You didn’t fail.” He retracted his hand slightly. “You took a huge risk, though. What if I’d met someone? Fallen in love and brought them home to meet my dad?”

Derek shrugged. “Then I would have missed out on that deeper relationship. My love for you isn’t conditional, Stiles. If you don’t love me back, it’s not going to affect my feelings. I mean, obviously I’d be a lot happier if you love me back, so it will affect my feelings that way. But you know what I mean. Are you laughing at me?”

“I’m sorry, dude,” Stiles shook his head, not bothering to hide his smile. “That just sounded like something more likely to come out of my mouth, that’s all. I must be rubbing off on you.”

Derek raised one eyebrow. “You know, I’m not even going to bother with that one. It’s just too easy.”

Stiles leered at him playfully. “Oh, I’ll show you ‘easy’ big guy.” He sobered. “I want to tell you about the Valkyrie that approached me on Monday.”

“Sure,” Derek agreed.

Stiles took a deep breath and then related the meeting as accurately as he could. “The thing is, Valkyrie said that she could get him out,” he finished with. “She said that all it would take is the sacrifice of my magic.”

Derek blinked. “Okay.”

“Is she right?” Stiles asked impatiently. “Could she be right? If she is, can she do it?”

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted. “I’ve read Peter’s research, too, and it seems possible.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I can’t make that decision for you,” Derek answered steadily. “I’m honestly a little sceptical, but then it’s not my father’s immortal soul on the line. Have you asked yourself what it will mean for you if she’s lying?”

Stiles stared blankly at him. “Then I will have given my magic away for nothing, I suppose.”

Derek shook his head. “Your magic is part of you, Stiles. It’s been woven into the very core of your being all of your life. One of the things about this plan of hers that rings false to me is her assertion that she can take your magic away from you and leave you unharmed. I really don’t see how that could be done.”

Stiles knew that crunch time was approaching. He was going to need to make a choice about his future, and it would be one of those irrevocable choices that would dictate how the rest of his life went.

“Do you think Peter would be okay with researching ways to take a spark’s magic?” Stiles wondered. “Just to see if it’s feasible at all?”

“He’s going to be curious,” Derek warned him. “He’s not stupid, and he’ll probably put two and two together and realise that you’re a spark.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “You mean you didn’t tell him?”

“It wasn’t his business,” Derek said simply.

Stiles couldn’t have stopped his smile if he tried.

v^v^v^v

Peter was able to provide them with three different rituals that purported to drain a spark of their powers without killing them.

“They all call for the spark’s willing participation,” he reported, “and the yield isn’t as significant as when you add the life-force into the bargain. When you start adding souls, you’re looking at much larger quantities of power, but the likelihood of finding a spark willing to agree to something like that isn’t high.”

Stiles sighed. “Thanks.”

“Look,” Peter said gently. “It’s pretty obvious that you’re facing a hard choice. Don’t go into it thinking that you’re all alone in this world just because your dad was taken away from you. Do what you have to do, but remember that your choices are going to have an effect on the living. You don’t exist in a vacuum.”

By the time Sunday night arrived, Stiles was no closer to an answer.

“You just have to do what you think is best,” Derek said when Stiles again appealed to him for advice. “I’ll support whatever choice you make.”

“Will you still be interested in me without my magic?” Stiles asked. “What if the bond that led you here fizzles out?”

Derek shrugged. “Then, it does. That would be fine, since it’s served its purpose and brought me to you. I told you that it’s not important to me.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“One hundred percent.”

Stiles pushed the book he was reading away and closed his eyes. He concentrated on his breathing for a moment, and then pictured the three options in front of him and paid attention to his reactions. Only one path forward resonated as good; right. It would mean going against the lessons that his mother had taught him, and maybe he would come to regret it, but here and now he had to go with what felt best for him.

Stiles opened his eyes. “I know what I’m going to do,” he said, getting up and coming to stand in front of Derek. “Ask me to bond with you, Derek. Invite me to come away with you.”

Derek’s eyes were wide and full of hope as he rose to his feet and took both of Stiles’ hands in his. “Come away with me, Stiles. Come away and be my mate, and we’ll spend the rest of our lives together.”

“Yes.”

Derek and Stiles leaned into each other, their lips meeting in a kiss.

v^v^v^v

Stiles and Derek arrived in the cemetery early the next morning to wait for Valkyrie. Derek—yielding to Stiles’ puppy-dog eyes—was padding along in his full wolf form. He’d insisted on Stiles carrying a change of clothes for him in a backpack, though. After giving the area a careful inspection, Derek lay down in the small amount of shade that the bench provided and graciously allowed Stiles to run his hands through his fur.

Valkyrie arrived within minutes of them.

Nothing about her had changed in the week since Stiles had last seen her, at least nothing that he could definitively point to. She came across as more on edge, though. Considering everything, that was probably to be expected.

“You know it’s not technically been a whole week yet, right?” Stiles said in lieu of a greeting.

She sniffed. “Have you made your—” Her eyes widened, and she reached out to grab his arm. Her grip was strong, and hard enough that there would probably be bruising.

“Hey!” Stiles pulled his arm away and took a step back. “Hands off the merchandise!”

Derek rose from his place in the shade, a rumbling growl starting in his throat.

“You’ve chosen!” Valkyrie said, her eyes beginning to look slightly crazed. “After everything I told you, you went and— You’ve ruined everything!”

Derek’s growl intensified; he placed himself directly in front of Stiles, red eyes glowing brightly with threat.

Valkyrie looked around wildly. “No! It can still work! If I just kill the wolf, I’ll still be able to—”

By now Stiles had drawn his blade. “Don’t even think about it, crazy lady!”

All around them, a strange mist-like substance rose from the ground. Stiles quickly realised it wasn’t actual mist because the real stuff didn’t behave like that. It briefly wallowed at Stiles’ feet—ignoring Derek completely—before swirling around Valkyrie. It latched onto her legs and started sliding upwards like a transparent veil. Every part of her the mist touched changed, the shiny steel greaves turning to some sort of unprocessed leather.

Valkyrie plainly knew what was going on, and she looked terrified. “It can still work!” she insisted desperately.

Stiles and Derek exchanged a glance and backed away even further.

Valkyrie was crying now, and the mist reached her throat. Stiles winced and looked away, unable to watch. Mere seconds later, the crying stopped. When Stiles looked back, Valkyrie had turned entirely into someone—or something—else. Something that looked mostly humanoid, although it was very clearly other. He kept his blade at the ready.

The new person—thing—stretched out their arms in a manner that looked almost experimental. “Hmm,” they said. “Not bad. It could have been better, of course, but there’s no point in lamenting missed opportunities.” They glanced over to Stiles and Derek. “Oh, but I’ve neglected to introduce myself. How rude of me.” They stepped forward, ignoring the way Derek’s growl ramped up again. “You may call me Baba Yaga.”

“Wait,” Stiles said, not lowering his blade. “Baba Yaga? The Baba Yaga? Ancient witch of legend?”

Baba Yaga nodded. “Indeed. I don’t often go by that name these days, too much recognition attached. It can make social occasions so tiresome.” Her gaze flicked to Derek. “Oh, stop it with the growling, you silly boy. Neither of you is in any danger from me at this time.” She flicked her wrist slightly, and between one blink and the next Derek was back in his human form, stark naked and looking shocked.

Stiles raised his blade higher and stepped in front of him, shrugging off his backpack and dropping it Derek’s feet. “Transforming someone without their consent? Now that’s rude. What did you do to Valkyrie?”

Baba Yaga smiled. It was creepy and disturbing, and Stiles gripped his blade tighter in reaction.

“There never was a Valkyrie,” she replied. “The being that you knew was a flaga. An earthbound water spirit. As for what I did to her…” She shrugged. “She petitioned for a magical favour, and I took the agreed upon price when her endeavour failed.”

“She was trying to trick me,” Stiles realised. “She never could have saved my dad. Hell, my dad probably doesn’t even need saving. Oh my god, I can’t believe I nearly fell for that!”

“The form that was chosen for the deception was well thought out,” Baba Yaga admitted. “It is one that naturally inspires trust.” She smirked. “Of course, I added a few dissonant touches. No need to make it too easy for her, not when she was challenging me so openly.”

Stiles blinked. “How was she challenging you?”

“Asking for my power to help her take that which I had marked as mine?” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “But she failed, and now we’ve both lost.” A smile curved her lips. It wasn’t very nice. “Well, some of us lost more than others, of course.”

“Stiles isn’t yours,” Derek said, pulling on his shirt. His jeans were up but unbuttoned, and he hadn’t bothered with his shoes. He was glaring, and his eyes were still bright red.

“Not any more, no,” Baba Yaga agreed. “You are well out of my reach now, young spark. You’ve undone the work of generations, you know. In two more years, your power would have fully matured, and I would have been able to harvest it. Oh, it would have been glorious! Your power would have fueled me for a millennium, perhaps more! Unlike the mere decade I’m going to get from this miserable wretch.”

Stiles was left speechless.

Derek’s frown deepened. “If you wanted his power for yourself, why would you risk helping whatshername?”

“Even immortals have certain rules we must abide by, certain constraints. The flaga invoked my assistance in a manner that I could not refuse.” Baba Yaga looked at her arms with some satisfaction. “But it worked out well enough for me in the end, and while losing a seventh generation spark is a significant blow, I do have other projects in process.” She looked up and fixed Stiles with a piercing stare. “Your instincts have served you well, young spark. Listen to them, and you will always find your way.”

She dissolved into mist and sank back into the earth.

Stiles stuck his blade handle-up in the ground near his feet, and turned to Derek. “You know what? I’ve had enough of these assholes and their power grabbing. I want to talk about you, and why your eyes are red all of a sudden. The other day they looked more golden.”

Derek blinked, the eyes in question already back to their usual hazel hue. “My eyes are red? Are you sure?”

“No, of course not, I might have been imagining it,” Stiles said sarcastically. “Of course I’m sure. They’re pretty hard to mistake, you know.”

“Red eyes means alpha,” Derek explained, fishing his phone out of the backpack. He turned on the camera and flashed his eyes at it, looking surprised when they were red.

“Did you think I was lying to you?” Stiles asked, annoyed.

“No, I knew you weren’t lying,” Derek replied absently, flashing his eyes on and off at the camera.

“What? How?”

Derek put his phone down and looked at Stiles. “Werewolves can sense when people lie. There are several small indicators, like a change in heart rate, difference in sweat, things like that. They’re not conspicuous, but once you know how to add the pieces together, it’s pretty recognisable.”

“Charming,” Stiles muttered. “So, red eyes means that you’re an alpha. What does that mean for us?”

Derek shrugged. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m not feeling a sudden urge to go make a pack or anything.” He frowned. “It might mean some changes for my pack status at home, but I doubt that it will be anything particularly life-altering. I have no intention of challenging my mother for her pack, and it’s not like I even live there anymore.”

“I thought that coming away with you meant that you would be taking me home,” Stiles said, feeling uncertain. “That I would be tied to your pack for the rest of my life.”

“I do want to take you to meet everyone.” Derek stepped closer and folded Stiles into a loose embrace. “But I’ve lived away from my pack for years now. I’m happy to go where you go.” He brushed his lips over Stiles’ gently. “You let me know where and when, and I’ll hand in my resignation. We can go wherever you want.”

Stiles took a deep breath and thought it over. “Well, first, I need to head back to Stanford and get everything sorted so that I can receive my master’s. Then, if you want, we can visit with your pack. After that? I guess we’ll just have to see. I want to learn more about what it means to be a spark.”

Derek smiled at him and kissed him again. “Sounds like a plan.”