Chapter Text
They had hardly spoken since dealing with the kanima, which had to mean that whatever had prompted Scott to call in the middle of the night was important.
That did little to quell his irritation, though. Despite Scott’s reassurances that the situation was important and needed immediate attention, Derek couldn’t help but feel irritated at being bothered. He had three missing betas that he needed to be focusing his attentions on finding, an untrustworthy uncle to keep track of, and a town to keep safe. He didn’t have time to have his attention this divided.
By the time he had pulled up beside Scott’s house, he had worked himself into a foul mood. Stiles’ blue jeep was in the drive (Oh, good, just another annoyance to add to his list) and Scott had been standing next to it looking distressed, running his hand through his hair, which he had apparently gotten cut recently, and pacing the driveway. When he saw Derek’s black Camaro pull up in front of his house, Scott wasted no time walking to meet him.
Derek stepped out of the car, slamming the door and meeting Scott halfway. “What?” he asked irritably. “What is so important that you had to call me in the middle of the night?”
Scott wasted no time getting to the point, “Stiles is missing. I can’t find him anywhere and he won’t answer his cell.”
Derek glanced at the jeep.
Scott followed his gaze, looked back to Derek and shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Derek sighed in annoyance. He had three people missing already: he didn’t need another one. “When did he go missing?”
“My last text from him was at eight,” Scott replied.
“Was it anything important?”
Scott shook his head.
Derek sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. Stiles had probably stuck his nose somewhere it didn’t belong and gotten himself in trouble. Typical. He could have at least had the decency to wait for a more opportune time to do it.
“And you haven’t tried tracking him yet?” Derek asked.
“Of course I did. I wouldn’t have called you unless I needed help. Look, I checked Stiles’ jeep, but… well, see for yourself,” Scott said, walking over to the blue jeep.
Derek followed him and sniffed the jeep. He could smell Stiles, as a general smell that had saturated the vehicle over time, but the fresh smells were what threw him. He blinked, sniffed several more times, and when still his nose offered him no answers, sniffed again, closer this time. After several long moments, he pulled away, confused.
Scott was watching him, waiting. “Do you smell it?”
Derek nodded.
“What is it?”
Derek shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t catch onto Stiles’ scent, either,” Scott said. “Not anything fresh, anyway.”
“I smelled that, too,” Derek said.
“What do we do?”
Derek frowned deeply. He knew what to do: he just didn’t want to do it. At all. But he could not come up with a better solution. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he pulled out his cell and began angrily pressing buttons on the phone.
“What are you doing?” Scott asked.
“I’m calling Peter.”
Scott watched Peter sniff the jeep with a deep glare, arms folded as he waited impatiently for the ex-alpha to finish. Under any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have asked for Peter’s help, but this was Stiles. Whether he liked Peter or not, he would do anything to find his best friend.
Peter inspected the entire jeep, although he appeared almost bored as he did so; sniffing here, sniffing there, picking things up and looking them over in a casual way.
Derek looked just as impatient with Peter as Scott, if not more so. He glared at his uncle in that fierce, Derek way, but he kept his fuming to himself. Peter was one of the few people that Derek showed some semblance of restraint around, although Scott wasn’t sure whether it was out of some residual, familial respect, or out of caution. Peter may have been weaker, but that in no way meant that he was any less dangerous.
Finally, after several minutes, Peter turned away from the jeep, standing in front of the two of them and feigning a severe expressing that came off more mocking than anything. “You two have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Derek asked, and Scott was surprised at the exasperation in his voice. Derek almost looked tired, but mostly frustrated.
“That smell you two couldn’t identity… that’s what a thrall smells like.”
Derek’s face fell with disbelief and exasperation, but Scott was completely lost.
“Um… what’s a thrall?”
Peter looked at him like his incompetence was a nuisance. “A thrall, Scott, is a slave. A shell of a person that has been forced into eternal servitude.”
“Servitude to who?”
“Not who. What.”
Scott stared at him, still lost and growing more and more frustrated at dancing around the answers he was looking for. “Fine, what?” he asked impatiently.
“A vampire,” Derek answered. “Stiles was taken by a vampire.”
It was completely unfair. He hadn’t even done anything this time. No investigating, snooping, searching, nothing. He hadn’t even stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. This time, trouble had come looking for him.
It was stupid, really; how they had come for him. He had just been out getting himself some fast food for dinner. His dad was working late and Scott had been busy studying, so he had been left to his own devices for a while. They had waited until he had pulled into his driveway before they struck. They hadn’t let him step out of the jeep before six of them had descended on his vehicle, clambering in and somehow wrestling him into the backseat while another took his place at the wheel. He struggled the whole ride, but it quickly became apparent that whoever his four attackers were, they weren’t human. For all of his wriggling, wrestling, yanking, hitting, and pulling, the men holding him kept their grips strong and secure. What was stranger was that they refused to talk, no matter how much Stiles (who, after a while, had given up his struggling) tried to coax them into doing so.
They drove for several hours, leaving Beacon Hills entirely, and Stiles felt panic settle in as he watched his home disappear into the distance. He had struggled again, harder and more desperate, and had even managed to get one of the jeep doors open, fully intending on throwing himself out of the vehicle if it was necessary, but his captors (blank-faced and completely unconcerned with his screaming and fighting) had reeled him in once more.
Eventually, the driver had pulled his jeep up into the driveway of a large, old cabin of some sort. The three in the passengers seats had pulled him out, but the driver had remained and driven off with his jeep. The bastard.
When two of the remaining three began to pull him inside, Stiles struggled against their hold on his shoulders and wrists, but it was really a pointless effort. Still, he was pissed, hungry, tired, and most of all pissed.
As he was taken inside, he took a quick look at his surroundings, surprised at the state of the inside of the house, which was well-kept, clean, and modernly decorated. The outside, which looked dilapidated and weathered, was obviously meant to deter visitors and appear abandoned.
They took him into the living room and shoved him forcefully down onto his knees, but he realized rather quickly that he was in no way capable of out-fighting the men restraining him, and decided it was time to revert to his default defense.
“Hey! Ow! Okay, okay!” Stiles groused, wincing uncomfortably at his position. He looked around the large room, surprised to see chic décor and electronics that one would find in most upper class houses. On the long, circular couch of the lavish and disappointingly modern living room sat a tall, dark-haired man with sharp, blue eyes that bore into Stiles as he was brought in, and even though he was wearing an expensive-looking suit, Stiles could see that he had a muscular build. His arms were wrapped over the shoulders of one woman and a man on either side of him, both of whom appeared to be completely entranced by him. They stared at his face with adoring expressions, wrapping their limbs around him, desperately clinging to him as though afraid he might disappear at any moment. The man paid neither any heed; sharp, intense eyes staring relentlessly at Stiles, as though he were giving him serious consideration.
Stiles shifted uncomfortably under the gaze, trying to calm his frantically beating heart. The man smiled at him, an eerie, sadistic smile that made Stiles tense nervously. Without saying a word, the man turned to the girl to his left, who—as if having received some silent cue—bared her neck where Stiles got a clear view of the two, angry red puncture marks. At the sight of them, Stiles’ eyes widened in realization, his heart rate skyrocketing. Vampires. He had been kidnapped by freaking vampires.
The vampire seductively brushed away a lock of the girl’s hair and bit down on her neck, eliciting a pained and pleasured moan from the girl.
Stiles immediately turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut, starting to shake. The slurping, wet noise was bad enough without having to watch what was happening.
After a long silence, he tentatively opened his eyes again only to find that the vampire had vacated the couch and vanished, leaving the two other occupants asleep in their seats. Stiles had enough time to panic before the vampire reappeared behind him, fingers tangling themselves into Stiles’ hair and roughly yanking his head to the side to access the teenager’s neck.
Stiles grunted in surprise, eyes widening in fear when he felt hot breath on the nape of his neck and he tightened his fists to stop the terrified shaking that had taken over his limbs. His chest heaved and his breaths came out in erratic huffs.
“Are you afraid, Stiles?” the vampire asked (and oh, shit, it knew his name), coming closer so that his lips brushed against Stiles ear. Stiles flinched, but the hand in his hair kept his head still, the vampire chuckling deeply before whispering into his ear, “And bear in mind… I can tell if you’re lying.”
Stiles tightened his jaw, refusing to answer. He wouldn’t give the creature any kind of satisfaction. And even if he wanted to say something, he was (oddly enough and probably for the very first time in his life) having a hard time finding his voice.
Unfortunately, his silence was answer enough, because the vampire chuckled again, moving his head away and running a hand slowly over the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles tried to pull away and get the creepy vampire hand to stop touching him, but the grips of the two men restraining him remained steadfast and the vampire yanked his head further to the side, straining Stiles’ neck further.
“Mmm,” the vampire hummed over Stiles’ terrified breaths, “My, my, what smooth skin you have. And your pulse…” And then Stiles felt a tongue on his skin, running from his shoulder, excruciatingly slow, to just below his ear. The lick left a trail of saliva, chill and moist, that left painful chill bumps all down his neck and arm, but there was something else—sticky and hot—intermingled with it. Stiles’ eyes got big as his stomach rolled and it took all of his willpower to keep from throwing up in his mouth. Stiles wriggled his shoulders again as he tried, once more, to pull away, desperately wanting to wipe it off, but he couldn’t move, so he had to feel it linger and dry, the thin traces of the girl’s blood just sitting on top of his skin.
When he felt the vampire’s breath disappear, he thought that maybe the vampire was done tormenting him, but suddenly he felt two sharp points at the vein of his neck, pressing down; not quite hard enough to break the skin, but enough to sting.
“Oh, god,” Stiles yelped, squeezing his eyes shut and his heart rate skyrocketing, chest heaving as he braced himself. Finally, he found his voice again and began blathering away in a panic. “Hang on, okay, wait… Listen, man, I eat nothing but fast food. I will taste like grease and teenage hormones and sweat, okay? I…I-I’ll go right to your thighs...”
The vampire chuckled at his throat, his fangs still hovering over Stiles’ jugular. He felt the points of the vampire’s fangs break the top layer of skin, hard enough to draw droplets of blood. Stiles whimpered, struggling furiously, but just as suddenly as the fangs had appeared, they were being replaced by a tongue, licking up the droplets of blood before disappearing again along with the hand gripping his hair. He let out a heavy breath of relief, stretching his neck to relieve some of the dull ache.
“Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathed in relief.
The vampire came around to stand in front of Stiles, looking down at the shaking boy thoughtfully. When Stiles didn’t look up, he grabbed Stiles’ chin and forced his face up to look the vampire in the eye. Stiles’ breath hitched, but he locked gazes defiantly. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the vampire’s eyes had gone completely black, a heavy contrast to the creature’s extremely pale complexion.
“Don't be dramatic, Stiles. I’m not going to drink you,” the vampire said, kneeling down so that his face was inches from Stiles’. “Not at the moment, anyway.”
Stiles swallowed hard.
The vampire’s grin grew, flashing his long, sharp fangs at Stiles before pulling away. He stepped back, putting his hands into the front pockets of his expensive blazer. “Tell me… how is the Alpha faring these days?”
Crap. It knew about the pack, too? What the hell was going on? “No idea. We don’t really keep in touch,” Stiles said with a shrug. He knew it was crucial to reveal as little about the pack as possible, so he opted for ignorance.
The vampire pursed his lips, looking Stiles over curiously. “Hmm… Is that how you define an Alpha? By the red of its eyes?”
“Well, that and the insane Alpha super-powers,” Stiles replied.
The vampire straightened out his back and chuckled down at him. Stiles glowered at the condescending tone. The vampire was obviously making fun of him for something, although Stiles hadn’t a clue what that could be, which only worked to annoy him further.
“You know, it’s funny that you should say that the two of you don’t communicate. From what I’ve observed, you’ve spent a great deal of time amongst Derek Hale’s Pack. Particularly during that little kanima incident.”
Stiles had to work hard to keep the alarm off of his face, but the statement was enough to alert Stiles of just how serious the situation had gotten. The implication of the vampire’s words could spell all kinds of trouble… particularly for Stiles in that moment. There was no telling how long the vampire had been observing them or what kinds of information it had gathered, so Stiles couldn’t risk flat out lying about anything he might be asked, but then again, he couldn’t risk telling any truths, either.
“Well, you know the saying: nothing brings people together like a giant, blood-thirsty lizard… or something like that.”
The vampire chuckled. “A kanima is a rare thing, you know,” he commented casually.
“Thank god for small favors.”
“Banshees are not particularly common, either.”
Stiles’ heart skipped a beat and he once again found himself struggling to maintain his calm, but still defiant expression. It was one thing for the vampire to know as much as it did about the pack. It was another thing entirely for him to know about Lydia.
“She's very pretty, isn't she,” the vampire continued, almost dreamily as he looked off towards the opposite wall, “Such beautiful red hair.”
“Strawberry blonde,” Stiles muttered under his breath, flinching inwardly as the words came out of their own accord.
The vampire gave Stiles a side-glance. “What was that?”
Stiles shut his mouth, looking down at the vampire’s knees to avoid the black of his eyes. When Stiles did not answer immediately, one of the men holding his shoulder squeezed hard.
“Ah!-strawberry blonde,” Stiles yelped, looking back to glower at the man as the grip on him loosened. Stiles looked back at the floor again, breathing heavily through his nose as he tried to contain his anger and fear. “Her hair is strawberry blonde. Not red.”
The vampire grinned darkly at him. “Is that so? Seems like you've given this a lot more thought than I have.”
“Don’t feel too bad. I’ve known her since kindergarten. You’ve known her… what, how long? Two or three months?” Stiles asked, probing for some information of his own.
The question only made the vampire’s grin bigger, an impressed look passing over his face. “Oh, you are clever, aren’t you? If you want to know how long I’ve been here, just ask. In fact... ask anything you’d like,” the vampire said. He turned, looking back at the male he had left on the couch, who immediately stood up, went out of the room, and returned moments later with a lavish chair, pulling it up behind the vampire. The vampire sat down, crossing a leg so that his ankle rested on his knee. “We’ll even make a game of it. We’ll be here a while, you and I, so we might as well get comfortable.”
Stiles was lifted up off of his knees by the two men behind him and then forced down onto a chair someone had brought in from another room. Once seated, he was released, and Stiles made a show of glaring at both of his captors, followed by exaggerated, indignant stretches and rolling of his shoulders and arms.
The vampire watched, an amused smirk on his face.
“Do I get to go first?” Stiles asked.
The vampire nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
Stiles leaned forward in his chair, subconsciously showing the vampire that he wasn’t afraid to lean into his space. “Okay, so are all pimps vampires, or just you?”
The vampire tilted its head at him, eyes darkening somehow in a dangerous way. “Are you sure that’s the question you want to ask?”
Stiles swallowed, tongue flicking out to lick his suddenly dry lips, and decided against sarcasm for the time being. “Who are you?”
“Darius Clarke,” the vampire replied.
“How long have you been watching us?” he asked, although “us” was a fairly broad term at this point. He wasn’t sure who all the vampire had been watching, but he thought it best to keep it fairly vague and figure out the details as he went.
“Eight months.”
Stiles’ brow rose in surprise.
“Longer than you were expecting?”
“How could you have possibly gotten away with that? There’s a werewolf pack living in Beacon Hills.”
“Well, I was never present. But my servants were,” he said, gesturing to the blank-faced men and women who stood here and there like statues. “They’re my eyes and ears in Beacon Hills.”
“Why do you care what’s going on in Beacon Hills?”
“Ah-ah,” Darius reprimanded him, shaking his finger at the boy, “It’s my turn.”
Stiles glared at him impatiently. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me… What do you think of the fact that there seems to be an unfair collection of supernatural oddities in Beacon Hills?”
“I think our luck sucks,” Stiles replied bitterly.
Darius’s smile fell and his face twisted into such a dangerous expression that Stiles felt a terrified chill travel sharply down his spine. He swallowed, quickly shifting gears. “I don’t know. I thought it was a coincidence.”
“A coincidence is a word used by the ignorant to describe that which they don’t understand. Are you ignorant, Stiles?”
“No-”
“Then try again.”
Stiles sighed, running a hand through the side of his hair absently as he got his brain working. He didn’t know anything about what kinds of supernatural creatures had been occupying Beacon Hills prior to Scott’s bite, but he knew plenty of what had happened afterward. Everything appeared to have begun as a result of Peter going on a rampage, but the vampire made a good point; kanimas and banshees were not that common, and for both to show up in the same town within months of each other seemed a bit odd. Plus, now there was a vampire.
It couldn’t all be coincidence.
Darius watched him for a moment, piercing eyes watching the boy’s process with fascination. “Looks like you’ve come to the same conclusion I did,” he said to him. “There’s something here in Beacon Hills; something that’s drawing all of this supernatural phenomena. And if I were you, Stiles… I’d find it quickly-” the vampire leaned forward into Stiles’ space, waiting for the boy to look up into the black orbs of his eyes. When Stiles finally locked gazes with him, the vampire stared at him for a long moment before continuing, “-because if you think werewolves, kanimas, and vampires are bad… wait until you see what else goes bump in the night.”