Chapter Text
Waking up Saturday morning is like some kind of dream. It's all different somehow, even though everything feels the same.
Stiles body is scarred, a reminder of the night before that Derek isn't expecting when he opens his eyes and looks at him. The witch is still asleep, but his shoulders are bared to the open air, sheets bunched around his waist. Derek stares at the sprawling Lichtenberg figure for a long time. He doesn't know why, but somewhere in the back of his mind he half-expected it to be gone this morning. There's no reason it would be though. It's a scar Stiles will carry for the rest of his life. Just like Derek's mark over his heart, the triskele brazed into his skin by the raw power of life. A physical sign of them. Of their life together as mates. Of their bond that traverses the pure energy of the earth to link them together.
Derek's hand reaches out of its own accord to trace over the lightning-tree on Stiles back. The teen stirs, grumpily mumbles into the pillow, then seems to place where he is and who has disturbed his slumber.
He peeks up at Derek through long lashes, eyes sparkling in mirth.
"Was last night not enough for you?" he asks seductively.
Derek smiles, soft and genuine. He leans in to press a kiss to Stiles' shoulder, saying, "I'll never get enough of you."
Stiles hums happily, nestling further into the bedding and closing his eyes once more. "Let's just stay in bed all day. It's Saturday."
"We can't. You have class."
"Ugh. Right," Stiles grumbles. "Thanks again for that, Dad. What time is it?"
"A quarter before nine. We should get up soon."
"Five more minutes," Stiles whines.
"Fine. Five more minutes," Derek says, sliding out of bed. He throws a smirk over his shoulder and adds, "I guess I can just shower alone."
Stiles' head pops up like a Whack-a-mole. "Don't you dare, Derek Hale," he warns.
Derek shrugs, sauntering over toward the bathroom, bare buttocks rolling nicely with his gait. "It's not really up to me," he says and disappears behind the door.
"Dammit," Stiles curses, scrambling out of bed after him. "You're using your powers for evil, Derek!"
Derek's laugh rings out clearly through the bedroom.
Their shower time almost makes them late.
In spite of his renewed eyesight Stiles will remain under Miss Blake's fine tutelage; after all as far as the rest of the world is concerned he's still recovering from a severe eye injury.
They make it to the Stilinski residence a quarter 'til. The Sheriff is nowhere to be found, but that's to be expected as they likely discovered a body burnt to a crisp on top of their usual sacrifice victim last night. Derek frowns deeply over a cup of coffee while Stiles talks around a Pop Tart and fills him in on what exactly happened in the woods with the hunters and Braeden and Miss Morrell. The teen nudges the werewolf, hip to hip, and reassures him that next time he'll bring more back-up—with the Alpha's permission of course. Derek opens his mouth to respond to that, but Jennifer arrives just then, putting the conversation on hold.
She's chipper as usual, settling in at one side of the table with a History lesson plan for today. Derek sits beside Stiles, quietly assisting them where he can. Stiles' eyes are hidden beneath dark shades once more, and though Jennifer can't see in, Stiles can most certainly see out. Oh yes, he sees the shy little smiles she gives Derek; the coquettish tilt to her head as she regards him from under her lashes; the hand that brushes over Derek's knuckles lightly when she reaches for a pen.
Stiles may accidentally shift his feet and kick her under the table. Twice. Totally accidents, he swears.
Jennifer takes her injuries with good grace, smiling and scooting her chair over so it's directly across from Derek. Well, that backfired.
Stiles is seriously contemplating the merits of "accidentally"hitting her in the face with a textbook (he's supposed to be blind, he could get away with it), when the Sheriff arrives home in a flurry.
"Sheriff?" Derek asks, slowly rising to his feet. Stiles follows suit, Derek's hand at his elbow.
"Is everything all right?" Miss Blake asks, looking a little frightened.
Stiles is a little wigged out, too, to be honest. That look on a Sheriff's face is never a good thing.
John visibly clamps down on his emotions; the stale anger; the muted panic; the outright franticness. He puts on his best authority voice and addresses the teacher.
"Miss Blake. I think it's best if you go home for the day."
"What…? Why? What's wrong?" she asks, standing up like the rest of them.
"There were...some things that happened last night. I'm not at liberty to divulge any details, but needless to say, I think the school work can wait. You'll be safer away from all of this for the time being. So please return to your home."
"Am...am I in danger?" Jennifer asks, gaze darting back and forth between Derek and the Sheriff.
"No. No, of course not," John assures. Derek hears the lie in his heartbeat. "But seeing as I'm the Sheriff and sometimes Sheriff's are targeted during investigations, I think it's best if you get some distance from...here."
"Well, all right…" she says slowly. Her eyes find Derek again and linger there for a second too long. "I...I guess I'll just go then…"
"Why doesn't Derek take you home?" John suggests, reading her hesitancy. "Make sure you get there okay?"
"Oh, that would be wonderful," Jennifer says, relieved. "I'm really sort of freaking out right now."
"There's no cause for alarm, I assure you," the Sheriff says. Stiles kind of doubts that.
"Okay. If you say so," Jennifer says with an unconvinced shrug, then goes about packing her things away.
"Derek, meet us at the station," John says as they head for the door.
Derek gives a curt nod, then glances at Stiles once before following Miss Blake out.
As soon as the sound of the door clicking shut reaches them, Stiles rounds on his dad.
"Dad. What the hell is going on?"
"There were some deaths last night," John says lowly. "One of which I'm pretty sure you're aware of already."
"Yeah," Stiles says. "The Alpha I fried last night."
Sheriff Stilinski nods. "That's one of them. Another sacrifice is the second one."
"The sacrifice and the Alpha can't be what's got you all worked up."
"No. There was another death last night...It looked like a natural sort of thing, but...knowing what I know, I have to guess it was probably murder."
"Murder? Who was murdered?"
"Gerard Argent," the Sheriff says and Stiles swears the whole world tilts.
Stiles is sitting on a bench outside his father's office with his head in his hands, waiting on Derek to show up, when a pair of shiny shoes stops in front of him.
Stiles frowns at them, wondering who in the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department would wear shoes like that to work.
When a voice comes from above him, he realizes the answer is no one. Because the shoes and the voice don't belong to anyone employed by Beacon County.
"I can't say I'm shocked to find you in the middle of this, Stiles."
Stiles looks up, mouth twisted sourly, to see Rafael McCall standing in front of him.
"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks. "Don't you know there's not a single person in this town, who ever wanted to see your face again?"
"I'm here on official FBI business," Agent McCall says dismissively. "Heard you were recently in an accident that damaged your eyes. Sorry to hear that." He doesn't sound sorry at all. He nods at the sunglasses. "How are they healing up?"
"Just fine. I'll be good as new in no time," Stiles says on the fly. He's supposed to still be sans sight. But the lie will fit their story. He'll just say he's still sensitive to light, hence the shades, and has to rest them every hour, hence the homeschooling. He can still pretend in front of Miss Blake.
"Care to tell me what's been going on around here?"
"Why do you think I would know?"
"Because you've turned up at a lot of crime scenes of late, Stiles."
"You know, I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to talk to you without a parent or guardian present," Stiles says.
Rafael nods. His whole demeanor is patronizing. It always has been, even when Stiles was a little kid, Rafa had always had a way of talking down to him. Stiles has disliked him since pretty much the first time he met him. His condescension toward Stiles' father and his abuse and abandonment of Scott and Melissa only solidifying that dislike into something resembling hatred in later years. Stiles wouldn't mind messing up Rafael McCall a little bit. Just a tad. Nothing permanent. Just something to show him that hurting Stiles' loved ones isn't going to pass without retribution.
"Your dad's been pretty busy though, hasn't he?" Rafael inquires. "I imagine he hasn't been around much. Is that why you've been getting into so much trouble lately?"
"That the best you got?" Stiles challenges. "Goading me by using my father?"
"I'm not goading you," Rafa says casually. "If I were goading you, I would say something like, 'has he been drinking again? Is that why you've been acting up'?"
Stiles surges to his feet. "You wanna know something, Mr. McCall? When it comes to you and my dad for father of the year, my dad will win every time. Because he may have had some issues after my mom died, but here's what he'll always have over you: he stayed. Yeah. That's right. He fucked up and he stuck around to deal with it like a man. And what did you do? You ran away. And don't think I don't know why you left, Mr. McCall," Stiles spits, "because I know all about what happened on the stairs."
Rafe's eyes narrow. He glances left to right, taking in how much of a scene they're making. His hand comes up to grab Stiles by the arm, no doubt to lead him somewhere more private, but an iron grip clamps down on his wrist before Rafael's fingers even brush the fabric of Stiles' sleeve.
"Don't. Touch him..." Derek says, voice low and dangerous.
Rafael looks at Derek for a prolonged moment. He must decide that attempting to manhandle Derek probably isn't a good idea and lowers his hand, Derek releasing it so he can. The handful of deputies that had been watching the exchange, relax slightly.
"Who are you?" Agent McCall asks.
"Derek Hale," Derek replies, menacing glare dialed up to eleven.
"Derek Hale?" Rafael repeats in disbelief.
"How do you even know who that is?" Stiles queries.
"Oh, I've read the files, Stiles. All the files. You're running around with Derek Hale? Why does that not surprise me?"
"Why should it? It's not like you've been gone the past seven years and don't know me from the next teenager. Oh, wait," Stiles snipes.
"I remember you well enough, Stiles. And you always had a penchant for trouble."
Stiles meets his gaze head-on. "You don't know the first thing about me," he says darkly.
Derek steps closer to Stiles, defensive of him. Rafael only continues to stare Stiles down, which the teen returns defiantly. They only stop because someone clears their throat—loudly.
It's Chris Argent. His eyes land on Stiles and Derek, shortly cutting to Agent McCall and the badge hanging from his neck before ignoring him. He smiles at them, the picture of a polite neighbor.
"Stiles, Derek. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. Who's this?"
Stiles takes great pleasure in informing Chris, "This is Agent Rafael McCall. Scott's "dad"."
Derek casts a surprised look back at Stiles at the news. Chris is still smiling, but his eyes go suddenly cold. He shakes Rafael's hand and says, "Chris Argent. Never thought I'd meet you."
It's a jab and the blow lands hard. Rafe shuffles awkwardly and clears his throat.
Not so easy to pick on a fellow adult, is it? Stiles thinks satisfactorily.
"It's nice to meet you, Chris."
"Mr. Argent," Chris corrects. Stiles could high-five the man right now. "I've got a meeting with the Sheriff, so if you'll excuse me."
That piques Rafe's interest. "A meeting with the Sheriff? What for?"
"My father passed away suddenly last night. The Sheriff just wants to ask a few questions. Make sure there was no reason to suspect foul play," Chris answers easily.
"I see," Rafe says. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," Chris says automatically.
The look he's giving Agent McCall seems to quell any thoughts the man may have had for further interrogation of either Chris or of Derek and Stiles.
He takes a step back and bows his head in acknowledgement. "I'll leave you to it then. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Argent. Stiles, I'll be seeing you. You too, Mr. Hale."
"Looking forward to it," Derek says with menace. Stiles grins manically beside him.
Agent McCall departs and Chris turns to look at the remaining two in judgment. "Is antagonizing him really a good idea?" he asks.
"I've been doing it since the day I met him," Stiles says. "I see no reason to stop now. Besides, what's he going to charge me with? Witchcraft? We're in the wrong century for that."
"A fair point, I suppose," Chris says shrewdly. "Let's go talk to your father about what happened last night."
The talk goes abysmally. Stiles finally has to come clean about what went down in the distillery. Naturally his father does not take well to the news that his only child "died and came back to life, Jesus Christ, Stiles." Chris doesn't take it well either. The hunter gives the teen a hard look, like he disapproves of such spellwork. Naturally the look makes Derek go on the offensive. It's only because the Sheriff is there as the voice of authority that it doesn't escalate into outward threats.
Once he's calmed the storm between the other two men, the Sheriff buries his face in his hands and takes a moment to just breathe. Speaking through his palms he asks, "Stiles. Son. This magic. Your magic. It's...it's powerful?"
"Super powerful," Stiles counters. "Something had been stemming the flow, but now I've got access to all of it and there's—there's a lot of it. I can't really describe it, but I just know. I can feel it, there's a lot in here," Stiles covers his chest with a hand. "I'm stronger than ever now and I've got Cor back and—Dad, look...I'm sorry that I died. I wasn't actually planning on it, y'know, it was just a backup plan, but that's how it went down and...I need you to understand something.
"This is my fight. And something wants me to win it. The...the nemeton or the earth or whatever, but something is trying to help me—me and not anybody else, because no one else can do this—and I can do this. I'm sorry that you're scared and worried, but all this evil isn't going to just go away if we decide to stop fighting it. If we stop fighting it, it'll win, Dad. And that can't happen."
The Sheriff looks at his son for a long, long time, then finally says, "I wish it didn't have to be you. But, I think you're right: it's you or no one. Something chose you to do this, and there's nothing we can do to change that." John sighs, then steels his resolve. "Whatever comes, I'm with you, son. I won't try to stop you."
"Thanks, Dad," Stiles says, genuine and heartfelt.
Derek slides a hand into his and squeezes, a small reminder that Stiles has him, too.
"Me too," Chris speaks up and the trio looks at him. "This certainly isn't...the conventional means that a hunter works by, but Stiles is right. There are things out there that need to be stopped and he's the only one that can do it. Count me in."
Stiles grins boyishly at him and replies, "Thanks. Promise I won't go darkside."
Chris rolls his eyes. "That really puts my mind at ease, Stiles," he comments sarcastically.
"He won't," Derek says. "I'm here."
Stiles elbows Derek gently. "That's right. I've got my very own anchor to keep me from going off the deep end."
"I'll hold you to that, Derek," Chris says seriously to which Derek nods.
The Sheriff is thinking he needs to have an in-depth discussion with Chris Argent covering everything he knows about witches and magic and Stiles' magic in particular. But there are other things happening right now that take priority, so he moves the conversation along a different avenue.
No one has any clue what happened to Gerard.
"Do you really think it was a natural death?" John asks.
"I doubt it," Chris replies. "With all that's going on?"
"I thought the same thing," Sheriff Stilinski admits.
"So what happens now?" Stiles asks. "Do the hunters leave?"
"They will if I make them," Chris says. "Without Gerard around, I can pull rank and run them out of town. Which I plan on doing—with extreme prejudice."
"That's the best news I've heard in weeks," Stiles says, grin lopsided. "That's one problem down."
"But we're up one problem. Whoever killed Gerard," the Sheriff points out.
"Think it was the Alphas?" Stiles asks hopefully. "I know about Deucalion and Gerard."
Chris shakes his head. "Deucalion may have had a grudge against Gerard, but I think he was a little too busy with something else last night," he says with a pointed look aimed at Stiles. "Same goes for the one committing sacrifices, not that they'd have a reason to single out Gerard anyway."
The Sheriff nods in agreement. "Can't be in two places at once." He pauses. "Can you?"
"No, Derek assures him.
"Oh, thank god," John breathes out.
"We don't know who could have killed Gerard, so we'll just have to assume there's some unknown third party out there," Chris says. "I wouldn't jump to the conclusion that they're on our side though."
"The Alphas and the sacrifices are still our biggest concerns," the Sheriff declares. "They're known threats."
"Nothing should change with the darach, but the Alphas are down one," Derek says. "I imagine that mainly just pissed them off though. Or Kali anyway. They'll probably be making their next move sooner rather than later."
"I have to agree with you there," Chris says, then frowns. "What was that about a darach?"
"What is a darach?" the Sheriff asks pointedly.
"A dark druid. Just plain evil basically," Stiles tells him. "It's who's sacrificing people. At least that's what the Alphas think." He scoffs. "Deucalion actually thought it was me. Thanks for that."
Chris' expression darkens. "I was afraid of this."
Three pairs of eyebrows go up around the room.
"You mean you knew what it was?" John asks.
"No. I wasn't sure. I hadn't gathered enough evidence, but...well…I can share what I've found."
"By all means," the Sheriff says.
"It's at my house," Chris says. "It'd be easier to show you."
"Then, let's go," Stiles says.
Chris leads them into what looks to be a study or home office. He walks them over to the sturdy wooden table to one side, covered in papers. No one is expecting him to push the papers aside and pull out a black light, but that's exactly what he does. When he does, writing appears on the table. Five words, each occupying one circle of the fivefold knot: Virgin, Warrior, Healer, Philosopher, Guardian.
"Holy crap," Stiles says. "Why didn't you show us this sooner?"
"I didn't want us to be chasing down the wrong theory," Chris says. "But after you said it was a darach, that pretty much settled it for me."
"What is this?" Derek asks.
"It's an old Celtic ritual—for sacrificing people, in case that wasn't clear. There's five types of people that need to be sacrificed, three each for fifteen total. These are the five types."
Stiles says, "I dreamed this symbol, the fivefold knot. It was written on the roots of the nemeton, too."
"I know. That's where I first saw it and thought of this ritual," Chris informs him. "You say you dreamed it?"
Stiles nods. "And Lydia drew it in her notebooks. She's a banshee by the way."
Chris eyebrows pop in surprise, but then he nods once. "Makes sense. All right. Then I'd say we're right on the money with this."
"Looks that way," the Sheriff agrees.
"So what victims have died so far?" Derek queries.
"The lifeguard," the Sheriff begins listing, and Stiles shuffles a clean piece of paper to the surface and begins jotting them down. "Three high schoolers. The band teacher. And Harris last night."
Stiles winces slightly.
"Don't feel bad about that one, do you?" the Sheriff asks.
"Harris was a douche, but he didn't deserve to die," Stiles states. "Can't say I'm going to miss him though. I would have had him again for physics next year."
"So six victims falling into five categories," Derek prompts to get Stiles back on task.
"Right," the teen says, scribbling down five headings, then the numbers 1 through 15. "So, the lifeguard. Guardians?"
He receives nods and assigns it the appropriate category and number.
"The next one?" Derek asks.
"A gangly teenager," John says.
"I'm guessing virgin," Chris says bluntly.
"Hey, not all gangly teenagers possess the inability to get laid," Stiles says. "I can guarantee you that—"
"What did I say about "I don't want to hear it"?" John moans, pressing his hand over his eyes to squeeze his temples.
"He started it," Stiles grumbles. "Next?"
"A young girl. Few friends, not very social. Probably also virgin."
"Next?"
"Another high school student…"
"Virgin?"
"Maybe not. He had high honors in ROTC."
"...Warrior, then."
"Best guess."
"The band teacher?"
"Philosopher? That's like teaching," Derek says.
"Philosopher it is. For Harris, too, then," Stiles says.
"So that's our six. One guardian, two virgins, one warrior, and two philosophers," the Sheriff surmises.
"No healers," Chris says.
"Is it random?" Derek asks.
"It's in a one-two pattern," the Sheriff counters. "So is it?"
"I'm not sure," Chris admits. "Our knowledge on darachs is limited. Most hunters who cross one don't live to tell the tale."
Stiles stares at the paper for a long moment, then suddenly begins writing names in again.
"Stiles, what…?" John starts, but stops when he sees the names his son is writing down.
"Deaton is number 9...Tara is 10...Mr. Westover is 11….and...Ms. McCall, Dad, and Mr. Argent are...13, 14, and 15."
Stiles puts the pen down and bites his bottom lip.
"Stiles," the Sheriff begins.
"I know. I should have told you sooner, I know. But I didn't want anybody to panic and I thought maybe we could stop it in time… Those are the rest of the people I recognized from my vision. I don't know the last three."
"Stiles," the Sheriff says sternly, placing a hand on his son's shoulder, "you should have told me I was one of the sacrifices."
Stiles looks at his father, eyes wet. "I thought I could stop it."
"Son…"
The Sheriff pulls Stiles into a tight hug. He pats him on the back and says, "We can still stop it. We, you hear me?"
"Yeah, I hear you," Stiles says.
They separate and Stiles smiles sadly at his father before looking at Chris.
"Sorry I didn't tell you you were in my vision."
"It's all right," Chris says. "I suspected I might be one of the targets from the start."
"Why?" Stiles asks.
"Hunters usually are," Chris says matter-of-factly.
"If this is right, then…what's the pattern?" Sheriff Stilinski asks.
The four of them stare at the paper for a long time, no revelations forthcoming.
Suddenly Stiles' head jerks up. "The purity ring."
The Sheriff asks, "What?"
"The purity ring. I saw it on the first vic's body when I went to the morgue. He made a promise of chastity. He was a virgin."
"Right, okay," John agrees. "So not a guardian."
Stiles attacks the paper then. He scribbles through the lifeguard under the Guardians heading and puts it under Virgins. Then he lists out Melissa, the Sheriff, and Chris under guardians.
The other three men frown.
"I can see Chris and myself being guardians…" the Sheriff says, "but Melissa is a nurse. Shouldn't she be a healer?"
Stiles shakes his head. "She could be. But she's a guardian."
"How do you figure?" John asks.
"She's a parent," Stiles says decisively. "You all are. "A parent or guardian." Like on forms."
"I think you're right. That's excellent work, Stiles," Chris says.
Stiles grins. "Thanks. I only thought of it, 'cause I said it to Mr. McCall earlier."
John scowls. "I see you know he's in town then."
"Oh, yeah. He and Derek almost threw down in the lobby. When did he get here?"
"This morning. Him and a few other agents. This current serial killer has them worried, I think."
"Why?" Derek asks.
"Because we just dealt with our last serial killer last month. It's too frequent. I think they think something bigger is going on here. Like a cult," the Sheriff supplies.
"Well, people are being sacrificed," Stiles allows.
"It's in groups of three," Chris says suddenly. They all look to him and he points to the first and last groups on the page. "Look. Three virgins. Three warriors. The ones in between must be wrong."
"The power of three," Stiles mutters. "Very important in magic. Probably should have guessed that."
His hands roam over the names for a moment and then he snaps his fingers.
"This guy, Kyle. ROTC. Warrior. Harris and the band teacher are ex-military. Also warriors." Stiles makes the adjustments to the list. "So Deaton, Tara, and Mr. Westover… Mr. Westover is probably still a philosopher. He's never done anything but teach, I think. And Tara—Tara used to teach before she was a cop, so she's also a philosopher."
"Deaton?" Derek asks.
"He's got to be a healer. He's number 9." Stiles writes it all down, draws question marks in the places he doesn't know who's who, writes male or female next to them based on the nemeton's omen.
"We should tell Deaton," Derek says. "He might be able to stop it from happening to himself."
"Yeah. Or at least buy us enough time to save him," Stiles says.
"Derek, Stiles. Go inform him," the Sheriff instructs.
"What about Miss McCall?" Stiles asks.
"She doesn't need to know just yet," John says.
"See what I mean?" Stiles says.
The Sheriff waves him away. "Yeah, yeah. Get out of here."
Deaton accepts the news with his usual calm. They discuss all that happened at the distillery. The veterinarian tells Stiles that he believes the teen can find a way to stop the darach with his restarted powers. Stiles tells him he plans on doing it as soon as possible.
What none of them planned on was for the sacrifices to suddenly stop.