#ellavrena

He tries the next cabinet and finds the same secret compartment, except this one's not empty. There's a couple pieces of --dear God, is that parchment? It is. First wolfsbane, then mysterious gold coins, and now parchment. Stiles feels like he's just walked into Harry Potter. Hell, Peter's allergic to wolfsbane. He could totally be a werewolf.

Unable to resist, Stiles picks up the parchment, which looks like it's written on in some Latin-based language, maybe Portuguese or Spanish. The ink's heavy but faded, and the writing is tiny and cramped. Translating it is gonna be a bitch. There's a full sheet and one diagonally torn scrap of another, only four or five half-sentences on the latter. On the former, besides a large block of cursive, there's a crude illustration of a human figure taking a knee, offering up a radiating, white sphere to a great tree. What any of it means, Stiles has no idea. Maybe it's describing how to worship trees.

Maybe Peter's angered a cult. Or the Hales are a cult at war with another cult. Cult Wars, the next hit reality tv show. Stiles can see it now.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, reminding Stiles to hurry up. He should probably take a few more pictures and put the parchment back, but.... He's not sure why, but he feels like the parchment is his, not like it should be his, but like it always has been. It's weird, but perhaps it's just his curiosity kicking in. Besides, he's already got his fingerprints all over it. It wouldn't do for the sheriff's department to find those.

So he keeps the parchment and steps back into the hallway, the creaking of the floorboards setting him on edge again. Something thumps against the rooftop above him as he takes a step towards the end of the house, and he flinches instinctively. "Holy--" he hisses, but the scrambling, scratching noises that follow the thump make him shut up. His heart racing, he decides that's his cue to leave.

It's probably just a raccoon, he tells himself as he resists the urge to run to the back door. He speed-walks through the living room and dining room, still trying to maintain some sense of stealth, but the floorboards creak so much he doesn't know why he bothers. He yanks open the back door and steps outside, cringing and looking up. Nothing drops down on him except a sheet of pouring rain. He goes to shield his head with the parchment from the rain before realizing old, priceless parchment, and sticks the parchment under his sweatshirt.

He runs for the fence, the fear of whatever hit the roof mingling with the desire not to be drenched by cold rain, and he strains to get over the fence while keeping the parchment pressed to his body. Somehow he manages to climb up and swing both legs over. Right as he's sliding down the other side, banging his knee painfully against it, he swears he sees two, literally glowing (what the hell) golden eyes peering out of the darkness from the far edge of the back yard, but by the time the sight really registers with him, he's already hit the ground running, and there's no way he's going back to doublecheck that.

When he reaches his Jeep, he's already half-drenched, so he starts the engine right away, setting the parchment down on the passenger seat. There's no one in sight, but the prickling on the back of his neck makes him switch gears and slam on the accelerator before he's even buckled himself in. Rubber grinds against concrete, tiny little tremors vibrating through Stiles's body, and Stiles hits the brakes.

He puts the car back in park and slaps his hands against the steering wheel. "Shit." Gathering himself, he draws a hand down his face then climbs out of the car to see the damage. Lightning flashes, ear-throbbingly loud thunder following quickly on its heels, and he curls in on himself as he walks around his car, the pelting rain beginning to soak through his hoodie into his t-shirt. "Shit," he says under his breath. It's not just a blown tire. Someone's popped all four of them, and he only has one spare. He tries to scrub the rain out of his eyes and peers out from beneath his hoodie. It doesn't look like there's anybody out there. He hurries into his car anyway and locks the doors behind him.

He knocks his head back against the headrest. "Shit shit shit." He glances at the console. 2:12, the clock reads, tiny dashes of eerie green light glowing in the darkness. "Fuck everything." He might be able to beg a ride off Scott and his little motorcycle, but the hour-long ride in the rain would probably wind up giving Scott pneumonia at this rate, and then what about his Jeep? Even if the police didn't have it towed, how would he explain its absence to his dad?

Headlights gleam in front of him, snatching Stiles's attention away. When the oncoming car gets closer, one of those little hybrids, it slows down. Right before it pulls up beside him, Stiles stuffs the parchment into his glove compartment.

The owner of the hybrid stops the car and rolls down the window, revealing a guy wearing a white suit and the most neon green of all neon green beanies in the world. The guy is also hot, all pale skin and lean muscle and possibly covered in glitter, but man, that beanie. He rolls down his window and waves a little. Stiles hesitantly rolls his own down, thinking, This seems a little too convenient.

Beanie Guy nods at the Jeep's tires and begins to speak, and all of the sudden it's like Stiles has seen the light. "Looks like you're a little stuck," Beanie Guy says ruefully, voice ringing like the low tones of a flute. "You got someone coming for you, or you need a ride?"

Thunder rolls again, but this time it's a comforting sound, like the crescendo leading up to Beanie Guy's shining smile. (It's glitter, isn't it. He has glitter on his teeth. Why does he have glitter on his teeth? Where has his mouth been?) "You okay?" Beanie Guy asks in amusement.

Stiles shuts his gaping mouth and shakes his head, jerking back into awareness. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I was just, you know," he glances down in the direction of his front and back tires and finishes with a chagrined smile, "panicking."

Beanie Guy throws his head back, letting loose bell-like peals of laughter that give Stiles butterflies. Beanie Guy looks up at the sky, and Stiles watches in fascination as lightning flashes in his delighted dark eyes. Smile lines make his chiseled face warm and welcoming, and his lopsided grin when he replies "I can see why" makes Stiles's heart flutter. He watches as Stiles struggles to form a response, the grin slowly curving into a wicked smirk.

Stiles's phone begins to vibrate in his pocket right as Beanie Guy asks, the smirk fading into concern, "You been waiting here long?"

"Oh, no, I just got here. And I wasn't waiting." Flustered, Stiles fumbles for the phone, smiling apologetically as he pulls it out of his pocket. "Sorry, can you just--"

Beanie Guy swipes rain away from his forehead with two slim fingers and sucks them into his mouth. The phone tumbles into Stiles's lap.

Beanie Guy slides his fingers out with a slow, obscene sucking noise and looks up at Stiles beneath his eyelashes. "Can't help myself. There's just something about the rain I can't resist." He holds eye contact with Stiles, unblinking as he rubs his spit-slick fingers against his lips.

The phone vibrates one last time, going straight to Stiles's dick, and Stiles opens and closes his mouth, red-faced and  struggling to form a response. "...Yeah. The rain is—" his strangled voice goes up an octave and cracks. "The rain is great."

Beanie Guy sets his bare arm on the sill and leans back, not seeming to care about the rain soaking into the sleeve of his bright white, disgustingly expensive suit. "So about that ride?" he asks lowly.

Right away, Stiles finds himself nodding jerkily, fumbling for the door handle, but then a hound two or three houses away barks, its deep, rough woof lilting up into a piercing howl. Stiles pauses with his hand on the handle, jarred. "I..." He breathes in deep, squinting, suddenly aware that everything seems just a little too light, a little too warm and out of focus. "I live about a half hour away," he says, trying valiantly not to slur his words. "You sure you wanna drive that far?"

His phone begins to vibrate again, and Stiles snatches it off his crotch, face heating up. He glances down at it. The number doesn't match any of his contacts, but it's in the Beacon Hills area code. "Can you just--" He swallows and notices how shallow his breath is again. He inhales deeply, then says, "Someone's calling, and--"

"What's your name, kid?"

Stiles looks away from the phone even as it vibrates again. "It's Stiles."

"Haven't heard of that one before," Beanie Guy murmurs, making Stiles lean closer to hear him, ignoring the steady trickle of water running down his neck.

"Well, it's not my birth name. I kinda made it up." His phone stops vibrating.

"I like it." Beanie Guy unlocks his doors with an audible click. "You want a ride, you got it, Stiles. Just say the word. Let me know before we drown, though, yeah?"

Stiles ducks his head. "Yeah, sorry, I just... got distracted." He begins opening the door. "A ride would be great." Oblivious to the rain, he steps outside right as the hound's baying turns frantic, interspersed with short, growling barks. "Jesus," Stiles swears under his breath, looking down the empty street through the gray haze of rain in the direction of the howling. As he walks around to the passenger side of the hybrid, his phone vibrates again in his hand. He looks down, other hand on the door handle. It's the same number. He frowns, thumb hovering over the answer symbol, water drops blurring the screen.

Beanie Guy rolls down the passenger window. "You coming?"

"Yeah, yeah," says Stiles, lowering the phone and pulling open the door. "Sorry, I was just—" As he sits down, the dog's howling cuts off with a loud yelp. Stiles looks in its direction, concerned, unease settling into his gut again. He peers into the darkness, wondering if there's something out there. His phone vibrates again. He sighs. "I should really take this."

He slides the answer button across the screen and brings the phone up to his ear right as Beanie Guy asks, "You wanna close the door first?"

Stiles nods and begins swinging the door shut just as Peter's voice cuts through the weird daze he's only just becoming aware he's been in, ordering, "Get out of the car." Stiles freezes with the door open a mere inch.

"I know I said I like the rain," Beanie Guy says with the same grin, but now it seems less enticing and more... toothy. "But my car sure doesn't." He nods at the gap left by the open door, drops of water tapping rhythmically against the floor. Stiles looks down at himself. He's drenched, head to toe, and he's sitting on the hybrid's pristine leather.

"Stiles," Peter says. "You need to get out of the car. Now."

"Oh, man," Stiles says methodically, carefully picking each word before he says it. "Thanks, dude." He turns to Beanie Guy. "This was really awesome of you, but my friend finally returned my call –he's a heavy sleeper, you know, I left a message just before you showed up—and it turns out he can pick me up now." Stiles swings opens the door, and the rain beats against him again, cold and wet.

The rain, as if it can sense his growing misery, only beats down harder. Stiles steps outside anyway, despite Beanie Guy saying, "Is he close by? If it'll take a while, it's really no trouble for me to—"

"No, no, thanks," Stiles says, perhaps a little too overzealously dismissive, "but this way I won't have to give you directions, and I'm really bad at those, and also you won't have to waste any gas, and I really have to talk to him anyway—"

"All right, all right. Don't worry about it." Beanie Guy says easily, shaking his head with a thin, closed-mouth smile. He pulls something out from within his suit jacket and hands it over. "Take my card." Stiles does, if only to appease him. "It was nice to meet you, Stiles." He jerks his head at Stiles's Jeep. "You better go warm up. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

"Nice to meet you, too." Stiles closes the door, then rethinks and leans over the open window. "Hey, what did you say your name was again?"

"Inia. S'on the card. Look me up. You might like what you find." Beanie Guy –Inia—sucks on his lower lip and grins crookedly, leaving his lips plump and shining. Stiles swallows. "See you later, kid."

Taking that as his queue, Stiles pulls away from the car just in time for Inia to take off, gunning the engine and speeding down the street with a squeal. A jagged bolt of lightning cracks down just a block away in front of them, and Stiles practically leaps back into his Jeep with a yelp, heart hammering.

A tinny voice comes through the phone, pressed to his chest, so Stiles brings it up to his ear just in time to hear Peter saying his name. "—iles? I can hear your heartbeat, you idiot. Pick up the phone."

Stiles looks down at the plain white card in his hand, dotted dark gray with rain drops. Inia,it says in cursive in the middle, printed in an odd, shimmering silver. Stiles flips the card over, but it's blank. He shoves it into his pocket. "What the fuck just happened?" he slurs into the phone, suddenly tired.

There's a pause, then Peter says, more seriously than Stiles would expect, "I returned that favor."

"What?" Stiles flings his free hand out then brings it back and tugs at his hair. He feels groggy, like he's just woken up. "What are you even –what?" He barely resists the urge to brain himself against the steering wheel as the memory of dragging Peter out of the classroom surfaces. "You mean this guy was gonna –was he gonna kill me? Did I just get in a car with a murderer? In a neon green beanie and a white suit!?" Seriously, how did his clothing not send up any red flags?"And how the fuck did you know? Are you watching me?"

Stiles jerks the door open and stands up in the footwell, holding his hands over his eyes so that he can squint out at the street around him, but just as before, he doesn't see a thing. A violent shiver wracks his whole body, and he can feel the rain soak into his socks. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, sinking back into the car and slamming the door shut. He starts the engine and turns the heat up to full-blast, toeing off his shoes. "So what now?" he asks as he peels off his socks. "Should I just sit here and pray, or are you gonna be the next one to oh so conveniently turn around the corner and pick me up?"

"No, but my sister is," Peter drawls.

"What?"

There's a dull thump on Peter's end of the line, and then the call goes silent.

"Peter? Peter!" His lips flatten into a thin line, then, "Did someone kill you or did you just hang up on me?" Silence. Stiles sets his cell in his lap and glares at it. He sighs and tugs off his hoodie, shivering as it drags against all his goosebumps, then drops it onto the passenger's seat with a wet slap. He curls his freezing feet under him and rubs a not-much-warmer hand down his soaking jeans, hitting the redial button with the other.

The phone rings and rings, and Stiles thunks his head back against the headrest, mind swirling with deep, soul-searching questions, such as What the hell is going on? and Are the Hales royals in hiding? and Was Beanie Guy/Inia wearing some sort of drugged cologne? Just as the phone goes to voicemail, headlights appear in Stiles's rearview mirror, and sure enough, the car, a sportsy little Camaro, pulls up to a stop right beside him.

The passenger rolls down their window, and lo and behold: Peter Hale. "Convenient ride at your service," he says around a shit-eating grin.

"Peter," a woman's alto voice sighs in resignation. Stiles ducks his head and sees the driver, a disheveled woman in her late twenties or early thirties, closing her eyes and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Water drips from Peter's wet hair, plastered to his forehead, onto his eyelashes. Stiles narrows his eyes.

"Well?" Peter asks.

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns off the Jeep. He debates grabbing the parchment, but the memory of Peter stealing the coin makes him decide to leave it in the glove compartment. Shoving his bare feet into his shoes,  he pockets his phone and snatches his sodden hoodie off the passenger seat then jumps out of the Jeep with a grumble.

The backseat door of the Camaro is thankfully unlocked when Stiles tugs it open, so he slides in with minimal additional rainwater, not that it really matters at this point, he thinks as he pulls at his t-shirt distastefully. It's practically molded itself to his body.

The driver puts the car in drive as Peter suggests helpfully, "You know, you might warm up more quickly if you took your shirt off."

Stiles blinks. The driver, presumably his much, much older sister, releases a long-suffering sigh.

Peter turns his head just enough to meet Stiles's eye, and his smug smirk grates on Stiles's nerves like none other. Making a split-second decision, Stiles violently yanks off his shirt and flings it onto the seat next to him, earning himself a raised eyebrow and a "Seriously?" from the driver.

"This is my sister, Talia," Peter says with a nod at the driver. "Talia, Stiles. Stiles, Talia."

"Hi, Talia," Stiles says dutifully.

"I'd say it's nice to meet you, but given the circumstances, I'd really prefer to be sleeping right now." She glances at him in the rear-view mirror, frowns, then turns the heat on full-blast.

Stiles leans into the hot air and thinks he's in love. He groans. "God, thank you so much."

"Oh, I see how it is," Peter grumbles, turning the vents toward him with a glare at Talia. It's not particularly effective, seeing as how he just ends up looking like a half-drowned cat. All Talia does in response is shake her head at him.

"So are you gonna whack me now?" Stiles asks, half-serious.

"We're not going to kill you," Talia says. The scary thing is that she sounds like she's answering seriously, as if murder was literally a possible option in the first place. "We're going to drop you off at your house and get your car fixed and back in your driveway before anyone's the wiser."

"Wait, really?" It seems too good to be true.

"Don't mention it," she says.

Peter looks back again. "Seriously don't mention it."

"And in return," Talia says, talking over Peter, "You're not going to ask any more questions or go snooping around where you shouldn't."

"You mean, don't ask questions like, 'Peter, how did you get my number?' or 'Peter, did you really think I wouldn't notice how you're dripping wet, you creepy stalker?'"

Peter leans towards Talia, stage-whispering, "Told you."

Stiles talks over him. "Or 'Peter, how did you follow me without a car?' and 'Peter, if you were there watching, why didn't you stop me yourself from getting in the weird guy's car?' I sat in his passenger's seat! I was closing the door, ready to go."

"Maybe if you had picked up your phone the first time I called--" Peter starts, but then Talia snaps, "Peter!" and he sinks back into his seat with a nearly inaudible grumble.

"The answer to your question is yes, Stiles. Don't ask questions like those," she says, completely straight-faced.

Stiles gapes, trying to figure out how to respond, because seriously, what the fuck is going on? How is he not supposed to ask those questions? What is so secret that they can't answer them?

Talia meets his eyes in the mirror, and her face softens. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I can tell you're a curious, stubborn kid, but it would be best for everyone if you restrain yourself from trying to figure this out. It's just too dangerous."

What the fuck?