What Is Left Behind
His eyes were steel blue and clear and she loved them. She loved their coldness, she loved how they changed in the light, she loved when they suddenly and uncharacteristically softened. They were a stormy sky on a too warm summer day. They were the darkening sky before the first fall of snow.
She loved them but she did her best not to.
Because if eyes were the window to the soul, then she'd rather not get lost in them for she was sure that the soul awaiting was twisted, chaotic and ambivalent in nature. After everything she had done and had been through she needed steadiness, not a whirling sea of conflicting emotion drowning her.
Besides, they had hurt her too, those eyes.
So many times, over and over. When she wasn't able to make them look warm and they instead turned their hardened and detached gaze towards her.
But old habits die hard, unfortunately.
"What are you trying to say?"
Her arms were folded in front of her chest as she asked.
Jackson clenched his teeth and looked away for a moment to regain his composure.
"I was asking for your help," he gritted out. "And I know you understood me just fine the first time I said that. And the second time as well."
"I hear the words but they just lose their meaning when they're coming out of your mouth."
Was it possible wanting to strangle someone with the same ferocity as wanting to kiss them senseless?
Their relationship had been many things, but never emotionless. In fact, the emotions were always boiling. The heat of their romance, the red anger between them forcing them apart every time. If their relationship was a color it would be red. Red for heat. Red for fire. Red for burns. Red for love. Red for passion. Red for anger.
"I won't beg," he said finally.
Lydia knew he'd be too proud for that. Pride was everything to him. He held his head high and walked on, crushing those in his way as if they were mere ants.
But she had her own pride. Pride that demanded that she make him suffer. Pride that would rather see him gone and her in agony because of it than admitting that she needed him.
"And I wouldn't agree if you did," she said.
She held herself as if there was a fragile crown on her head that was about to slip. Cautious but still majestic, untouchable, and noble.
Jackson chose to take a step towards her then.
"But you see, the thing is that this is not about us. It's- what shall we call it? - a business transaction, so to speak."
She smiled in a cold and calculated manner as she leaned even closer so that their faces were only inches apart.
"But what would you have to offer me in return?" she whispered as she gazed up at him through her eyelashes. "I could find that nemeton of yours if I wanted to. You just have to give me enough initiative. I'd find it but why would I share my knowledge with you? It's not you who needs to know about it, it's Derek, the pack. What makes you think I'd make you my partner in crime?"
Her lips were so close.... And they were painted red. Which was enough of a warning sign for Jackson.
The color red was their downfall.
It was already burning him alive once again.
He turned his head so that their lips were no longer aligned for a kiss, pressed his cheek to hers, gripped her waist with one hand and replied in a husky voice, "Who said anything about being partners? I'd be your assistant if you prefer an unequal status between us. As I said, this is not about us. It's about getting the job done. And you and I together may be a toxic as hell combination but we're also a force to be reckoned with."
He felt her breath stocking and heard her heartbeat stutter for just a second, so he stepped away from her.
Her eyes were green, swirling with golden streaks. They were the most exquisite gem and that made them unattainable.
"We're poison together," she agreed quietly.
Jackson nodded slowly. "But a potent one."
"Then why did you think of me? Why ask me?"
Her posture was stiff but she kept herself from trembling. There was strength in the way she expressed her feelings only through her eyes. Her body was steady but her eyes were a whirlwind of emotion.
Jackson was already at the door of the room they had once shared. Now the bed was made and the closet was empty. There were no more pictures on the walls. No fashion magazines stacked on the bedside table.
He turned around to regard her.
"Because there is no person other than you who I'd trust to make the right choices. Myself included."
With that, he walked away after closing the door behind himself. She was left in the empty room that was once the place where they had shared everything.
***
When he was playing, the world around him ceased to exist. There was no chaos, no question marks. Instead, there was freedom, brightness, beauty, and completion.
Music created a world of its own and everything was possible in it.
She was just coming down the stairs but she stopped once she was aware of the gentle piano music drifting through the air.
The melody was fast-paced and heartachingly sweet.
Waltz no. 2 in A flat major from Schubert.
In German it was called "Sehnsuchtswalzer", which translated to "Waltz of Yearning".
Lydia minded her steps as she walked into the living room; she didn't want to disturb the player.
Her effort was for naught, though, because the piece - while it possessed a quality of making you feel like you've heard it a thousand times in your heart already - was brief, and already over as soon as she had reached the living room.
Though over, the piece seemed to echo through her core. Maybe yearning could be expressed through music and, therefore, you feel like you know the melody by heart.
One spark was steadily floating over Stiles' fingers as if it was the one guiding them.
"I liked it," she spoke then. "Do you mind if I listen?"
Stiles winced at her voice, not having expected anyone interrupting him. It wouldn't have happened if he had gone to the cellar and practiced on Bethany but then he remembered that the room was basically to one quarter a wall of mirrors and he rather preferred this scenario.
"I just want to relax a little," Lydia added, probably having sensed his discomfort through his lack of immediate response. "I usually listen to music when I need time to think about something."
He couldn't believe that the almost sheepish sounding girl in front of him was Lydia Martin, the girl from his dreams who was out of reach. She didn't seem so perfect right now.
"Sure," he replied and rubbed his neck. "I just can't guarantee that I won't slip up or something. I'm just practicing."
"I don't mind."
She sat down on the couch as another piece filled the room. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched him play. She had always known that Stiles was known for his relentless movement, his energy. In BHS, he had been the annoying clumsy kid who just couldn't sit still. He moved like ants were crawling up and down his body.
But when he played, the music bundled his energy and his abrupt movements into a flow of notes, into grace.
She had never found him more handsome than now.
But as much as she tried, her heart didn't start racing. There was no tension in the air, no invisible string to pull her towards him.
As much as she wanted, especially right now, she was not in love with Stiles.
Being in love with Stiles would be easy, she thought. They would never argue because he was so completely smitten with her, he'd do anything for her. They also shared a lot of interests and something else she couldn't put a name on. He was just good for her. He made her laugh. He made her think and reflect on her actions and herself.
Unlike Jackson, he had never treated her like a dumb girl. He had treated her as if he saw behind her facade and as if he still saw something beautiful and precious there.
Yes, how easy life would be for her if she could just fall in love with Stiles. It would be a cute story. Him finally getting the girl he had unsuccessfully pined after for so long. And her? She would maybe be a better person.
They would make a great couple, too.
Lydia sighed.
There, in the adjoined kitchen, she could spot Derek at the counter sipping a cup of coffee. It was only possible for her to see him because he clearly wanted a view into the living room.
It was also clear what he was looking at. Or who he was looking at.
Maybe she didn't need a boyfriend who'd make her a better person. Maybe she didn't need a boyfriend at all right now.
The little spark which had been floating above Stiles' fingers since Lydia had found him playing had begun to move away from the piano. It was flying through the air in little circles, almost like it was dancing. The direction it was heading in was undoubtedly the kitchen.
Stiles seemed to notice that too after he had stopped playing.
"What are you doing, little guy? Come back here!"
As he made the demand, Lydia decided that it was time for her to go.
"I'll see you later, Stiles. Good luck catching the spark."
She gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before she left the Hale House. She probably wanted to change her outfit and get ready for the meeting.
Stiles only quickly followed her with his gaze, then he hastily grabbed the cane and took up pursuit of the spark.
He found Derek leaning against the counter, which surprised him since he had no idea that the werewolf had been listening.
The kitchen island was between them with its cooking area on the one side and its seating area on Stiles' side. Stiles had always loved the kitchen.
He loved how spacious it was and that you couldn't throw the drawers or cupboards shut since they closed themselves. The dark wood of the counter was a nice contrast to the light blue tiles and the light wood of the cupboards and drawers. There were two windows which illuminated the whole kitchen and gave it a friendly look.
Derek, for some reason, never sat down at one of the bar chairs at the kitchen island. He instead preferred to drink his coffee leaning against the counter, the sun warming his back.
Stiles couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the werewolf's presence. The spot where he was standing was across from the thin sliding door, which was never closed anyway. It had been wide open, as far as Stiles could remember before he had barged into the kitchen.
Only the spark had noticed.
"Way to be a creep, Sourwolf," Stiles grumbled.
Derek raised a brow. "What do you mean? Last I checked, this was my home."
Stiles leaned the cane against the kitchen island. He didn't want to rely on it solely, especially when he wasn't even moving that much.
"You still could've said something. Make your presence known. Say hi, like a normal person would."
"I'm a werewolf."
Stiles huffed out a laugh. "That doesn't mean that you don't need to have manners, young man."
Derek repeated the last part incredulously under his breath. Young man? Look who's talking.
But instead of continuing their bickering, Derek looked into his empty mug.
"I didn't want to disturb you. Interrupt your concentration," he explained himself.
"That's... considerate of you," Stiles had not been prepared for that. "But as you said, it's your home. Don't let my playing deter you from going into the living room. I could've gone downstairs anyway if I wanted to practice in peace."
But downstairs, he would've been forced to be in a room with a giant mirror. That didn't sound very appealing to him, as stupid as he felt for the notion.
"You're not bothering anyone," Derek said.
"Okay."
Since this conversation has come to an abrupt and painfully awkward end, Derek decided to pour himself another cup of coffee. He asked if Stiles wanted one too and after he got a positive answer, he grabbed the yellow mug with the Batman logo on it, poured the coffee and handed it to Stiles.
Coffee always calmed the teenager down. A positive side effect of the Adderall.
"So, I got an invitation yesterday," Stiles suddenly opened a new conversation. He had walked over to Derek and was now leaning against the counter as well, their shoulders almost touching.
Derek made a humming noise to signal that he should continue.
"From someone called The Order. Does that name ring a bell?"
As soon as the name fell, Derek almost choked on his coffee.
It was clear from the expression of shock on his face that that was the last name Derek had expected to fall from Stiles' lips.
"So you're surprised about that. So was I, for a matter of fact. Especially since you failed to mention that you've got an appointment with them."
The accusation was not lost on the alpha so he immediately straightened himself and took on a defensive pose.
"I explained everything I knew about them at the last pack meeting. Which you didn't attend," he deadpanned.
Stiles let out a noise of frustration and put the mug away.
"We've been through this. I'm not part of the pack," Stiles stated, his eyebrows drawn together. "And that's why I intend to accept the invitation. I'm turning up as my own person and not as part of your pack."
"They can be dangerous, Stiles. We don't even know what they want yet."
"So I've heard," Stiles said, silently thanking Cora for sharing information with him.
"You're friends with Cora, Scott, Isaac, and Malia - partly even with Peter. But you won't accept your part in the pack."
There was a question hidden in Derek's statements. Not even a very well hidden one.
Stiles acted like he was offended and put a hand over his heart. "You don't count me to your friends, Sourwolf? I'm hurt!"
Derek just shot him a look that told him to quit joking.
"There's no place for me in your pack, Derek! Don't you see? I have to be on my own for once and figure everything out. I need - I need space. I need to be free from the commitment and duties of a pack. I need to be my own person for once."
He had told him this so many times. It was their favorite argument that went nowhere, no matter how often they talked about it.
Derek's mouth became a thin line and it looked like he was just about to argue but then he seemed to think better of it. He just shook his head in resignation.
"What does the Order want from you?" he asked instead.
Stiles shrugged his shoulders. "Apparently," he said, unsure, "they want to help me. And it also seems like they're the only ones who can."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I did my research. They are known for training sparks. They've been doing that for centuries, apparently. This might be my only chance to learn more about what being a spark truly means. I might even meet some of my kind too," Stiles explained, trying his hardest to make Derek understand why he was willing to take the risk.
The alpha didn't look convinced.
"Besides, I have to act fast because whatever this is", he looked at the black scars, "it's nothing good."
Derek closed his eyes for a moment. He already knew he had lost this argument.
"You better be careful," he grumbled.
He didn't say what he was really thinking. Right now, nothing would've changed the teenager's mind. Stiles was too stubborn to understand.
***
The sun was setting and a cold wind was beginning to sweep mercilessly through the streets, taking trash with it and bending the trees.
Dark clouds have settled over the town and darkened the ending of an otherwise sunny day.
The warehouse district was quiet, except for the rustling of fallen leaves and the soft howling of the wind.
Most of the warehouses were still in use. Beacon Hills had one big metal manufactory and even though it had lost importance for the market and employees, it was still one of Beacon Hills' most profitable economic sources. Most of the people in town made their living there. Everyone feared the day the manufactory would close because it would mean the end of Beacon Hills as they knew it. Without it, their number of inhabitants would be reduced to its third.
Some pessimists already saw Beacon Hills turning into a ghost town in less than twenty years.
Seeing the crane, the trucks and the steamrollers sloppily parked and as dirty as if they hadn't been washed in years, Stiles wasn't worried.
This town would never bloom again like it had in the fifties but it most likely would never wilt as well.
The warehouse district consisted of three warehouses still in use and one far in the back which hadn't been in use for over twenty years.
Too many deaths had happened there. It had been the first one to be built. Safety was not the top priority while it had been built and so many people had already died during the construction. The first few years of its usage weren't free of accidents either.
But the final nail in the coffin had been the suicides in the 1980s. Four people had committed suicide in there and so the town council had decided on closing it. It had been abandoned ever since.
People believed that it was cursed, haunted.
Too many deaths must mean that there was something wrong with it. It had been deemed unholy ground.
And of course, people fiercely believed in it.
But every town was haunted in its own way.
The fox sniffed the bristle air as they made its way to the abandoned warehouse. Winter was approaching fast this year. The temperature was lower this time of the year than it had ever been over the last decade.
"It's such a cliche, meeting in an abandoned warehouse," Stiles huffed. His breath built a cloud of smoke right in front of his face.
Burly made a noise that was comically close to a sneeze. He was cold too. Spending the nights in warm houses cuddled into blankets had obviously spoiled him.
It wasn't only the cliché meeting point that was annoying Stiles. It was the time and the whole atmosphere. It was 5 o'clock in the afternoon and it looked like a storm was brewing up.
It really shouldn't be this cold either.
His fingers were starting to freeze so he dug his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket.
He regretted not wearing a warmer jacket.
His hair was now long enough to cover his ears which he was very grateful for. The cold wind on his face felt like it was cutting into his skin. The cold crept inside his clothes so that he wished there was not an inch of skin uncovered.
A cracking noise - not even that loud - broke the silence, it felt like a shot fired from a gun.
Burly flinched.
Then something unexpected happened.
Suddenly, there was music. Only a whisper at first.
It was accompanied by another cracking noise as if the radio signal was bad.
Somewhat trying to assure himself that it was nothing, Stiles began to look for the source.
Was someone else here? Was this a really static sounding ringtone?
It was an old song. It was one of those songs that had already achieved a cult status and everybody knew it but nobody could recall its name, much less the artist.
The words were so warped they were barely recognizable.
As Stiles wandered carefully through the warehouse, the music became louder.
The teenager felt thrown back into the days when the warehouse was still used. He could almost see the busy life in here. People stowing the new shipment of metal away.
A radio would be playing so that the workers weren't completely solitary in their duties.
A song, popular at the time, would echo through the hall, accompanied by some whistles.
Back then, when this was still a lively place.
As Stiles' investigation showed, the music was indeed coming from a radio.
It was the oldest model he had ever seen. Dust was like a second layer to it, dimming the red color it originally possessed.
The loudspeakers were dirty and dented, its antenna was bent.
By any means, this radio was too old and battered to even still be working.
Stiles grasped the cable and pulled the plug. There was no resistance.
The plug had just been uselessly lying on the ground.
There was no power outlet.
"What the hell," Stiles muttered, irritated.
He pressed the off button but nothing happened.
He tried to turn the volume down but the device would not react to his demands.
Burly began to growl and bark so Stiles started looking around for any other person. There had to be someone here if Burly reacted like that.
Burly was looking frantically around, his back arched in defense. Not even he could make out to whom the presence he felt belonged.
Stiles felt the fox press up against his leg. The little guy was spooked but he wasn't sure why.
A creak could be heard. It sounded like it came from above their heads.
Animal and teenage boy alike looked up at a wooden beam. It was old so creaks - especially in this wind - were normal, something to be expected. Old wood creaked.
Stiles tried to slow his wildly beating heart down by being rational.
Something didn't feel right.
The radio kept on playing, working up to a crescendo.
Out of instinct, Stiles and the fox slowly backed away from it.
The radio cracked louder as if it actually pained it to play at such a high volume. It sounded like it would explode from the effort any second now.
Then everything happened at once.
The song reached its peak with a haunting high note, just as something fell from the roof.
Stiles and Burly both threw themselves to the ground, shielding their heads.
The falling object created a sharp whistle. A muffled scream was heard which transformed quickly into a gurgle.
Without looking up, Stiles could feel the object swinging above their heads.
Slowly, he opened his eyes which he had closed in self-preservation and turned his head.
Burly was whining softly in his throat. He should've heeded the warning the animal was giving him but he was too curious.
What he saw made him recoil immediately. He fell onto his bottom and robbed away from the sight.
Feet, grey and already in the process of decaying, were dangling just two feet away from his face.
As he was at a safe distance, he was able to take in the whole picture.
The body of a woman in her early twenties was hanging from the wooden beam, a noose tied around her neck. Her eyes were bulging out of her face, her mouth drawn into an ugly grimace.
Stiles thought she was dead but then her eyes rolled back into her skull.
Her hands were frantically trying to restrict the pressure of the noose around her neck.
Only then did the teenager realize that her neck had miraculously not broken and that she was slowly suffocating.
That realization woke him up from his stupor. He immediately sprang into action.
But how could he save her? She was too high up for him to reach her.
Time was closing in on him like a room that was getting smaller and smaller.
Frantically he looked around for something that he could use, something that would free her.
Suddenly her eyes fixated on him. The sclera was beginning to turn red, probably from bursting veins. Her mouth tried to form words but nothing escaped through the tight hold of the noose.
Body vibrating in the need to do something, anything but stand there uselessly, Stiles ran his hand through his hair.
He eyed the stack of boxes that was near where the dangling girl was. It might be stable enough to hold his weight, he thought. The boxes were made of wood so they would clearly not break. The only risk was in them toppling over.
But he had to take that risk.
As he climbed the stack, he felt them move slightly. The smaller boxes on the top were especially dangerous. He had to lean almost all of his upper body away from where he was standing too in order to reach her.
He'd either succeed or he'd break his legs. Again.
It wasn't easy to reach the top with his stiff leg and the restricted mobility it caused.
His hands were shaking as he climbed the slightly wobbling stack.
The few moments of almost falling had turned his stomach.
He tried not to look down.
All the while, an invisible clock kept ticking.
Faster, faster.
His breathing was rushed.
When he had finally reached the top, there was no time to waste on taking a deep breath.
He reached over without thinking.
It felt like the ground was coming closer. He was almost flying.
With a tight grip on his swiss army knife, he worked on cutting through the thick rope. His hand was sweaty and the knife almost fell out of his head.
He had to use force to cut through it. Inch by inch, the rope began to fray.
Why isn't it ripping?! Why can't it just tear already?
His teeth were clenched tightly and drops of sweat were beading on his forehead.
His strength was leaving him. He probably couldn't hold himself any longer.
Then all of a sudden he was thrown back by the force of the rope ripping. It was pure luck that the dangerously wobbling stack didn't collapse or that he didn't fall off.
The knife - along with the girl - had fallen to the ground but he was still holding on to the edge of the boxes.
He had made it.
Sighing out a breath of relief, he began his descend towards safety.
It took him longer now that he wasn't in such a rush anymore.
He could see her moving. She was still alive.
Thank god.
"It's ok, it's ok," Stiles mumbled hurriedly as he approached the now desperately convulsing body. "I'm calling an ambulance. Everything will be fine..."
It was only when he was close to her without the imminent danger of death surrounding her, that logic finally caught up with him.
If she was alive, then why was her skin so grey, why did no clouds of breath appear when she breathed? Why didn't her chest heave, why were her clothes tattered?
Because she hadn't been alive for a long time.
Stiles violently recoiled from her while Burly was still growling. The animal didn't dare to come near her, though.
With a wild and animal-like scream, the girl threw herself at the teenager, her cold hands closing around his throat.
Her neck was red and bloody.
A foul stench came out of her mouth as she continued to scream in his face.
He tried to fight her off but she was stronger than him. She was inhumanly strong.
Her crazy eyes full of rage spotted the knife that had fallen only a few inches away from them. As she reached for it, Stiles knew it was over.
Her grip on his neck was cutting off his air supply and the coldness of her had made his body go numb. He was at her mercy.
As he watched her stretch her arm for the knife, he knew that it was over.
He should've known earlier.
In his final moments, the world was dipped into a light so bright, it was blinding him. He closed his eyes and awaited the looming darkness.
But it never came.
The scream of the girl got an octave higher, then the pressure on his throat was suddenly gone.
He coughed and rolled to the side, bile threatening to rise in his throat.
Burly was whining again.
Stiles soon found out that the animal had been a victim to the light too and was now momentarily blind.
He reached for the scared fox and petted its head in comfort.
Footsteps were coming closer.
Stiles wished he could see more than shapes right now.
"You were lucky. She almost got you," the newcomer announced in an elegant female voice. Her voice had a calmness to it that was inappropriate for the circumstances of their meeting.
"Well, I got her first," Stiles replied in a husky voice and rubbed his slightly aching throat.
"You're early. I didn't expect that," the woman said, sounding pensive. "I also didn't expect them to be so vicious. Or that strong. I have underestimated the situation, it seems."
She was dressed in black and she wasn't very tall, that much he could make out through his still impaired sight.
Her eyes were glowing unnaturally.
Not that he had expected a human to save him. That would've been too normal for his life.
Grabbing the fox and holding it tightly against his chest in order to shield it from harm, Stiles sat up and rubbed his eyes.
He was starting to see her clearer.
She was in her forties but her elegant face had no wrinkles or bore other marks of age. She looked haughty with the way she held her head.
Even though she was a slight woman, she had an impeccable air of power surrounding her.
Stiles knew whose acquaintance he was making.
"I'd say you're simply too late."
He stood up on slightly shaky legs and grabbed the cane he had let fall when the girl had first appeared.
"Stiles Stilinski, it is an honor to meet you, though I wish the circumstances were different," she said.
Stiles raised his eyebrows. "You mean you don't enjoy saving me from a ghost?"
A familiar face came running towards them then. The man immediately turned to Stiles and gripped his shoulders, examining him.
"Stiles, thank god you're ok," Jordan breathed out in relief. "We got to you in time. I wasn't sure if the thunderbolt would do the trick."
The word thunderbolt made Stiles' eyebrows go up in disbelief.
The eyes of the woman turned a glowing orange. It was like a fire was burning within them. At the next blink, they were back to their dark brown color.
"Why is she here? There hasn't been a ghost sighting in years," Stiles asked.
He knew that the townspeople thought that the place was haunted but he also knew that it was just a rumor. The pack would've known otherwise. They had had meetings in this warehouse before, after all.
"They are reliving their death because they've been awakened by powerful magic. It is no wonder that they are full of rage."
"They? There are more of them?" Stiles almost couldn't believe it. The pack had faced many evil monsters over the past few years but never have they had to deal with ghosts.
The woman's face was grave as she glanced at Stiles.
"This is only the beginning if we can't stop him," she said ominously. "And that is precisely why we are here."
She approached him with her hands crossed behind her back. Then her lips formed into a professional smile.
"I'm Noshiko Yukimura, the head of The Order. You've already been introduced to Jordan, as far as I'm informed."
Stiles didn't need to ask who she meant when she talked about stopping him.
His face turned grim as he nodded.
In answer to that, her face softened. She took his hand and turned it so that his palm was facing up.
"There's imbalance now. The sparks he took from you have fed a dangerous source. Ghosts being awoken is only the beginning. If he wins, the world is thrown into chaos."
"He knew my name," Stiles realized, feeling a black hole forming in his stomach.
"Not enough of it, luckily," she agreed.
"And that's why the scar has turned slightly black."
"Yes," she said. "You felt drained, didn't you? You got sick, and you felt like the nightmare you awoke from never really ended."
He flinched. How could she know?
As if reading his thoughts, she smiled knowingly. "We've seen it happen before. Sparks like you are rare and without the proper training, they could be dangerous. We're here to interfere and to restore the balance your little meeting with him has destroyed. I apologize sincerely for not being here earlier but what is done is done."
At that precise moment, the pack showed up.
Derek was the first to set foot in the warehouse, obviously evaluating the risk for the rest of the pack.
He was soon followed by the other members. What Stiles surprised, though, was that Lea was with them. He hadn't known that she would come and felt now slightly betrayed that no one had told him. It would've been nice to catch up before they had to face this clash of two opposing views. He hoped his expression conveyed how angry he was.
Derek and Noshiko exchanged formalities as the other pack members stood defensively behind the alpha. Stiles noticed that other members of The Order had started to walk into the warehouse as well. There was strength in numbers.
"We are not here to disturb your pack," Noshiko reassured Derek. "The reason why we're here is to train the spark and hunt those who have almost succeeded in killing him."
"He's part of my pack," Derek stated, arms crossed in front of his chest.
"He came alone."
Stiles almost wanted to groan in annoyance. Trying to free himself from the pack was almost like trying to get out of Scientology. They just wouldn't let you leave.
As expected, Derek didn't accept his decision and started to get into an argument with the head of The Order.
Stiles tuned them out because he wasn't interested in listening to them fighting a losing battle. He had already made his decision and no one could make him change his mind.
Since he was not focused on arguing, he was the first to notice it.
The coldness.
The static coming from the radio.
He tried to warn them but then the ghost had already appeared.
It was a man this time. He was wearing an overall so it was safe to assume that he had been one of the workers who had died in this warehouse.
A long sharp piece of metal had pierced through his chest and was still sticking out of it.
Since he was prepared for the attack of a ghost now, he actually remembered that he had powers of his own that could be helpful.
A spark formed in his hand.
Just as he was about to throw the spark at the ghost, another one appeared.
And then another one and another one.
They continued to appear until he was surrounded.
The ghosts didn't seem to care about the pack of wolves and other supernatural creatures being in their warehouse; their attention was solely on him.
Cold, dead livid eyes were piercing him and he felt goosebumps break out on his skin.
By this time, the pack and The Order had become aware of his predicament and were trying to fight their way through to him.
But their claws just went through them.
The ghosts acted like the werewolves weren't even there. They continued to close in on him, their eyes murderous.
The guy with the metal stuck in his chest pulled the piece out with an ugly squishing sound and pointed it towards Stiles' chest. His intention was clear.
Before he could throw his spark at them and hope for the best, a soul-piercing, gut-wrenching scream echoed through the halls.
There was only one person who could scream like that.
The ghosts gripped their ears in pain and vanished. Stiles was safe for now.
His ears were ringing but he was safe.
"What were ghosts doing here? There haven't been ghosts in Beacon Hills for years," Derek demanded to know from Noshiko, probably suspecting foul play.
"More importantly, why were they only set on killing Stiles?" Peter added, always having an eye for the most important part of the whole picture.
Stiles sent a grateful look towards Lydia who was slightly out of breath. She nodded at him.
Then he went over to where Derek was towering threateningly over Noshiko.
"She doesn't have anything to do with it," he defended her, gripping Derek's shoulder to signal him to stop what he was doing. "If you want to blame someone, blame me. I'm the one who awakened them. Why else would they be so angry with me?"
He was met with a lot of confused faces.
"Explain," Derek demanded.
Stiles took a deep breath to ready himself for repeating the revelation he had just been having himself a few minutes ago.