Open Eyes
The car ride seemed excruciatingly slow to Stiles. Peter and Malia were in the backseat, but he felt their stares directed at his headrest. They had accepted the change of plans but were very obviously curious. He knew he hadn't told them much, had given them no reasons, hadn't explained anything to them. He felt touched, but it also brought a pang of pain that only could originate from a healing wound. In reaction, his hand ghosted above the lightning burn.
The Sheriff looked grim, his thoughts no doubt circling on the missing Allison and all the possibilities for carnage it opened. He probably thought he should be out there looking for her, but it seemed that the prospect of his son breaking into a cabin was equally if not even more concerning for him.
"I can't tell you what's going to happen," Stiles said quietly. His father's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I need you to trust me, okay? Please."
The Sheriff looked like he wanted to protest, his jaw working out a retort, but then he stilled, and he swallowed it down again.
"Well, I need you to be safe," he said, almost as an argument.
"I'll try. But honestly, considering the situation, I don't think anyone's safe right now."
"Quite dramatic," Peter threw in. "You act like you expect an ambush."
"Because I do," Stiles said, not wanting to elaborate.
"So, what's your plan? Are you just going to walk in there, hoping for no one to be around? I do expect them to have some sort of security measure even if they're all out."
"I won't use a door if that's what you're asking," Stiles said, turning around to look at Peter. "Not going through a window, either, come to think of it." He looked out of the window. "Dad, I think you should let me out here. You drive to the cabin, but you gotta park out of sight. Wait till Burly comes to get you, then you should be able to get inside. I'll meet you there."
"We're at our house, Stiles," his dad sounded like he thought Stiles had lost it. He had stopped the car, but he hadn't turned off the ignition.
"I know that." Stiles opened the door, and Burly jumped out. He had one foot already out of the door when he was held back by a hand gripping his shoulder.
"What the hell, Stiles, I thought we'd made it clear that we do this as a team!"
"And we will!" Stiles shook off the hand. "I'll find my way in, and then I can let you inside. That is our best bet."
Peter seemed to understand then. "You think you can teleport there, or whatever you did that one time, don't you?"
The Sheriff rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Teleport? You've got to be kidding me."
"Dad, you're in a car with a werewolf and his werecoyote daughter, on your way to find a possessed teenage girl, and you probably need to slay some demons along the way. How can something like teleporting - which is not really what I'll be doing, anyway - still shock you?"
"I'll never get used to this," his dad shook his head. Then he grabbed Stiles by the arm again. "Be careful, okay? Wait for us before you do anything."
Stiles patted his hand. "I'll do my best." He forced himself to smile. "Don't worry. It'll turn out alright." He lingered for a moment, but then he nodded to himself and pried his dad's hand off. "I'll see you there." He gave a quick wave, then he was out and closed the door behind him. With Burly on his heels, he marched to the house, leaning heavily on his cane, and disappeared inside.
"Once a troublemaker, always a troublemaker, huh, Jon?" Peter smiled, but the Sheriff's face only darkened in response.
"Why's he always leaving me behind? I don't understand what I've done wrong this time. I tried to be supportive, I tried to be there, to share... What else was I supposed to do? If only I had killed that bastard last time." Jon put his head in his hands.
Peter slid into the middle seat, resting his elbows on the seats framing his body and leaned forward. "This is his fight. And he thinks he needs to fight it alone."
Jon looked up, enraged at Peter's words which he had said so casually as one did talking about his next purchase at the supermarket. "His fight?! Do you even hear yourself? He shouldn't constantly be in danger, shouldn't have to deal with this kind of responsibility."
"But he is dealing with it," Peter said. "And if someone can get through this, it's Stiles. This is his fight. But that doesn't mean he has to fight it alone, despite what he may think."
"We'll fight with him," Malia announced. She had been quiet before, but she couldn't hold back any longer. Her father smiled at her, combing a hand through her hair.
"Damn right we will."
"Language!"
***
He pressed his eyes closed even though he knew it wouldn't protect him. Beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead, but he couldn't let that deter him. It was time. He had stalled enough. Next to him, Burly whined. He opened his eyes and pressed his palm to the smooth surface of the mirror. It felt cold. His breath formed little clouds.
Nothing happened.
Against his instincts, he stepped closer.
He thought about giving up, but then he felt it. His breath caught in his throat.
An ice-cold hand had gripped his. Before he could react, he was pulled forward. He screamed, then he was falling.
He landed in a heap of dust, clouds of it rising and penetrating his lungs as he inhaled sharply. He coughed, his eyes closed so that no particles could blind him. Slowly, he opened them again.
All that was left of the cabin was tinder and smoke. The charcoaled remains of the walls were still steaming, a lazy blaze still gleaming in the biggest parts of the debris. It was almost unrecognizable. A relict from a past that had never existed.
Stiles stood up, brushing off the dust from his clothes with a hand. He stood unsteadily as his cane had not made its way across the border. He wished he could lean on something.
There was nothing here anymore. The place was bare, hollow and abandoned.
"Shit," Stiles swore. He stumbled forward, his eyes searching for something that looked even remotely human. A belonging, a photograph, some remnants of burned clothes. Anything.
Burly sniffed the air and sneezed.
"It can't be," Stiles said to himself, feeling lost. It didn't make any sense.
A safe place, he had said. The safest he could create. Create
"We have to hurry," Stiles realized. The deterioration of the cabin had been noticeable to him before, but he had never questioned it. Now he understood. "He's getting weaker."
With what he knew now, it was easier to make the connection. He remembered the wooden panelled walls, the rusty fireplace and the creaky planks from a memory. The windows and the door were out of place, stolen from another cabin. The size was wrong too. But there was a cabin to which these characteristics belonged.
The Order's Cabin. The place he needed to go.
This cabin was a mixture of that and the one that used to belong to his grandfather. It was created as a safe space, yes, but it also functioned as a prison, holding the faceless man captive. It kept him safe from everything outside, but he was bound to it, couldn't leave it because out there, his power was no match for the demons.
The Oni would find you.
Stiles had learned that each place had been marked by the people inhabiting it, they left their marks, hand- and footprints. He could see it in his mind, tried to make the picture as clear as possible. In his hand, sparks were forming which then transferred his memory into something solid, graspable. At least, in this realm.
As if built from invisible hands, the cabin materialized around him. Walls were erected, the stairs appeared step for step, and as if drawn by one stroke of the brush the ceiling covered up the sky.
Stiles looked around, amazed at how quickly the scenery had changed. He wasn't sure if he had created it, per se, because since the place existed in the real world, it also had to exist in this realm. It just wasn't anchored to a location.
He shook his head, reminding himself that he needed to focus. He grabbed onto the bannister and heaved himself up the stairs. This little trick had exhausted him, but there was no time to rest. He dragged himself along until he was at his destination.
The mirror stood before him, as menacing as the first time he had looked at it. Burly growled at it, but then his growl quickly turned into a whimper. Behind him, he heard footsteps. They were echoing in the empty hallways.
Stiles pressed his palm against the mirror, hoping to cross over. The footsteps were getting closer, then they came to a halt. The doorknob turned.
He gritted his teeth and pressed harder. The mirror squeaked as did the door hinges.
The door opened just as the surface became liquid, his hand going through. He fell forward with nothing to hold on to.
Once again, he crashed to the floor. Besides Burly, he was alone. He had made it. He released a breath of relief. Step one of his plan had worked. He was inside the cabin, directly in front of the cursed mirror. He robbed backwards to create some distance to the hated object.
As fast as his sore leg allowed, he got up and downstairs, trying to avoid the creaking wooden planks. He wasn't sure if he was alone in the cabin, after all.
Burly sat obediently in front of the door, his tail wiggling in anticipation. With some effort, Stiles crouched down and scratched the animal behind the ears.
"I'll count on you, buddy."
He opened the door to let Burly carry out his mission just as he heard the footsteps again. He closed the door in a hurry and turned around.