Teen Wolf 1. Chapter 1

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: Firstly, this takes places somewhere around season 3b... secondly, because of the content of this fic, there will still be spoilers for later eps.  
_

_I'm hoping I can update this one pretty frequently. Ideally, I'd like to finish it before the end of the current season, but given how close we are to that end, I doubt that'll happen, but when I do finish it, I will then hopefully be able to start work on another lengthy Sterek fic because I miss writing Sterek and unfortunately I haven't found anyway to write Sterek into this particular fic yet (and I really wanna see how the rest of this season plays out before I start writing another Sterek fic)._

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_Now I lay me down to sleep,_

_I pray the Lord my soul to keep,_

_And if I die before I wake,_

_I pray the Lord my soul to take..._

Chapter 1

Nightmares were a regular occurrence for Stiles these days. He was no stranger to the suffocating darkness that would smother him nightly, or the deep chill that settled in at his very core as if he had been submerged in icy waters for hours on end. The tightening chest, the struggle for breath, and the desperate gasps for air in an endless vacuum of shadows; they were just part and parcel of the dreams that haunted Stiles on a daily basis.

The pain tearing through his left shoulder, that was new.

It ripped through him and woke him better than any alarm had ever been able to. He shot upwards, heart hammering in his chest and hands clammy as they automatically went to his shoulder. Shaking fingers raked across the fabric of his shirt, his gaze dropping down in search of blood or rips in his clothing that would explain the phantom pain that still lingered, as if expecting to find the nightmare wound was real, or worse – that the weapon causing it still pierced his flesh.

"It's not real, Stiles," he berated himself before scrubbing his hands over his face and up through his hair where they lingered, fingers entwined with the longer strands in a desperate attempt to cling onto something. "It was a dream. Just a dream..."

But such words had long since lost their effect on him. No matter how many times he said them, doubt still settled beneath them. It was easier to say that something was or wasn't real than it was to believe it. Telling reality apart from fantasy, trying to figure out when he was awake or when he was dreaming, that had become the true nightmare as of late.

Pushing the thoughts from his still muddy mind, he glanced around his room, taking it in in an effort to distract himself. It was still and serene, dust dancing in the sunlight that slipped through his slightly open window, a gentle breeze causing the specks to twist and twirl whilst the papers on his desk rustled. Sounds drifted up from downstairs, his father milling about, getting ready for the day. It was those sounds that eased Stiles more than anything.

He dragged himself from his bed and glanced down, taking in yesterday's shirt and jeans. But before he could question it, the sound of the front door closing had his head snapping up and his gaze snapping toward his window, brow burrowing and lips twisting into a frown. Given his exhaustion as of late, and the blackouts and sleepwalking, he could think of a dozen possible explanations for his clothes and apparent memory lapse – and they all led back to the Nemeton. But his dad leaving for work without a word? That was the thing that struck him as the most unusual.

"'the hell, Dad?" he questioned the air, making his way toward the window in time to watch his father pull away from the house. His gaze never left the car until it finally turned at the end of the street and disappeared from view, leaving Stiles alone with his thoughts.

It must have been the case. They must have had a breakthrough. It was the only reason Stiles could think of to explain why his father hadn't come to drag him from his bed and plead with him to just get his ass to school already; or worse – give him that concerned look whilst asking if Stiles was sure he was okay. He hated that look. He hated being the reason that his father would wear that look, eyes lined with worry and shoulders slumped from the weight of it.

"I'm fine," he tried to lie, but the words caught in his throat and he swallowed them instead, forcing himself to turn away from the window and focus on getting ready for school.

He had barely even moved a foot when he heard the distant sound of his ringtone. The music was muffled and so quiet that he thought he'd imagined it at first, but the more he strained his ears, the surer he was that it was his cell. On instinct his hands went to his pockets, searching his jeans and finding nothing but lint and a spare piece of gum he had long since forgotten about. He widened his search, heading to his bed and patting down his bedcovers before dropping to his hands and knees to search the floor under discarded books and days old laundry. By then, the music had faded into silence and Stiles still hadn't found anything.

But the day could only get better, right? Things could only improve from there.

Except, that sort of luck just wouldn't fit into Stiles' life. That sort of luck was the type of thing you read in fairytales, the kind that had had the Disney treatment. If Stiles' life was a fairytale, it would be the good old-fashioned Brothers Grimm style, and even that was being generously optimistic.

As the morning continued on, it turned out his keys were missing along with his phone, and given that his father had locked the door, his only choice of exit was his bedroom window. That and the long walk to school had him slipping into first period late and without his books. He dropped into the seat beside Scott just as the coach looked up from the attendance sheet.

"Stilinski?" Coach called out, gaze roaming over the class and deliberately looking anywhere but at Stiles. "Anyone seen Stilinski?"

Stiles held up his hand in part acknowledgement and part apology, sitting up a little straighter but avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, sorry, Coach... Won't happen again."

But the coach said nothing, huffing out instead and scribbling on the attendance sheet before continuing on to read out the rest of the names on the list and giving Stiles the chance to lean across the gap between the desks to talk to Scott. At least it would have, if Scott hadn't been so distracted by the open notebook on his desk.

"Yo, Scott, what you got there?" Stiles tried, eyes narrowing on the movements of Scott's pen as the nib moved over and over the same spot on the paper. But whatever held Scott's attention, causing a crease in his brow, was hidden by his hand, and Stiles didn't have a chance to make it out before his attention was shook away from Scott and toward the loud bang as Coach dropped a large book onto his desk at the front.

"Alright then you lot, time to quieten down!" Coach called out. He turned toward the blackboard and grabbed a piece of chalk, scrawling across the board with it as he continued to speak. "Believe it or not, you're here to learn, not for gossiping and playing about with your blueberries and eye-phones. So listen up..."

The rest of his words washed over Stiles and with Coach's attention now focused on the board, Stiles took the opportunity to focus his attention on Scott. His best friend had yet to raise his eyes from whatever he was drawing on the paper, a mixture of concentration and anxiety playing across his features. It looked like Stiles wasn't the only one who had had a rough morning, and the longer the silence was drawn out, the more worried he became. "Scott... Scotty. You okay, man? You don't look so good."

Grip tightening on his pen, Scott bowed his head and let go of a sigh, a single name slipping out also, almost like a plea."Stiles..."

But before he could say anything further, Coach's voice had both Stiles' and Scott's heads snapping up toward the blackboard. "You got something to add, McCall?"

Immediately, Scott straightened in his seat, pen falling from his grasp. He cleared his throat, shaking his head as he did so. "No, Coach... sorry."

Stiles let out a breath and leaned back in his own seat, glancing briefly between his best friend and the coach. Great, so the coach was in one of those moods, which meant that Stiles would have to wait until after to class to find out what had Scott so distracted.

"No?" Coach continued, his fingertips resting against his desk as he leaned forward, eyebrows raised and eyes wide and focused on Scott. "Then maybe you'll feel like joining the rest of us here in reality and trying opening your book to the same page that everyone else is already on."

That sent Scott fumbling about with the book on the corner of his desk, leaving his notebook uncovered enough to reveal what he had been drawing, but before Stiles could get a good look at it, it was covered again by Scott's book. "Yeah, Coach..." Scott mumbled. "Sorry."

"And stop apologising, McCall... Or I swear to God I'll... I'll... I don't know what exactly, but I swear to God I'll do it. Now read."

"Uh, Coach," Stiles spoke up, the palm of his hand thumping lightly against his desk before rising in an attempt to catch the coach's attention before he turned away again, "I left my book in my locker..."

Nothing. Coach didn't even turn back to look at him.

"I guess I could learn without it..."

Still nothing.

"Or maybe I could be excused for just a moment to-"

A low beep cut through his thoughts, causing him to stall. It drowned out his words and seemed to echo around his mind, giving him pause. He glanced about him, taking in the downturned heads all focused on the books on the desks, no one reacting as another beep echoed through the air.

"Scott... you hear that?" he tried, but even Scott was oblivious to the repeated sound.

Another beep, followed by something else... the familiar sound of his cell. But that was impossible. That just... that wasn't possible.

"Scott... Buddy?"

No answer, just another beep breaking through the distant sound of his cell ringing.

He pushed up, his seat scraping and clattering against the floor in his hurry to be standing. Still no one reacted. No one reacted to the beeping, or the sound of his chair. No one reacted to him.

He was moving before the thought to do so had fully formed in his mind. He just had to get out of there. He couldn't think, he couldn't focus, he couldn't breathe... His heart quickened in his chest, nervous energy taking over him. Stumbling forwards, he forced his legs to move toward the door.

Another beep, barely audible now beneath the continuous sound of his cell. It seemed to grow louder the closer he got to the door, despite it still sounding distant, and by the time he ripped the door open, the metal of the handle cold against his fingers, it was all he could hear. Legs unsteady and shaky, he pushed himself out into the hall, tripping over thin air repeatedly, his chest tightening, as if a pressure had wrapped itself around him and was smothering him, like the darkness in his earlier nightmare, gripping him tight... drowning him in nothingness.

Then it was gone.

Silence buzzed around him before finally being broken by a small and questioning, "Stiles?"

He span on the spot, finding himself facing Lydia, confusion written across her face as she pulled her cell away from her ear.

"Ly-Lydia?" Stiles questioned, sounding and feeling very much like he had just finished running a marathon. "Wha-what are you doing here?"

"Stiles, are you okay?" She took a step closer, reaching out a hand, but before she could touch him, he pulled back without thinking, unsure.

He shook his head, gaze darting about the hallway, thoughts cloudy and thick. Something was wrong, something felt off, but it wasn't in the usual way. It was different somehow, and he didn't know if that made it better or worse. "I don't... I don't know. I... I..."

"Stiles...? Stiles, breathe. Just breathe, okay?" Lydia instructed, stepping to the side enough so that she was once again in his line of vision, and taking a deep breath, motioning with her hands for Stiles to do the same.

He found himself complying without thinking, holding his breath until Lydia let go of hers, nodding as she did so. Almost immediately he could feel the effect and after another deep breath, even his heart didn't feel so erratic. His gaze was still focused on Lydia, his lungs breathing in once more in time with her, when she reached out again, this time managing to lay her hand against his arm without him flinching away, her skin warm against his.

She frowned, her grip finding more purchase. "God, Stiles – you're freezing."

Stiles was still too lost in his thoughts to reply, and it wasn't until he heard Scott's voice that he found himself beginning to truly regain some form of grip, some fragile and barely existent grip, on reality.

"Lydia?" Scott questioned, and Stiles turned enough to see his friend close the classroom door behind him, entering the hallway.

"Scott, thank God," Stiles started, taking a step toward Scott, "I am seriously freaking out here, man. I swear, I don't know if I'm coming or if I'm... Scott, are you listening to me?"

Because if he was, he had a funny way of showing it, his attention on Lydia, his brow burrowed and eyes narrowed at her. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Bathroom break," she answered dismissively, waving off the question, but judging by the cell she now slipped away into her bag, Stiles knew that wasn't the real reason. Scott wasn't buying the response either, staring on in silence before Lydia finally continued on, lips thinned and smile tight. "Okay, fine... It's happening again. I've been hearing... noises, and it is driving me crazy."

"Noises? Like what?" Stiles jumped in, grabbing the opportunity to forget about his own mental instabilities for just a moment, and gladly pushing away thoughts of the noises he himself had been hearing.

"I don't know." Shaking her head minutely, she looked between Scott and Stiles. "I just don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know, Stiles. There's not exactly a guidebook, you know?"

It was Scott who spoke next, his words sounding strange and distant, his tone alien and not like Scott at all. "Lydia, who are you talking to?"

She narrowed her eyes, clearly confused by the question. That made two of them, Stiles was equally bewildered.

"You said 'Stiles'..." Scott continued, as if that explained his train of thought at all.

"And?"

"Stiles isn't here, Lydia."

That sent Stiles' head spinning in a whole different way to before. The breath left him and his mouth worked soundlessly around words he couldn't quite put together. Lydia was fairing no better, her own silence stretching on.

"Last night... Stiles, he... He got hurt."

Stiles took another step forward and into the path of Scott's gaze. "Scott? Buddy? What are you talking about? I'm right here, Scott. I'm fine. Scott... tell her I'm fine. This... this isn't funny. I'm right _here_. Lydia... Tell him. Tell him I'm right here."

When Lydia spoke, her voice was small and fragile, barely even there. "You can't see him, can you?"

"See who?" Scott questioned.

"Stiles..."

"Lydia, I only see you..."

"Then why can_ I_ see him?" Lydia asked, a mounting worry to her tone, fear clear in her widening eyes. "Why can I see him and you can't?"

Cold washed over Stiles, the look in Scott's eyes sobering him and causing his shoulders to sag. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to acknowledge the truth, but it was staring him in the face the way Scott hadn't done all morning. "Because you're a banshee..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Lydia, I think... I think I'm dead."

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_More to come soon...  
_


	2. Chapter 2

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: Thank you for reading and for comments I've received so far. It means a lot to me. And now, because I don't want to keep anyone waiting, here's chapter 2...  
_

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Chapter 2

They never returned to class. Instead, they ended up in a darkened room that stank of disinfectant, a room where that familiar beeping seemed to reverberate through the air louder and stronger than ever. Only this time, it wasn't just some disembodied noise with no source. This time, Stiles could see exactly where it was coming from and what it meant.

"That's it," Lydia said, her voice strained and eyes wide, gaze unmoving from what was ahead. "That's the sound I've been hearing."

Stiles said nothing. He just stared on, taking another step toward the source of the beeping. Even in the dim light, sunlight shut out by curtained windows, Stiles could see all too clearly the reason for Scott's distraction all morning. The shadowed figure lying motionless in the hospital bed, the heart monitor at his side, the tubes and wires and dried blood that settled in spots across pale skin. His hand moved to his shoulder, remembering the pain he had felt when he had woken up, and his eyes moved to the bandage that covered the shoulder of the shadowed figure.

"They found him last night," Scott explained, closing the door behind him and coming to stand beside Lydia at the foot of the bed. "I don't even know who, his dad never said."

"It doesn't make sense," Stiles breathed out, shaking his head in denial, his gaze fixed on his own closed eyes. How could he be standing there, staring down at himself? How could he be lying in a hospital bed and not even know how or why he was there?

"His dad, he said it looked like Stiles had been visiting the cemetery," Scott continued, and Stiles looked to him, taking in the way he clenched his hands, his arms held at his sides so perfectly still. There was anger and pain in his eyes, and Stiles could see – he could see everything, because he knew Scott, and he knew that this was Scott trying desperately to hold on. "What was he even doing there? Why would he go somewhere like that by himself?"

"I don't know..." Stiles answered, unable to come up with any form of explanation for actions he couldn't even remember.

"He shouldn't have been by himself. I should have been there. I should have been there with him... I should have protected him."

"Hey, Scott! Scott – this isn't your fault!" Stiles tried, not failing to miss the way Scott's nails dug into the flesh of his palms. "You know that, right? Lydia, tell him, please... You have to tell him."

Lydia worked her throat, but it was another moment before she managed to find her voice again, tearing her gaze away from the figure in the bed to look at Scott instead. "Scott," she started, "Stiles, he says it's not your fault. He doesn't want you blaming yourself."

Scott's gaze turned to Lydia, his own words urgent and desperate. "Can you really see him?"

She nodded meekly, waving a hand helplessly in the direction of Stiles. "He's right here."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, bro," Stiles added, more than a little exasperated at the whole situation. "You just can't see me..."

"Or hear you," Lydia pointed out, which was really great for her to do so because it wasn't like Stiles hadn't already noticed that.

"Yes, thank you, Lydia," he snapped before letting go of a huff and running his hands through his hair. "It's like first grade all over again."

Scott, of course, just stared on, clueless and completely in the dark, but focused. "Lydia, you have to ask him what happened. You have to ask him who did this to him."

"I can hear you just fine," Stiles found himself saying, knowing full well that the words would go unheard by Scott, which just made it all the harder. Knowing his words weren't even a whisper to Scott, it was like an extra weight upon his shoulders, causing them to slump just that little bit more. "Not that it makes a difference."

"Stiles..." Lydia spoke softly, pulling him from his thoughts enough to glance toward her, but whilst it was meant as a comforting gesture, it did little to soothe him.

"Why haven't I woken up?" he asked, gaze moving back down once more to the figure of himself, unconscious and unmoving. "I'm standing right here, Lydia, so why can't I wake up, and why can't I remember?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly, and when Stiles looked at her, he could see the lost look in her eyes. He was sure it reflected the look in his own eyes, but he wouldn't admit so out loud. If he did, that would mean admitting to the fear he also saw when he looked at Lydia – the fear of not knowing mixed with the fear of knowing too much. After all, despite the beeping of the machines and the rise and fall of his chest, Lydia was still the only person who could see him and considering everything, that put him a step or two closer to death than he would have liked.

His hand moved up to his shoulder and he remembered the pain once more, the pain that was now nothing more than a dull ache. It was all connected. The pain. The attack. The inability to wake up. He could feel it. It was all linked somehow, but every time he felt like he almost had it or was at least moving in the right direction, every time he felt he was starting to figure _something_ out, he hit a wall.

"Lydia?" Scott questioned, because he didn't know. He couldn't see what Lydia was seeing; he couldn't hear what she could. He looked as helpless as Stiles felt, and Stiles hated that he couldn't reassure him.

"He's scared," Lydia answered, and that had Stiles' attention snapping right back to her.

He groaned. Of all the things she could have told Scott, that was what she chose to relay?

"He can't remember what happened, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to wake up."

It was Scott who spoke next, his words filling with determination, and Stiles recognised that look of resolve in his eyes. When Scott made up his mind about something, there was no changing it. He was generally stubborn that way. "Stiles, we're gonna fix this – I swear. We're going to find a way to fix this."

And Stiles found himself allowing a small smile despite the heavy weight in his chest. He wanted to believe it, and maybe if he stopped thinking so hard, maybe then he could. But at least he knew Scott believed it, and Scott so often had belief enough for the both of them. Scott _'I'll find a way'_ McCall.

The door creaked open, spilling light into the room momentarily before it was closed again, Mrs McCall now standing where there had been only empty space before. She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest as she looked between Scott and Lydia, but it was another moment before she spoke, almost as if she had been giving them a chance to explain themselves before she had to ask.

"Shouldn't you two be in school?" she said when neither of them offered anything up.

Lydia said nothing, and Scott decided it was best to change the topic completely rather that broach the subject of school and skipping out on it. "How's he doing, Mom?"

"Again, standing right here, dude..." Stiles breathed out, though he had to admit that he too wanted an answer to that particular question. He felt fine, and yet clearly, he was anything but.

Mrs McCall shook her head in exasperation but moved forward to lay a hand against Scott's arm, giving a light squeeze. "I know you're worried, sweetie, but the best thing you can do for Stiles right now is to stay hopeful."

"No, the best thing you can do for Stiles right now," Stiles answered in return, "is figure out how to wake Stiles up."

That was when Lydia cut in, head tilted slightly to the side and eyes darting side to side in thought before finally settling on Mrs McCall. "Hypothetically speaking, if a person knew they were in a coma, how could they go about trying to wake themselves up? Is it possible?"

Mrs McCall stayed silent for a breath, turning the question over, before answering with one of her own. "Are you asking me if I think Stiles can hear us?"

"Oh, I know he can hear us."

To that, Mrs McCall smiled, small and soft. "I'm sure he can."

"No, Mom," Scott said, taking over where Lydia had left off, "you don't understand. Stiles, he's here, right now."

It took a moment to register, but when it did Mrs McCall's eyes narrowed and she looked back toward the door briefly, as if checking it was still closed and therefore no one would hear them, before leaning forward and lowering her voice. "Are you saying Stiles is..."

"Here?" Lydia questioned when Mrs McCall seemed to struggle with finding the right words. She offered up a tight-lipped smile and a minute nod of her head in answer.

"Lydia's the only one who can see him," Scott continued, and already Stiles could see further questions forming on Mrs McCall's lips, but Scott cut her off before she could ask them out loud. "It's a long story." He breathed out and looked Lydia up and down briefly before turning back to him mom. "A _really_ long story."

"Okay," was Mrs McCall's response, "And Stiles is..."

"Wanting desperately to wake up now," Stiles whined, raising his arms in desperation, all to no avail.

"He doesn't remember anything, Mom."

"Maybe that's it," Lydia spoke up, her back straightening, shoulders going down. It was like watching a light bulb going off above her head, the way her eyes lit up, the way her mouth twitched at the corner. "Maybe if we can get him to remember, then he'll wake up."

"You really think that would work?" Scott sounded hopeful, and Stiles wished his energy and optimism was contagious because he felt the opposite.

"Why not? It has to at least be worth a try."

"Only one problem," Stiles said, his words as lethargic as he felt, "how am I supposed to remember?"

"Simple," Lydia continued on undeterred, "we go to the cemetery, retrace your steps."

"And if it doesn't work? What then?"

"Not helping, Stiles!" she warned, and when she looked to him, he could tell she was daring him to say anything further. He would have argued, except he knew she was probably right. It was the only idea any of them had come up with so far, and therefore it was also the best idea.

"Well, okay..." Mrs McCall said, her tone hushed and aimed at Scott. "This is kind of... unusual?"

"You have no idea," Scott breathed out in reply.

Lydia ignored them both and composed herself, straightening her jacket and handbag. She was at the door before she spoke again, her tone sharp and demanding. "Well, is anyone coming?"

Mrs McCall held her hands up and ushered Scott towards the door. "Go. Go... Do what you need to do. Wake Stiles up..."

Scott was moving immediately and was already at the door beside Lydia before Stiles had barely managed to take two steps away from the bed. He made it another two steps before he came to a standstill, freezing in place. A shiver ran through him and the scent of dirt and blood filled his senses. For a moment he felt like he was back in the nightmare, darkness pressing in around him. He could practically feel the shadows breathing down his neck, watching him with unblinking eyes. They whispered to him, harsh and distorted, words barely even audible, like a broken radio turned down low and not quite tuned in right.

He swallowed hard, his heart speeding up inside his chest.

_"Wake. Up_," they demanded, a growl etched into the words.

It had Stiles going cold, a strange iciness slipping in and gripping him tight, but what had him truly on edge was the proximity. The words had been a breath in his ear from a presence he could still feel against his back. It was fear that had Stiles unable to move forward and it was a twisted curiosity and need for knowing that had him turning his head to the side, movements slow and jerky, almost not daring to look and yet unable to stop himself.

"Stiles!"

The cold vanished and when Stiles snapped his gaze back to Lydia at the doorway, the shadows seemed to recede, the room becoming just that little less dark. He didn't answer the unasked question he could see forming at the tip of her tongue, and when he reached the doorway, he didn't look back. Sometimes it was best not to look darkness in the eye, and sometimes it was easier to fool yourself into believing it was just your imagination – just so long as you didn't stare too long.

It was just a side-effect. That was all it was. Nothing more.

But no matter how much he tried to convince himself of such, he could feel it in his chest, weighing heavy on his heart. He was leaving more than just his body in the shadows of that room.

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_More to come soon...  
_


	3. Chapter 3

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N:Thank you for all the comments so far and the support for this fic ^_^ I am so sorry about the delay in posting this. Life has been hectic and work has been keeping me uber busy and tired. I'll try and get the next chapter up around the same time next week, but it'll probably be more like next weekend. Thanks for reading!  
_

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Chapter 3

In the last three weeks, there had been three seemingly unrelated deaths that stuck out in Stiles' mind. Considering everything else that had been going on, from frighteningly realistic nightmares to freaking were-coyotes, Stiles hadn't really paid much attention to them, but he had paid attention to his dad. He remembered seeing the case files on his father's desk at work, mixed with the other overflowing and unsolved cases from the past, and he remembered more pages floating around the dinner table at home. His dad hadn't spoken much about them, but from what Stiles had learned, his father believed the deaths were linked.

After all, three was a pattern, right?

Except, it wasn't just three anymore. From what Stiles had discovered so far from Scott, on the ride to the town's cemetery, it seemed that Stiles' dad believed the attempt on Stiles' life made four. That explained the presence of the two officers at the hospital who had given Scott and Lydia curious and suspicious glances when they had initially made to enter Stiles' room. It also meant that the trip to the cemetery was about more than just attempting to retrieve Stiles' memory or kick-start his brain into waking. It was about finding clues the police may have missed that would lead them to the killer – a serial killer if his dad was right.

As for the attack itself: knife wound, to the left shoulder. That's what Scott had said. He'd also mentioned something about other superficial injuries that had mostly likely come from Stiles attempting to defend himself. Then there was the knock to the head which the doctors were using to explain the coma. Lydia wasn't convinced, and if Stiles was honest, he agreed with her.

Just as there had been something in that room telling him to wake up, there was something else stopping him from doing so and he wasn't so sure it was just his injuries.

"So this is it?" Stiles questioned, spinning on the spot and searching his surroundings.

The cemetery was quiet, the air still around them. Nothing looked untoward at first, everything as you would expect in a cemetery, until Stiles looked closer and saw the stained grass beneath his feet. He swallowed hard and took a step back, away from it.

Blood.

Scott had tracked the scent of it to this location, a shaded spot toward the back of the cemetery where the gravestones had become somewhat unattended and the large oak tree had grown tall enough to put all three of them in shadow despite them still being a few feet from it. Stiles didn't need Scott to tell him it was his blood. He knew without his friend having to say a word, just as he knew Lydia did. He could see it on her face and by the way she hugged herself. Whatever had happened here, she could feel it.

Stiles could too. He could feel a faint sense of panic and fear, feel his heart responding to it in his chest, speeding up for no apparent reason. He just couldn't remember it. The only memories Stiles had of the place were from times in the past, the place as familiar to him as Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital was.

"Do you hear that?" Lydia asked, her gaze searching both Scott's and Stiles' faces.

"What?" Scott questioned, taking a step forward, head tilting to the side just ever so slightly in a way that told Stiles he was straining his ears in an attempt to hear. "What is it?"

Lydia shook her head, her gaze drifting down and brow burrowing in concentration. Slowly, she unfolded her arms from around her and lowered herself down to the ground. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she moved her head to the side and continued to lower herself until her ear was almost touching the grass. She said nothing at first, but when her gaze met Stiles' he could see the realisation lighting up behind her eyes.

She lifted her head and searched the grass with her gaze, her fingers running over it until they came to a loose tuft. When she started inching forward, Stiles began to see where this was going and had already spotted the indent in the ground just ahead of her.

"He was dragged," she explained, and by now she was on her feet, moving more swiftly, gaze and legs following the occasional uprooted tuft of grass and long but narrow patches of dirt that could only be drag marks.

Scott and Stiles followed in silence until she finally came to a stop at a small grave with a plain headstone that was a sharp contrast to the extravagant arrangement of flowers that stood in front of it. An assortment of white to pale pink flowers mixed in with plain green foliage. Stiles recognised the work, the bouquet a less expensive but still beautiful version of the one he had left at his mom's grave mere days before.

"They're fresh," Lydia pointed out, dropping down to her haunches beside the grave to take a closer look. She lifted the vase up delicately and moved it just enough to reveal the name on the grave. Her shoulders seemed to sag at the sight of what she saw and she let go of heavy breath that suggested recognition. When she read the last name out loud, Stiles began to understand why. "Tate..."

"Tate?" Scott questioned, but there was little uncertainty to his tone, suggesting he already knew what had just crossed Stiles' mind. "As in, Malia Tate?"

"Yeah," Stiles answered, lowering himself beside Lydia to stare at the grave and the name written there. "It's her sister's grave..."

"Malia's father must have left them," Scott continued, and for a moment he sounded hopeful. Stiles knew why without needing to ask. He knew Scott well enough to understand where his line of thought was going. If Tate had been there, then he might have seen something – he might know who had attacked Stiles. Except...

Stiles shook his head, his gaze lingering on the flowers. "It wasn't Tate."

"Then who was it?" Lydia asked, looking to him with a questioning tilt of the head.

"Me..." He reached out a hand to touch the large white lily at the front of the bouquet but dropped it away at the last moment to tap against his thigh instead. The bits and pieces that slowly began to surface were fragmented, more like feelings than whole memories with full on visuals and top of the range surround sound.

He remembered a twisting in his stomach, sorrow and guilt over what had happened with Malia and his taking the doll from the car wreck. He remembered the faint scent of the lilies of the bouquet when he was driving, the warm breeze from the open window causing the scent to spread through his jeep. He remembered night slipping in and chilling him when he placed the flowers at the grave... and then he remembered pain. Pain, and darkness, and hands grabbing at him, covering his mouth and stifling his calls for help, pulling him away.

His gaze drifted back toward the way they had approached from, back toward the oak tree. He tried to remember specifics. A face. A body shape. The colour of his attacker's hair. Anything. But it was all muddy from there. His memories were tinged in darkness, muted by it. It was like remembering a nightmare that had had time to fade upon waking, the details blurry but the fear still there. The pain too.

"I was here," he began, pushing up and pointing to the ground as he spoke, "and I remember hearing footsteps but I... gah, I just – it's not clear enough." His hand went to the back of his head and he swore he could feel a small lump there that felt tender when he touched it. "I think he must have hit me..."

"He?" Lydia questioned, watching Stiles carefully as Scott watched her.

"Well, you know, statistically speaking..." Stiles answered with a shrug, "And then there's the power... the grip – I mean, this guy was strong... Really strong."

"Are we talking bodybuilder on steroids strong or mythical creature that's not so mythical after all strong?"

"Are you saying it was a werewolf?" Scott chimed in, the implication of Lydia's words not lost on him. He took a step forward, his eyes darting between Lydia and the oak tree turned crime scene. "A werewolf attacked Stiles?"

"I don't know," Stiles answered, arms going up in the air in exasperation. "I just remember being pulled along and I remember trying to fight back. I think maybe I caught him, or something on him..." He looked down at his hand, remembering the sharp bite of cool metal against his skin, but the exact nature still eluded him. "Maybe a necklace or something?"

"Good! Good!" Lydia said, bouncing forward toward him. "That's got to be important, right?" She swung to look at Scott, all wide-eyed and hopeful. "If the attacker was wearing a necklace, then maybe it means something, right? Anyone?"

Scott's brow burrowed, his hand going into his pocket as he spoke. "Stiles' dad said they found a necklace. He said Stiles must have pulled it off the guy." He pulled his phone out and looked down to it, his fingers working quickly until they finally came to a stop. He turned the phone around, revealing a picture of a small golden necklace in an evidence bag. "He wanted to know if it meant anything, you know... _unusual_? I was going to show it to Deaton after school."

Stiles took a step forward, squinting at the phone and the picture there. "What is that? A cross?"

"It's an ankh," Lydia answered.

_Of course,_ Stiles thought to himself. It was hard to see in the picture, but if he looked closely enough, he could see the loop at the top of what looked like just a regular cross on first inspection.

Scott turned the phone back around to look down at the picture, gaze narrowed in questioning at it. "What's an ankh?"

"It's the ancient Egyptian symbol for life," Stiles breathed out, forgetting, not for the first time, that Scott was still completely oblivious to every word he said. It shouldn't have been an easy thing to forget, but he found himself doing so anyway.

"It means life," Lydia repeated for Scott, the words airy and her eyes distant, her mind half with them and half on something else, as if she was attempting to figure out two separate but related puzzles. Stiles knew how that felt.

Things had a way of connecting. Matt and the Kanima. The Alpha pack and the Darach. The coyote and the car wreck. And now this. Out of everything, the symbol on the necklace was an ankh. There was too much irony in it for it to be a coincidence. A serial killer who wore a symbol for life, who chose to attack Stiles in a graveyard with only the dead to watch on. Well, the dead and his mysterious saviour – another lead they would have to get around to looking at. It might not help in waking Stiles up, but if it would put them a step closer to finding the killer then Stiles would take it.

"Hey! You two!" a voice shouted from behind, breaking Stiles from his thoughts and causing all three of them to turn to look at the owner as he approached. "You shouldn't be here."

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the man. He was about the same age as the Sheriff, only his hair was thinner around the top of his skull, but that was the only thing that gave away his aging, the rest of him was lean and muscular, the body of someone whose job involved physical labour. Stiles didn't recognise his face, but there was something about his voice that sounded familiar, even if Stiles couldn't place it.

Lydia looked him over with a mixture of curiosity and distaste lining her features, never one to be told where she should or should not be. "And you are?"

"Working," the guy snapped at her, pulling off a pair of thick gloves before dusting away dried dirt from his trousers. "You two need to leave. We've already had one dumb kid get himself hurt around here."

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, head moving forward as he stared at the guy incredulously and more than a little insulted, but it took a moment for him to find his words as his gaze wandered over Scott and Lydia. "Is he talking about me?" he questioned, before looking back to the man once more. "Are you talking about me?"

Of course, there was no reply. Why would there be? He was nothing more than a ghost in a graveyard.

"We were just leaving," Scott said in reply to the man's hard stare, his hands going up in the universal sign for 'we mean no harm'. "Weren't we, Lydia?"

Lydia pursed her lips and looked the man over once more. "Sure," she answered, clipped and biting, not the least bit impressed.

"Right," Scott added, with a nod, making a motion of pointing toward the exit, "then we'll be going now..."

He was the first to move, Lydia following closely at his heel. Stiles hung back for a moment longer to look the man up and down, studying him, before finally catching up with the others. The whole time, the man never took his eyes off of them, not until they were finally out of sight and in the clear. It set Stiles on edge, something about the guy bothering him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

He waited until they had cleared the gates before he spoke again, glancing back briefly as he did so. "Did that guy seem suspicious to anyone? I mean, aside from the creepy behaviour and weird glaring eyes?"

Lydia stopped just short of her car and Stiles noticed she was shivering slightly, even though the air was still warm. She bit at her lip and looked back at the gates of the cemetery, gaze searching. She said nothing in regards to his question.

"You okay, Lydia?" Stiles questioned, placing a hand on her shoulder and attempting to catch her eye.

It was another breath before she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Yeah," she answered with a short nod and forced smile, "I'm fine."

The lie was as clear in her tone as it was in her eyes, and Stiles found himself looking back toward the cemetery once more in hopes of seeing whatever had spooked her, but it looked no different to before. "You felt something, didn't you?" he questioned.

"Death," she breathed out, the word a broken whisper. "He felt like death."

Scott came to a stop next to the passenger side of the car and looked to her. "Who?"

But Lydia didn't respond. She was still staring back at the cemetery, her arms moving up to hug at her chest once more, as if she was trying to protect herself from something.

"We should go," was all she said, and Stiles couldn't agree more.

There was nothing else for them there, nothing but shifting shadows created by the sun and the clouds overhead, and half-formed memories that Stiles struggled to hold onto. If they wanted answers they were going to have to get help. Of course, it would help if they even knew what questions they were supposed to be asking in the first place. But things were never that easy.

* * *

_More to come soon...  
_


	4. Chapter 4

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: I'm late... and I'm so sorry about that. Work has kept me exhausted and so I haven't had the time to work on this that I've wanted, so it took me longer to get this chapter done than I would have liked. Thank you so much for reading and for the comments I've received. Hopefully my next update won't take me so long... considering the mini cliffhanger with this chapter, it would be cruel to keep you waiting.  
_

_I never did really give a more accurate timeline for this, but I guess you could say it would take place between 3x14 and 3x15 even though it has spoilers for later on.  
_

* * *

Chapter 4

"Who would want to hurt Stiles?"

The question was asked by Allison. After the field trip to the cemetery, they had returned to the school to be greeted by an interrogation from Allison and Isaac. Where had they been all day? Why hadn't they been in class? What did they mean Stiles was attacked last night? And now this...

For the most part, Scott and Lydia were able to answer what was asked of them, filling in both Allison and Isaac on everything that had happened. As much as they could anyway. Stiles stood off to the side, barely listening to the conversation going on behind him. His gaze focused ahead on the Sheriff's car parked up at the front of the school. He had seen his dad leave it what must have been ten minutes or so ago to enter the school, and he hadn't seen him return.

Three mysterious deaths and now a linked attack? They were putting a curfew in place; Stiles was certain.

"We don't know," Lydia answered, the words washing over Stiles and falling away to background noise as he thought about the look he had seen on his dad's face.

His father had a great way of masking his feelings. He had a great way of shutting everything away and doing what was expected of him, because he was the sheriff, he had responsibilities. He would push on, he would fool the world, but he couldn't fool Stiles. When Stiles' mom had been sick, his dad had stayed strong until he thought no one could see, and when she died... Stiles remembered seeing the exact same look on his face as he had seen just.

He wished he could talk to him and tell him it would be fine, but there were certain things Stiles couldn't lie to his dad about. He wanted to believe they would figure it out, that they would catch the killer, save the day, and wake Stiles up, but his heart felt heavy in his chest and dark thoughts whispered at the back of his mind, telling him their luck could only run so far. They were just a bunch of teenagers, and maybe this time it wouldn't be fine.

"Stiles... Stiles!" Lydia's voice pulled his attention away from the entrance to the school and back toward the small group instead.

He blinked and shook his head to clear his thoughts, eyes wandering over each of the group before settling on Lydia. "Yeah?"

The look on Lydia's face was one of exasperation, and with thinned lips, she shook her head at him. "You didn't hear a word of that, did you?"

"I may have missed something... somewhere..." he admitted a little sheepishly, his hand going up to scratch at his neck just behind his ear.

Scott looked between Lydia and the empty space that Stiles wasn't occupying about a foot to the left, whilst Allison and Isaac just stared on with wide eyes and slightly confused expressions. Stiles sighed and gave one last glance toward the entrance to the school before returning his attention fully to the conversation at hand.

"So Stiles is really..." Allison began when the silence stretched on.

"Yes," Stiles and Lydia answered in unison.

"Well it could be worse," Isaac offered, which earned him a glare from Stiles, "at least he's not an _actual_ ghost, 'cause then that would mean he's... dead."

The breath of silence that followed was the awkward kind that had Isaac swallowing visibly, a brief tension cutting into the air at the taboo declaration.

"We're gonna save him," Scott assured in the way he always did, the way that made you want to believe to.

Allison seemed convinced, her back straightening as she bobbed her head in agreement. "Yeah, of course we will."

"And just how do we plan to do that?" Isaac questioned, but as plain and neutral as the words were, Stiles could hear the doubt that lined them loud and clear.

"I hate to be on the same page as Mr Joy and Optimism here," Stiles added, "but we're not exactly drowning in leads here, guys."

"The creepy guy at the graveyard," Lydia suggested immediately, all pep and spark, determined and unwavering. If what she had felt back at the cemetery was still affecting her, she didn't let it show.

"What guy?" Isaac looked between Scott and Lydia with narrowed eyes.

Scott was the one to answer. "There was a guy at the graveyard, he kind of told us to get out. I think he works there."

"You mean Mickey?" Isaac asked with a familiarity to his tone.

"Mickey?"

"Yeah, he used to work with my father until about half a year ago... Family emergency or something. But I heard he came back to town about a month back and went straight back to working the graves."

"You know him?"

"He was kind of an ass, but my dad always said he was a hard worker."

"And he came back a month ago?" Stiles questioned, looking to Isaac and then Lydia, hoping she would catch onto his train of thoughts. "The case my dad is working on, the first body turned up three weeks ago..."

"It could be a coincidence," she answered, but the reply was weak and Stiles could tell she wasn't convinced of it.

"You said so yourself, Lydia, the guy felt like death. That doesn't seem strange to you?"

"Lydia?" Scott questioned, and it must have been so awkward for him, Stiles thought, only getting to hear half of the conversation – like listening in on a phone call and desperately straining your ears to hear the person on the other end of the line but coming up empty.

"The murders – the first one happened three weeks ago, about the same time our new friend came back to town," Lydia explained.

Almost immediately the light went off behind Scott's eyes, understanding dawning, and he wasn't the only one. Allison and Isaac jumped on it immediately, Allison leaning forward a little and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You think _he's_ the one who attacked Stiles?"

Lydia shrugged. "I don't know, maybe?"

"So what do we do?" Isaac started, and there was just something about his tone that told Stiles that what came next wasn't going to be the least bit helpful. "Go ask him if he's been killing random people since he got back to town?"

"Really? That's all you've got?" Stiles questioned, unable to keep from saying it even whilst knowing it would go unheard. "That's the best you can come up with?"

"We could follow him?" Allison suggested.

"Great," Lydia let go of a sigh, "let's go stalk the possibly psychotic gravedigger..."

"Actually," Isaac spoke up, "he's more of a gardener than a... never mind."

But once again, Stiles found his attention wavering. The conversation faded to almost a whisper beneath the low and constant buzzing that began to fill his ears, like the sound of speakers turned up high even though the music had long since stopped. He took a step away from the group, his gaze focusing ahead on the parking lot and the students that milled about it. They went about as if nothing was wrong, as if life was as it always was, as if there wasn't a figure standing there, stock still, half hidden by shadows, and staring straight at Stiles.

Cold flushed through Stiles and the empty buzzing continued, only now he could hear the occasional and familiar distant beep of a heart monitor. He took another step forward, head tilting to the side and frown finding its way onto his face, gaze glued to the figure that was still visible despite the shadows that crept over him. He was standing right there, and no one else so much as looked at him.

Something niggled at the back of Stiles' mind – it told him to stop, told him to turn away. It told him that there was a reason he felt so cold and numb when he looked at the figure, told him to look away before it was too late. But he couldn't, and the more he stared, the more he saw. Baggy combats, bulky jacket, and what looked like dirty bandages coiled around the figure's neck like a boa constrictor making a kill. The only thing Stiles couldn't see was the man's face.

Then the figure spoke, and when he did, it was with a raspy voice that sounded like it had been shouting and screaming unheard for decades, like all it had to offer now was a broken whisper, an almost silent hiss of a snake.

_"We're running out of time, Stiles,"_ the figure said, and Stiles heard clearly, despite the distance between them. He heard the words as clear and loud as if the figure had been no more than a foot away from him. _"He's coming for us..."_

His chest tightened, vision wavering. For the flash of an instant, the bright daylight and freshness of the outside vanished, replaced by the darkness of the hospital room. His head spun and as he struggled to catch his next breath, he found himself facing the school parking lot once more, the figure even closer than before, but still masked by shadows.

"Lydia..." Stiles tried to force out, but the name caught in his throat, much in the same way the heel of his foot caught against the sidewalk, causing him to stumble backwards. As he fell, his surroundings changed again, darkness interrupted by the opening of a door before consuming the room once more, footsteps echoing along with the continuous _beep... beep... beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Lydia!" he called out, stronger this time, the sound of the heart monitor and the image of the figure in the shadows the only constant between the two realities – between the bright and open school grounds and the dark and enclosed hospital room.

He felt a cold hand on his arm that vanished only when another grabbed his shoulder, anchoring him momentarily to the school and to the bright green of Lydia's eyes. "Stiles? Stiles... What's happening?"

"He's here," Stiles breathed out, feeling his panic rising, struggling to push himself up from the ground and failing.

Lydia swung her head from left to right and back again, searching the area around them. There was worry in her eyes and fear in her voice. "There's no one here, Stiles..."

"Lydia, I ca- I can't br- breathe..."

"It's okay, Stiles," she tried to soothe, her grip tightening on him, "there's no one here."

But Stiles could feel him. He could feel him the same way he could feel his heart growing more frantic in his chest, the same way he could hear the heart monitor responding to it, the beeping quickening, desperate, the world shifting around him with each blink of the eye. Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light. Shadows. Lydia. Hospital. School.

He was lost somewhere between the two when he heard Lydia's whispered words of realisation.

"He's at the hospital," she said, so quietly Stiles was surprised he'd heard at all beneath that damnable beeping. Then louder, stronger, she spoke again. "He's at the hospital..."

By the look in her eyes, Stiles knew she could hear the beeping as well. She was probably as deafened by it as he was. Her head lifted, her gaze going back to the group, voice demanding. "Why are you just standing there? We have to do something... We have to get to the hospital... He's there! He's after Stiles!"

Then it stopped.

The world stopped shifting. His vision stopped wavering, and he was no longer split between the hospital room and the school grounds, the former fading away and taking the darkness with it. The sun beat down on him, the light from it blinding behind the head of strawberry blonde hair that turned to look to him. Eyes damp, Lydia stopped calling to the others, the first tear slipping free to roll down her cheek.

"He's there..." she whispered, desperate and broken, and Stiles knew that meant she heard it too.

The beeping had stopped... except now it was replaced by a long and continuous tone that never wavered, never changed in pitch or sound. She heard it, just as he did, and they both knew exactly what it meant.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Hopefully more soon...  
_


	5. Chapter 5

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: Thank you so much for reading and for your patience! You guys are awesome and it means a lot to me. I'm still trying to get my writing muscles back into shape after such a lax year last year and this chapter caused me so much trouble, but I finally finished it and here you go! Update time!  
_

* * *

Chapter 5

Stiles found himself pausing at the entrance to the hospital, suddenly afraid of what they would find when they passed the threshold. That deafening buzz and constant and endless tone had long since faded away, as if sealed off in a soundproof room, the door shut tight, the sounds locked away, but Stiles wasn't fool enough to believe that meant everything was fine again. He knew what he had heard, he and Lydia both did.

As if that wasn't enough, then there'd been the phone call from Mrs McCall. She had called Scott shortly after they had tumbled into Lydia's car, simply telling Scott to get to the hospital quick. He had told her that they were already on their way and that they would be there soon.

But not soon enough.

"We'll wait here," Allison said, breaking Stiles from his trance long enough to see her and Isaac hanging back, offering them a tiny sliver of privacy in the face of grave news.

Scott nodded in thanks and pushed on, and Lydia followed closely behind. She didn't have the option of hanging back. Whether she liked it or not, she was Stiles' only link to everyone else. She made herself small, practically hiding herself in Scott's shadow as if to hide herself from everyone else, as if maybe if she did so, no one would ask her why she was there or why her eyes were stained red from tears she was barely holding in.

Stiles said nothing. He just followed at a slower pace, all the while knowing that they were too late. He could feel it long before he saw the expression on Mrs McCall's face as she stood waiting for them at the nurse's station. Her eyes darted back and forth between one corridor and another, searching, until finally she saw them approaching.

"Scott, honey," Mrs McCall started, tone placating and calming. She took a step forward to greet them, arms wrapping around Scott and bringing him in close for a comforting embrace. When she pulled back, her hands still gripped his upper arms and her gaze searched Scott's. "I'm so sorry, honey..."

Heart sinking in his chest, Stiles allowed his attention to wander down the strangely vacant corridor. He couldn't see it all, but he could see enough – the open door that led to his hospital room, the shattered glass that littered the hall floor and was tainted red in parts, glittering from the dying sunlight that now streamed through the room and open doorway. He imagined inside the room to be worse. Overturned equipment, specks of blood here and there, sheets pulled from an empty bed.

When the first deputy stepped out of the room, he saw it all for what it was – a crime scene. That's why the corridor was empty, why Mrs McCall stopped Scott from going any further and why her voice was authoritative when she spoke again in the silence of Scott's missing reply.

"Scott, listen to me," she said, firm and unwavering, "you can't go there just yet. Do you understand? You have to let them do their work first..."

"It's Stiles, mom..." Scott answered, and he sounded so lost. All that confidence was drained away, his shoulders slumping, his gaze distant.

"I know," Mrs McCall went on. "Oh honey, I know – but you can't help him by getting yourself in trouble. We need to be smart about this, okay? They're doing all they can, and you have to let them, but in the meantime... you have something they don't. If anyone can find Stiles, Scott, you can."

"Find...?" Lydia questioned, head tilting to the side as her gaze found the corridor and the deputy that now stood just outside of Stiles' room.

Mrs McCall straightened at that, her hands falling away as her gaze swept over Lydia and Scott, her brow burrowing. "Someone _took_ Stiles... I thought you knew, I thought that was why you were already on your way. You thought..."

"I heard him die," Lydia breathed out, acknowledging it out loud for the first time. There was pain in her eyes when she said it and she swiped the back of her hand across her cheek to brush away a tear that had slipped free. She had heard it, they both had, but had they heard wrong?

"Stiles is alive?" Scott questioned, renewed hope echoing in his voice and lining his features as his gaze met his mom's.

"As far as anyone can tell, Stiles wasn't hurt..."

"Then whose blood is that?" Stiles questioned, moving forward a step down the corridor in hopes that would somehow clear everything up, as if he would suddenly see something that would mean everything made sense again. Of course, Mrs McCall didn't answer, not until Lydia spoke up.

"The blood..." was all she managed before she silenced herself again, the words seemingly catching in her throat.

Mrs McCall cast a brief glance down the hall before turning back to them. "The deputy on watch, he was attacked. He's still in the OR so no one's really sure what happened yet. No one saw anything, and even the cameras didn't pick anything up – they just went off mysteriously and haven't come back on since. Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble not to get caught."

"And now they have Stiles..." Scott said, and Stiles could see his mind turning. He could see the thoughts forming behind Scott's eyes, even if he couldn't quite make out what those thoughts were yet.

"Why?" Lydia jumped in, shaking her head a little in an attempt to make sense of it. "Why would they take Stiles?"

And that was the big question, wasn't it? That was the thing that Stiles couldn't figure out. He was certain that whoever had attacked and taken him from the hospital was the same person who had attacked him the night before. But why risk getting caught for that? Why not just finish Stiles? Surely it would have been easier to suffocate Stiles with a pillow and get out before anyone had a chance to notice anything was amiss. Unless they were missing something.

Stiles' hand found his shoulder and he once again tried to remember the attack. It was all still a disjointed blur, just a jumbled mess of half memories. The grave. The feeling of hands grabbing him, dragging him. The cold bite of metal against the skin of his palm. It meant something, he knew that much. He just didn't know what. The whole thing felt familiar, and the longer he stared at the empty corridor and the more he thought, the more he began to remember a time similar thoughts had crossed his mind.

All those people murdered by the Darach... the methods were different, but they had such a similar feel to them that it had Stiles wondering. Back then, Stiles had seen the murders for what they were, so what if it was the same this time? The three murders and his attack, there had to be some deeper meaning to them beyond random acts of violence. There was certainly enough about them to grab his dad's attention, to have his dad seeing a pattern there.

"Sacrifices..." he breathed out, tasting the word to see how it fit. It would explain why his attacker had taken him away from the hospital. The Darach had used the ley lines around Beacon Hills in conjunction with its sacrifices, so maybe his attacker needed something else too. If that was true, maybe it would buy them some time so they could save him.

"Sacrifices?" Lydia questioned, spinning on the spot to face him. "What do you mean 'sacrifices'?"

There was denial in the question, a refusal to accept the possibility, and considering how things had gone down last time, Stiles couldn't blame her. But he couldn't shut the idea out either.

"No, listen – it makes sense, right?" Stiles started, feeling the energy building up inside of him and bouncing through his metaphysical body as things started to slide into place. "Last night, I got attacked in the cemetery, but I think he was trying to take me some place else. What if it's the same for the other three? What if they were abducted from one place and killed in another?"

Scott looked between Lydia and the corridor, eyes still searching it as if he hoped he would suddenly be able to see Stiles, but he was always just slightly off. "What's he saying?" he questioned, gaze returning to Lydia.

"We need to find the pattern," Stiles said, taking a step closer to Lydia.

Lydia held his gaze, even though her next words were directed at Scott. "He thinks if we can find a pattern, we can find out where he is."

"A pattern?" Scott said, coming to stand beside Lydia, looking down on her with a mixture of concentration and confusion.

Lydia turned her head enough to consider him. "He thinks the other three murders were sacrifices... and now he's next."

"Scott, buddy..." Stiles pleaded, because he needed to say it, even if Scott couldn't hear him, "You know I'm right on this. You know I'm right..."

Slowly, Scott began to nod. "Then we need to look at the other cases. We could ask the Sheriff."

"No – no," Stiles said, shaking his head quickly from side to side, "My dad's still under investigation. If anyone sees him letting us look at case files... I can't be responsible for getting my dad fired. Not again."

"He says no," Lydia answered for him, slow and quiet, her gaze softening on him. "He won't risk it."

"We'll find a way," Scott interrupted, before she could go any further and explain. She didn't need to, Stiles could tell by the look in Scott's eyes that he understood. "We'll sneak in if we have to. We'll figure something out that won't get your dad in trouble."

"Whatever you plan on doing," Mrs McCall said, "you better do it soon. We don't know how much time Stiles has..."

Again, Scott nodded, his back straightening in a way that suggested he was taking control – he was being the Alpha. "Then we'll go to station now. If they've got people here and more out there looking for Stiles then maybe it'll be quiet, maybe we'll be able to get in and look at the files without anyone seeing us."

"Wait..." Stiles said, letting go of a deep sigh, arms rising up before falling to his sides again. "What about Mickey? He still might know something. Your mom's right – we're running out of time, and I have a feeling Lydia was right about him. We can't just dismiss him in the hopes we find something at the station."

"Mickey," Lydia forced out for Scott's benefit, her voice small and unsure, as if the very thought of the man was still enough to give her pause. "What if... what if he knows something?"

Scott glanced back toward the entrance to the hospital and took a breath. "Isaac and Allison can track him down and keep an eye on him."

"Great," was Lydia's falsely cheerful reply, her lips thinning into a forced smile.

"They'll be okay, Lydia," Scott tried to reassure her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "If Mickey is the one who hurt Stiles, they can handle him... I know they can."

"And what if he isn't?" Lydia went on to ask, meeting Scott's gaze dead on, challenging him. That was when Stiles realised that's what she was truly afraid of. If it wasn't Mickey, then that meant there was another reason he had felt like death to her. One psychotic serial killer would be enough to deal with without something else being thrown into the mix. "What if he's something else entirely?"

"Then we'll deal with it," Scott answered, confident but gentle. "Like we always do. But right now, we have to focus on finding Stiles. We have to save him."

Lydia closed her eyes and took a breath, composing herself. When her eyes opened again, she gave a firm nod and straightened her shoulders, looking between Scott and Stiles until her gaze settled on Scott. When she spoke, she spoke with certainty. "Then what are we waiting here for? Let's go find him."

* * *

_More soon!  
_


	6. Chapter 6

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: I cannot apologise enough for the delay in getting this chapter up. I have so many excuses, such as work and life being hectic, but I think the main problem was everytime I sat down to work on this chapter, I wasn't satisified with what was coming out and so it kept getting harder and harder to force myself to work on it without giving up before I'd even open the document.  
_

_I do have a plan for this story and I know where it's headed and how I want it to end, it's just getting it all down that's the problem. Maybe now the show is back on, it'll flow better, so thank you all for your patience and thank you for taking the time to read. _

* * *

Chapter 6

Despite the silent street and the stillness that settled around them, Stiles couldn't help but feel uneasy when they finally pulled up across the street from the almost empty station. The sky was beginning to darken, pale blue stained with the first few drippings of purple as night began to fall. Most members of Beacon Hills Sheriff's department would be out, busy looking for one stupid missing kid and hunting down the latest serial killer to enter Beacon Hills, but that didn't mean the station would be completely deserted.

Even from where they were, Stiles was sure he could make out Deputy Parrish returning to the desk at the front. He let go of a sigh and leaned back in his seat. They were going to need a distraction. It was the only way they would be able to get inside and into his father's office. It was the only way they would be able to get to the case files and stand any kind of chance of figuring this thing out.

"Go on," Lydia snapped, breaking Stiles from his daze, "say it." She turned in her seat to look at Stiles with raised eyebrows, leaving Scott to shift uncomfortably up front in the passenger seat. "I can practically already hear you thinking it."

Stiles worked his mouth but the words caught in his throat. He looked at Scott helplessly, hoping for some back up before cursing internally as he remembered there was no chance of that.

Huffing out, Lydia rolled her eyes, already turning away from him as she continued to speak in his absence of speech and thought. "We need a distraction," she said, pulling down the visor as she did so to peer in the mirror hidden there. She ran her fingers through her hair and let go of another huff before grabbing her purse and pulling a lipstick tube from it, "and since no one else is offering..."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Stiles started in the silence she left hanging, "you're kind of the only one who can see me - not exactly great distraction material here. Besides, you can't do it either."

"I can't..." Lydia pulled her lipstick away from her lips and turned to glare at Stiles, accusation written deep in her eyes. "And what _exactly_ do you mean by that?"

"I need you in there – in my dad's office, helping me look."

She sighed and turned away, shoulders sagging only minutely as if in disappointment. "Because I can see and hear you... and Scott can't."

"Well yeah, but you're also like the smartest person I know. If there's something in those files of my dad's, I need you to help me find it."

She didn't reply at first, just remained still, but Stiles didn't miss the way her posture seemed to loosen, as if losing some of the defensiveness it had held. "Fine... but if I can't do it, and you can't..."

"Then I'll do it," Scott interrupted, determined and bright.

"That's the spirit, buddy!" Stiles chimed in reply, patting the back of the seat before offering Lydia a bright smile. "It's perfect – I mean, just look at those puppy-dog eyes. Scott distracts Deputy Bright Eyes and we slip in and do our thing. Simple."

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Scrap that, it was _definitely_ wishful thinking. The second the word 'simple' tumbled from his lips, Stiles knew there would be problems. As if just by saying it he had jinxed them. The best laid plans of mice and men and all that. The whole distraction thing, that was easy enough – Scott squirming awkwardly as he subjected Deputy Parrish to an endless stream of questions about Agent McCall and where he was and when he would be back because Scott really needed to talk to him, and was Deputy Parrish wearing a new aftershave 'cause it smelt really good?

"This way," Stiles whispered to Lydia, unable to help himself, once they had slipped in and past the main desk. Lydia followed without question or complaint, staying as silent as her heels would allow. And the fact that it really had been that simple should have alerted Stiles to the danger that was headed their way. It was all too easy. Getting into the station, getting into his dad's office, getting at the case files – which were open on the desk ready, inviting them to take a look, or more likely left there in a hurry after the Sheriff had received that dreaded call about Stiles going missing.

"Where do we start?" Lydia asked, closing the door behind her before turning to face Stiles as he peered over the files on the desk.

"I, er... I don't know. I guess we could take it one case at a time, see if we can find something in common." His eyes skimmed over the words printed on the pages before him, picking out bits and pieces here and there. Names, dates, crime scene details, little descriptions that jumped out at him. Alone, they had little effect on Stiles, but as Lydia began shifting through the files and the first crime scene photo slipped free and into view, he felt himself falter.

Despite the subject of the photo and the gore it held, he couldn't tear his gaze away. "That's a lot of blood..."

Lydia stilled beside him and he could feel her eyes on him, could already feel the weight of her worry. "We're going to get him, Stiles. We'll figure this out... We always figure it out."

"I know," Stiles answered, but the words lacked conviction. After all, how did they know he wasn't dead already? The body in the photo, abdomen slashed open, blood pooling around... that could be him. Any minute now, that could be him.

But Lydia refused to give him the chance to dwell on such things. Her mind was already moving on and she was dragging Stiles forward with her, forcing him to focus. "We've just got to look at the facts. There has to be something here." She began rummaging through the papers in the folders, spreading them out so she could see them all side by side.

The problem was, there was so much there that it was hard to make sense of any of it. The first victim, the initial thoughts had been that it was the result of an animal attack, what with the missing – presumably eaten - parts. Stiles refused to look at the photos now, forcing himself to look at the words instead. It felt less real that way, as if it was just another mystery to solve – not his own future murder.

"I don't know what I'm looking for, Lydia." He let go of an irritated growl, pushing away from the desk, frustrated at himself. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he turned to face the wall behind his dad's desk, his gaze skimming over it. It was still covered with pages from calendars and photos from past cases. Organised chaos. But Stiles understood it all perfectly, so why couldn't he see what his dad had seen in the three cases on the desk? "I just... I don't know what I'm missing..."

"Missing..." Lydia repeated, the word spoken faintly, quickly followed by the shuffling of more papers. The sound of it had Stiles turning back around, watching as she searched the case files before pulling out three specific pages and laying them out beside each other. "Look at this..."

Stiles leaned forward, a frown tugging at his lips and brow. His gaze searched the page just above where Lydia's finger was planted. The first victim had been missing his liver. Stiles had noted that before, but what he hadn't paid attention to was that the second and third victims were also missing something – very specific things. Lungs and a stomach to be precise. So that was the pattern his dad had seen.

Except, it wasn't the only pattern...

"Do you have a map?" Stiles asked, leaning over the case files further, gaze rapidly moving between the papers, taking it all in, mind focusing.

"Do I look like I have a map?" was the sharp reply.

"Your phone," Stiles followed up with just as quick, already motioning for her to pull it out. Once she had, he took it from her and scrolled through until he found the correct app. That was when he really started to put the pieces together.

Lydia leaned in but said nothing, simply watching him work in silence until he was ready to speak.

"Look at this," he said, pointing to the phone screen, "this is where the first body turned up. Greenvale Park, which is directly _south_ of where the second body turned up, all the way up here..." He scrolled the map on the phone screen until it showed the most northern point of Beacon Hills, and looked to Lydia. "He's not just dumping them randomly."

"They're compass points," Lydia finished, her eyes landing on the final mark on the now zoomed out map, toward the east of town.

"Which means the next body should turn up around here somewhere." His finger found the left hand of the screen, the words written there too small to read, but they both knew what was there without the map telling them. Beacon Hills Preserve. That was where the killer was taking him. That was why he hadn't been killed last night. The killer, he was trying to complete the compass.

Before either of them could say anything further on the subject though, Lydia's phone buzzed, the shock of it almost causing Stiles to drop it. Lydia only just managed to grab it in time to silence it before the ringtone kicked in and gave them away. Her voiced was hushed when she brought it up to her ear, and Stiles could only just make out the urgent sounds of Allison's voice on the other end. Whatever she was saying, it had Lydia's eyes widening in what looked like a mixture of fear and worry. When she finally pulled the phone away and looked back up to Stiles, he understood why.

"They lost Mickey..."

"Lost... how could they lose him?"

"How should I know, Stiles?"

"You... You... gah! This is just great..." He took a breath. "If Mickey's our guy, we need to get Scott and get to-"

But a cold chill upon Stiles' neck stopped him dead. Whispers, barely audible, had him turning around to the face the semi-darkness of the room. It was the same feeling he had had before, like they weren't alone, like there was someone right there, just out of reach, watching. The broken voice, scratching at the air, grating into it, it was back again, a warning from the shadows, possibly from death itself.

"He's here," Stiles found himself saying, and he wasn't entirely sure whether he was talking about the shadow that followed him or the killer that wanted him dead. Until the lights went completely out.

* * *

_Thank you for your patience!  
_


	7. Chapter 7

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE! I have no excuses for the delay in getting this chapter up, just apologies and thank yous for reading and for the reviews. You guys are awesome!_

* * *

Chapter 7

Silence. The empty kind that buzzed and hummed. It hung in the air of the sheriff's station, enveloping it, smothering Stiles as he strained his ears for the sound of anything. Even Scott and Parrish had fallen silent. If the lack of lights or creeping feeling that still played across the back of his neck wasn't enough to worry him, the silence would have been.

He only realised he had been holding his breath when he heard the sound of Lydia's heels scuffing the floor as she shifted from one foot to the other. He looked to her, taking note of the wide eyes and the way she folded her arms across her chest protectively.

"Stiles?" she questioned, voice small, fragile almost, fear lining the edges of it.

Stiles said nothing. Instead, he swallowed the thick feeling building up in his throat and turned his attention toward the door. He was already making his way toward it, slow and cautious, when Lydia spoke up again, her tone a little more demanding but words still hushed despite their harshness.

"Stiles!"

"Something's wrong," was all Stiles could manage to say in reply, and even as he felt the words form on his tongue, he knew he was pointing out the obvious. He didn't need to voice it out loud, they both knew, and he didn't need to see the look on Lydia's face to know the exasperated expression it would be forming – a silent glare aimed at him.

"Really, Stiles? I hadn't noticed," she bit out in return.

Stiles wasn't given the chance to even think up an answer, let alone voice it. A loud crash ricocheted throughout the station, cutting off all thought, followed almost immediately by the sound of shattering glass. Scott. The sound had come from up front, where Scott and Parrish were. All caution left Stiles, his feet moving of their own accord, his chest tightening. It was pure instinct that drove him and pushed him forward, pure instinct that had him tearing open the door and throwing himself into the darkness of the empty hall, because his best friend was in trouble and that man was involved, the man that had attacked him – the man that had his insides turning cold at the mere thought of him.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Stiles skidded to a halt a few feet away from a lump slumped over on the ground just ahead, remainders of broken glass from the office windows littering the ground beside it. The glass crunched beneath Stiles' feet as he approached, unsure at first, until he heard the low and familiar groan.

"Scott!" The name escaped his lips on a relieved breath and he darted forward.

The only response from Scott was another groan, pained, followed by a harsh hiss when he attempted to sit up. Stiles was immediately at his side, dropping down beside him and looking him over. In the low light from the streetlamps outside, he could only just make out the blood at Scott's side, and the shard of glass that pierced it.

"Easy there, buddy," Stiles soothed, taking a glance around for any sign of the attacker, or the young deputy. The latter of which looked to be out for the count behind the front desk. At least Stiles hoped he was only unconscious. It would be a shame for Beacon Hills to lose any more of their police force.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Stiles' attention moved back to Scott just in time for him to see his best friend pull the shard of glass out from his side. Of course, Stiles' immediate protests went unheard and all Stiles could do in the end was hope Scott's super-werewolf healing would kick in before the blood loss had a chance to.

"L-ydia," Scott forced out, his head rising and eyes glowing red as they stared into the darkness behind Stiles, "run. Get away from here."

When Stiles turned around to look, sure enough Lydia was there, but whilst the fear was clear in every line of her face, so was the determination. Lydia Martin had stopped running away from things a long while ago, and she wasn't about to start again now. Though Stiles wished that this time she would. Out of the three of them, she was the most vulnerable.

"Scott's right, Lydia," Stiles said, pushing up from the ground to face her properly, "you need to get out of here."

"Right now," Lydia answered, hushed, "I think Scott's the one we should be worrying about." She took a step forward and Stiles could see her eyeing up the wound at Scott's side. And well, considering how Scott was having trouble even standing, she had a point.

"I'll be fine," Scott argued, one hand planted against the wall beside him to hold him steady. He used the other hand to raise his shirt a little, cringing at the sight, or maybe the pain the movement no doubt caused. "It's already healing." But then his attention was gone from himself and his gaze was moving down the hall, past Stiles and Lydia and towards the sound of more crashing and clashing. "It's him, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Stiles answered, and Lydia offered up a slight nod for Scott's benefit. Nothing else needed to be said. They all knew. It was him. The guy who had attacked Stiles, who had taken Stiles. He was there. So why did it feel like they were still no closer to finding Stiles?

"You should go," Scott continued on, and there was a growl to his voice that told Stiles his friend was preparing to fight. Canines lengthening, nails sharpening, the wolf seeping out. Stiles didn't need to see it to know, but he found himself looking all the same as Scott's nails dug into the plastering of the wall. It was the only thing keeping him up, Stiles could tell. Even if the wound at his side was healing, it wasn't healing fast enough and it certainly wasn't enough to counteract the blood loss.

"And what you planning on doing, huh, Buddy?" Stiles spoke up, "You gonna get him to throw you into a few more windows? 'Cause that's... that's just a great plan."

"Scott," Lydia began, "we don't even know what he is... you can't fight him like this."

"He has Stiles..."

"And believe me, I want Stiles back too but if we're going to do that, we need you alive."

"She's got a point there, Scott," Stiles agreed before turning to face Lydia, eyes meeting hers, imploring. "Lydia, you need to get him out of here..."

Lydia made to nod before she stopped herself, a frown slipping onto her face and her eyes narrowing on Stiles. "You're not coming? What are you going to do, Stiles?"

"Just get him out of here... I'll meet you outside."

"Stiles..."

"No one can see me, remember? And I'm kinda hoping that means our not-so-friendly murderer in there can't hurt me either."

"That's not the point. What if something happens?"

"Look, Lydia," Stiles continued on, "He's here for a reason, and by the sounds of it – he's looking for something. If we want to beat this guy, we need to know what that something is."

"I don't like it," Lydia protested, shaking her head, lips pressing together momentarily, "something doesn't feel right."

"We don't have much choice here... just, get Scott out of here. It'll be fine. I'll be fine." He hoped.

She opened her mouth to argue further, even as she slipped one arm around Scott, offering up her support, but Stiles didn't wait to hear what she had to say. He was already moving towards the back of the station. The attacker hadn't come there to kill anyone. If he had, then Scott would have been dead. No, Scott had just been in the way. The attacker, he was there for something else. It was the only thing that made sense.

The further back into the station Stiles travelled, the darker it became. The streetlights offered up little aid and given his current predicament, Stiles didn't even have the option of using his phone as a torch. Still, he could see well enough to take in the open evidence room door with its busted lock – Beacon Hills Sheriff's department were really going to have to take a good hard look at their security system one day – and the sounds from inside the room were enough to tell Stiles where their unwanted guest had gotten to.

Despite the knowledge of his invisibility, he still found himself moving slowly, wary and guarded, because Lydia was right. Something didn't feel right.

More glass littered the floor here and there, and the clashes and bangs grew louder with each step, until finally, he was close enough to see inside the room. Amidst the darkness, he could make out the outline of a hulking shadow, more beast than man. His breath caught in his throat at the sound of the frustrated, animalistic growl that followed another loud crash, and he froze on the spot, watching.

So that was him. That was the guy who had taken Stiles and had murdered countless others. One thing was for sure – he wasn't human. Stiles had thought as much after seeing how Scott had been carelessly discarded like a ragdoll out in the hall, but now actually seeing the guy, he was sure. There was no way he was human. And if he wasn't human, what was he?

"Werewolf?" Stiles questioned under his breath, and the man froze.

For the longest moment, Stiles thought the guy had heard, until he realised that it wasn't the sound of his voice that had caused the man to still. He had found whatever he was looking for... if only Stiles could tell what that was. All he could make out from that distance and in that light was that the man was now holding a small plastic bag – an evidence bag most likely. Was it the necklace? Had that guy broken into the police station just to steal back a piece of jewellery?

If Stiles wanted to know for sure, he had to move closer. It was the only way. But his feet felt like lead and his stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. He forced himself onward all the same. The first step was almost impossible, the second only a little less so, but the third and fourth came somewhat easier. The fifth didn't come at all. Stiles stopped dead, face to face with cold blue eyes – the kind that had an unnatural glow about them, that shone bright in the darkness and boasted of death and murder, that stared right back at him – not through him. At him, and into him.

His attacker took a step forward, closing the gap between them and bringing himself into Stiles' breathing space. The corners of his mouth curled upwards, revealing the lengthy canines beneath. The smile of a predator. A wolfish grin. And it was aimed right at Stiles.

Even his nails had lengthened into claws. Stiles could feel them against his chest. He could feel the way they dug into his shirt to press against his skin as if closing around the outline of his rapidly beating heart. It was only when the guy made to lean in closer that Stiles regained enough of himself to skitter backwards – falling over a chair in the progress and consequently landing flat on his ass. By the time he steadied his breathing enough to look up again, he found himself staring at nothing but shadows.

Gone. Just like that. Gone...

_"We're almost out of time, Stiles,"_ the darkness whispered to him from somewhere behind, with that familiar scratching voice that sounded like ash and dirt and death all in one. _"Tick... Tock... Tick... Tock..." _With each word, the voice drew closer until Stiles could feel the owner's breath upon the side of his face and could see the outline of the shadowy figure from the corner of his eye, the lingering scent of cinders burning at his nostrils. _"Tick... Tock."_

* * *

_Thank you for your patience!  
_


	8. Chapter 8

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: I cannot apologise enough. Seriously. This is late. Even later than I thought it would be. Basically, life has been hectic and this chapter has been half written for a month or so, but I've never gotten around to actually finishing it until now. So thank you so much for you patience and for reading! You guys rock!  
_

* * *

_Chapter 8_

_"Tick... Tock..."_

The words still echoed around Stiles' mind, even long after the voice and its owner had disappeared back into the shadows once more, consumed by the darkness by which it seemed to be born. And yet, even though Stiles knew they were gone, he could still feel their presence, like an ever-watchful guard, causing his skin to crawl and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to stand to attention.

Wasn't it enough that a psychotic serial killer had not only tried to kill him but had now also essentially kidnapped him? Wasn't that enough to deal with? But hey, why should the universe go easy on him? He lived in Beacon Hills after all, with a werewolf for a best friend and a banshee for a crush. Why not throw in some whispering voices and shifting shadows to make his life just that little bit more perfect?

He took a breath and shook his head to clear away the cobwebs that had settled there. Lydia and Scott would be waiting for him, and no doubt worried about him. He had to get back to them, and most importantly, he had to keep moving forward. If he stopped for too long, then the darkness would consume him. He could already feel its hungry eyes on him constantly, waiting for him to slip up so it could take a bite.

Grabbing the side of a desk, he pulled himself up from the floor before dusting himself off and taking the chance to glance around him. His attacker had long since vanished and, thankfully, the owner of the voice was nowhere to be seen either. His gaze fell to the small plastic bag that had been discarded by the door. The evidence bag his attacker had been looking at. When he swooped down to pick it up and study it closely, he knew his instincts had been right.

There was no doubt about it. It matched the picture he remembered seeing on Scott's phone almost exactly, except for the small fact that it was now empty. The ankh. So the killer really had broken into the sheriff's department all for the sake of a small piece of jewellery. It made little sense to Stiles, but that didn't mean he was about to dismiss the significance of it. The ankh meant something to the killer, and Stiles could think of only one person who might know what that something was – someone who could also take a look at Scott and his wound whilst they sought out answers. Hell, it wouldn't have surprised Stiles if Deaton was already in the know about the latest deaths around town. He was probably already waiting for them to turn up asking questions. He always did seem to know a lot more than he was telling.

"Deaton?" Lydia questioned, once Stiles had rejoined her and Scott, and he had filled her in on everything – well, almost everything. He'd left out the part where the killer had looked him dead in the eye and smiled. He may have also failed to mention the figure from the shadows and its whispered warning. But he had told her about the ankh and about his idea to seek out Deaton, whilst also slipping in how she should probably call his dad and let him know something had happened at the station and that Deputy Bright Eyes had been hurt. She didn't seem opposed to the idea.

"If anyone has answers, it'll be Deaton. And besides..." Stiles' words fell away as his gaze fell to Scott, taking in the pained expression on his friend's face and the way he still clung to his injured side.

It made him wonder how deep the shard of glass had been. Internal damage would explain why it was taking so long to heal, the thought of which only strengthened Stiles' wish to see Deaton. Scott's healing abilities were superior to a human's but that didn't make him invincible. That thought alone made the ride that followed feel far longer than it actually was, every red light feeling like a personal offence from the universe.

Deaton must have heard the car or seen them pull up, because he was already at the entrance to the surgery, holding the doors open, when they finally tumbled out of the car. Brow burrowed, his eyes travelled over Scott and Lydia. "What happened?"

One arm wrapped around Scott's waist, Lydia pushed forward and past Deaton, into the surgery. "He was attacked."

"It's not that bad," Scott argued, trying to free himself of Lydia's support. She wasn't giving an inch, and now they were inside, with the bright lights of the surgery, it was hard to miss the large amount of blood staining Scott's shirt. He was too careless with his own safety. "Stiles... we have to get to Stiles. He comes first."

"Really, Scott?" Stiles found himself questioning with a raised eyebrow. "Forget it, bud. You can't even stand. Unless that's your plan of attack – fall on the guy and hope that stops him in his tracks."

"I'm sorry, I seem to be missing something..." Deaton said, his hands falling away from the now locked front door to land loosely at his side, his gaze locked on Lydia and Scott. He was just like the others, like Scott. He couldn't see Stiles either. Not that Stiles had expected any different, even if the vet normally proved to be anything but ordinary. "Stiles?"

It was a prompt for Scott to continue, to explain Stiles' absence, but it wasn't Scott who replied. Grunting under the weight of Scott and attempting to adjust her grip on him, Lydia huffed out an answer, which in truth did little to explain things. "It's a long story."

Deaton nodded and pushed forward, beckoning them on through to the back of the surgery. "Then you can explain while I tend to his wound."

Where to start was the real question. With the police station? With the abduction of Stiles' unconscious body from the hospital? Or should they start further back, at the beginning, with the seemingly random murders? Regardless of the order though, Lydia explained it all, from the first murder to the last, from the ankh to theory of the importance of the compass points. Scott behaved like a good patient the whole while, until finally Lydia had finished explaining and Deaton had finished cleaning the no longer bloody wound.

"It looks like it went pretty deep, but it's healing," Deaton began as Scott pulled his shirt back on and pushed himself off from the table. He was beginning to look a little sturdier now, though still in no condition to go fighting their mysterious serial killer. "There shouldn't be any permanent damage, but I would suggest you take it easy until it fully heals."

"We don't have time," Scott complained, because as usual, he didn't care about what happened to him. "We have to get to Stiles."

"And I'm sure Stiles appreciates your enthusiasm, Scott, but sometimes the only way to win against your opponent is to first know them."

"You mean their strengths and weakness?"

"The Art of War..." Stiles breathed out absently in thought.

"Not just that, but their desires, their end goals..." Deaton continued before looking to Lydia and addressing her, "You said Stiles thinks these murders are sacrifices?"

She nodded in response. "But the murderer needs the ankh for something."

This time Deaton nodded, in a slow manner that suggested he knew something. If that something was helpful to them, Stiles would take it. "The ancient Egyptians believed that the ankh was not just a symbol of life, but immortality. There are some who even believe it can hold the power over life and death."

"But?" Stiles questioned, regardless of whether or not his words fell on deaf ears. "There's a but there..."

"An ankh alone would not be able to grant it's owner eternal life..." Deaton continued, "I imagine it would act as a sort of, key. A catalyst between two or more other forces. Whatever ritual our killer has to perform, the ankh is no doubt an important piece of the process, but it's just one piece."

"What do you mean?" Scott questioned, but Lydia was already a step ahead.

"The missing organs..." she breathed out, seeming to pale at the thought.

Deaton nodded, moving away to a side cabinet to grab five small jars, each with a different coloured substance inside, before returning to the table, standing facing the three of them as he began his explanation. "The ancient Egyptians were very particular when it came to their dead. They used canopic jars to store certain organs before they begun the process of preserving the deceased. The liver." He moved the first jar into the centre of the table. "The lungs." The second jar he placed above the first. "The stomach." He moved the third jar. "And the intestines." When he moved the fourth jar, Stiles saw the pattern. All four jars formed a diamond on the metal surface, just like the points of a compass.

"Then what's the last jar?" Scott questioned, raising his gaze away from the jars and toward Deaton once more.

Deaton raised the jar and swirled the thick crimson substance before placing it in the very centre of the other jars. "The heart..."

At that, Lydia frowned, her lips thinning as she shook her head a little in confusion. "I thought they didn't remove the heart. They left it in the body so it could be weighed in the afterlife. Didn't they?"

"There's a legend, from centuries ago, of a man turned beast they called the Jackal. They say he made a deal with the god of death for eternal life, and in exchange, all he had to do was give the god five souls every time his current lifespan was nearing an end. Five sacrifices, each representing a single canopic jar, with the fifth and final sacrifice being the symbol for his new life."

"Are you saying this guy actually exists?" Scott picked up the centre jar from the table and raised it to his eye level, watching the substance as it reflected the lights from overhead.

"If the victims truly do somehow represent the jars, then it's possible."

"What do you mean, represent?" Lydia narrowed her eyes, gaze flitting briefly between Deaton and the jars.

"Well, they would have to somehow embody the spirit of what would go in that specific jar. Like, the stomach for instance... a person who gorges on food, eats too much..."

"What about too little?" Stiles asked, the words slipping out as he thought back to the files from his father's desk. Lydia looked to him, waiting for him to continue, the act of which silenced Deaton also. "Zane Franks... he, was the last victim. Coach made him quit the lacrosse team last year and forced him to go to the guidance counsellor. He dropped out of school, few months back – you remember, right? Every day, it seemed like the dude was another few pounds lighter. The file said his stomach was taken."

Lydia's nod was slow and thoughtful, her eyes taking on a distant look that Stiles' took to mean she was remembering the files too, and the names written in them. "Yeah, I do," she answered, "and the second victim – she was a lifeguard. For a job like that, you have to know CPR."

"Lungs..." Stiles said out loud, at about the same time Lydia's phone beeped at her, alerting her to a message.

"What would you need for intestines?" Scott questioned, pulling a face at the thought.

"Whatever it is, apparently I have it," Stiles breathed out, mimicking Scott's face of slight disgust. He dreaded to think what the killer saw in him that made the guy think he was a perfect representative for intestines.

Lydia shook her head though, looking up slowly from her phone to meet Stiles' gaze. "I don't think it's you. I don't think you're the fourth sacrifice..." she said before turning to look at Scott and Deaton too. "Allison and Isaac found Mickey. Most of him, anyway."

* * *

_Thank you for your patience!  
_


	9. Chapter 9

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: It's almost 4AM and I'm on my third cup of coffee. This chapter is up so much later than I'd hoped it would be, but life continues to get in the way - that and writer's block (the kind where you know what you want to write, you just don't know how to write it...). I'm sorry for the delay. Again. Love you guys for reading! We're nearing the end, can you feel it?  
_

* * *

Chapter 9

Night had officially set in, darkness settling over Beacon Hills and bringing a chill in the air with it. It was quiet and still, right up until the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance came into view. Beacon Hills Preserve. Right where Stiles had predicted that the next body would turn up. Granted, he had thought that body would be his own but he would gladly be wrong about that.

The deputies were still rolling out the crime scene tape when they had pulled up. Isaac and Allison stood waiting for them, not out of sight but certainly out of earshot of the officials milling about the scene. That made it easier for them to explain what had happened, which turned out to be not a whole lot. After losing track of Mickey, they'd kept searching until they heard a scream. By the time they had arrived, Mickey was already dead and the killer was long gone. There was too much blood for Isaac to catch any other scent besides that of the dead man.

"Well, I guess that explains why he felt like death," Stiles said absently, thinking of their earlier encounter with Mickey and the creepy vibes the guy had given off, with an added hint of death picked up by their very own banshee. Speaking of which... Lydia seemed to be in a world of her own, arms wrapped around waist as she stared off into the darkness of the forestry, her expression blank. She had known Mickey was going to die. She had felt it on him. It made Stiles wonder at what point she would begin to feel it on him too.

A car came to a halt somewhere behind them, the low rumble of its engine disappearing as the owner turned off the engine. Stiles didn't pay much attention to it until he heard the slamming of a car door followed by his father's voice, mere feet from them. It was a low growl, frustration clear in the hushed tone, but for once it wasn't aimed at Stiles. No, this time it was aimed at the closest thing his father could get to Stiles – Scott.

"Scott," Sheriff Stilinski started, stalking over to them and casting a brief glance over his shoulder to check how close his deputies were, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"Sheriff!" was Scott's surprised reaction, his eyes widening along with his mouth, his gaze searching each of the others' in turn, the quest for help clearly written on his face, and Stiles knew the reason why too well. Usually, whenever the Sheriff got involved in something, Stiles was the one with the lie already on the tip of his tongue, quick to sell a tale of fantasy with half truths and distractions. Scott, he was one for the truth, but even he knew that the truth didn't always cut it.

"We were just... we were," Isaac started, but that was as far as he got, his tongue seeming to have seized up inside his mouth somewhere along the way.

"Out for a walk," Lydia finished with a tight smile. She was much more versed in the art of lying than the others. The past was proof enough of how well she lied, to those closest to her, to the world, to herself, to anyone who only cared to look at the surface. But this time, even the sheriff saw straight through her. The phone call he'd received from her earlier about Deputy Bright Eyes and the station probably didn't help her case.

"In the middle of the night?" Sheriff Stilinski questioned, keeping his voice just low enough so that the deputies around wouldn't hear. "This is a crime scene. A crime scene. Do you know what that means? We have a killer on the loose. It's not safe for you to be out here. Any of you."

It was his frustration speaking more than anything else. He knew them better than that. Trouble seemed almost drawn to them. Death, too. They had never been able to walk away from it in the past, and this time was no different. But still, the Sheriff wasn't just the Sheriff, he was a father. He hadn't been able to protect Stiles in the hospital, and he hadn't been there during the attack at the station. Stiles knew him well enough to know it would be driving him mad.

"Dad..." Stiles breathed out, unable to tear his gaze away from his father's features. It was the first time he was truly able to see just how exhausted his father looked. Earlier, at the school, when he had caught that glimpse of him, the distance had been too great to make out the bags already forming beneath the Sheriff's eyes – eyes which echoed both desperation and fear. At the back of Stiles' mind, he idly wondered if his father had eaten or slept or stopped at all since he had first gotten the news of the attack.

And now, to top it off, Stiles was missing... and it was taking its toll. Stiles knew his father well enough to see the signs.

"Scott," Sheriff Stilinski began, tone serious and level, a tiny sliver of barely-concealed hope flashing across his features, "if you know anything, _anything_ at all-"

"We don't know where he is," Lydia cut in, because that was what he was really asking. Where is Stiles? He didn't need to actually say the words for them all to know. And in part, what Lydia said was the truth, if lying by omission counted as the truth. They didn't know exactly where Stiles was, but they were a step closer to hopefully figuring it out, which was a step closer than Sheriff Stilinski was.

"But you know something..." And it wasn't a question. He wasn't fool enough to believe they knew nothing at all. He lowered his tone and leaned forward. "Do you know who did this?" _This_ being the dead body now being carted off in the back of the ambulance. _This_ being the attack on Stiles. _This_ being the abduction of Stiles. Considering Mickey had been their best, and only suspect, the answer to that was clear to everyone in the group. "Is this... is he, a you know..." He waved his hand from Scott to Lydia briefly as he spoke, which Stiles took as his father's questioning of a possible link to werewolves and the like.

The silence that followed showed their doubt clearer than any spoken answer could. Considering what Deaton had told them, their killer could have been anyone, and quite possibly any_thing_. If Stiles had to guess, he would have said some form of werewolf, judging by the eyes and strength. Hell, maybe even a were-jackal. It wouldn't be surprising, what with banshees and were-coyotes also roaming the streets of Beacon Hills.

Letting go of a lengthy sigh, Sheriff Stilinski fell back onto his heels, regarding the small group. He was still so new to the whole werewolf deal that he still wasn't sure how to actually deal with it. Stiles could clearly see the uncertainty written in his father's eyes and it killed him that he couldn't offer any comfort.

_It's going to be okay. I'll be fine, Dad. _More than anything, he wanted to say those words, to have his dad hear them, even if it was only by proxy, his words from Lydia's lips. The problem was, the words wouldn't even make it past his own lips. The very thought of them made his tongue feel thick.

"Just, be careful... all of you. And Scott," Sheriff Stilinski said after another moment, his gaze finding Scott's, his words firm but imploring, "bring him home."

Scott straightened, like a soldier standing to attention, and offered up a nod in confirmation. "We will." And that was all he needed to say. It was enough. No false comfort. No white lies. Stiles could only detect truth from his friend, still confident where Stiles felt himself wavering.

At that, the Sheriff made his way towards his deputies and the small group turned their attention towards each other. They had to figure out their next move. With Mickey dead, their killer only had one more sacrifice on the cards. They were running out of time.

"We need a map," Lydia declared, looking to each of them in turn as if expecting one of them to magically pull out such an item from their pockets like it was a normal everyday item that every teenager should carry about with them.

"My dad..." Allison began, unsure at first, before looking to Isaac with a sharp nod. "He has maps of Beacon Hills. You remember, right? He keeps them in his study."

"Yeah, yeah..." Isaac answered, nodding as he did so, pointing toward Allison as the thoughts seemed to circle his mind. "We could sneak in and..."

"Or we could just ask the Sheriff," Scott cut in, "see if he's got a spare one in his car."

"Or we could do that..." This time Isaac's nod was more subdued, his voice losing some of its excitement.

"We need to look, er... we need to," Stiles tried to say, but his line of thought was interrupted by the sudden and familiar dizzying sensation. He recognised it immediately for what it was. His world tilted, the edges blurred. Lydia's sudden touch on his arm felt more like pins and needles, and her voice sounded distant, as if drowned out by leagues of water that seemed to weigh down on Stiles. He was there, but he wasn't, and the longer it continued, the more he wasn't. The more he was somewhere else, somewhere dark and cold and empty...

"Stiles?" Lydia questioned, the same worry tainting her voice as the times before. He wondered if she could see it too, the way he was fading between the two places. "Stiles... stay with us. Stiles..."

Stiles forced his eyes closed and focused on his breathing, focused on the voices of his friends, on the fresh and open air, the smell of autumn forestry. He tried to ignore the moist and damp scent that filled his nose and the sound of water, drip-drip-dripping. He tried to do as Lydia said. He tried to stay with them, but the harder he fought, the more his head spun.

"The heart... it's got to be the key," Lydia's voice echoed somewhere in the distance. "Somewhere in the centre, near... water, maybe... I think. I don't know."

He thought he heard someone answer, but the words were muffled. Darkness gripped him tight, held him in place. Cold brushed across his skin and warm air pressed in against his ear, followed by a sharp sting of pain in his upper arm. All of a sudden he was falling... falling until he could fall no more.

"Time to wake up," a hoarse voice whispered to him, from what sounded like a sandpapered throat. "You've slept long enough. Don't you know? It doesn't count unless you're awake to feel it."

* * *

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	10. Chapter 10

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: Hey guys! We're drawing ever closer to the end, and I'm really hoping I'll have this fic finished and up by the end of October. Only one or two more chapters left to go, depending on how what I've got left to write spreads out. Thank you so much for the support and for reading!  
_

* * *

Chapter 10

Everything was numb at first, Stiles' mind running slow, still trying to catch up with what was happening. When he opened his eyes, he was faced with darkness and the cold blue eyes of death. In the lack of light, it was difficult to make out much beyond that, but he didn't need to be able to see in order to imagine the predatory smile and flash of canines from his captor. He had heard it well enough in the whispered words.

"That's a good boy," the killer praised, and his touch was as cold as his eyes, drawing Stiles' attention toward the fingers pressed against the skin of his upper arm and the brief flash of silver. "Don't worry, give it a few minutes and it'll really kick in."

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but nothing made it out. It was like his vocal chords had decided to stop working, like they no longer held the strength to make sound. It shouldn't have surprised him, considering how everything, every single inch of him, felt weak. It was a complete reversal to how he had felt before, when he had been back with the others. He hadn't given it much thought, but then he had felt light. Now, he felt heavy.

"Don't fight it. Just give in," the killer urged, turning away from Stiles to disappear into the shadows, his footsteps a light echo in the empty space. "The sooner you do, the sooner it'll be over."

No matter what awareness he was currently lacking, he was aware enough to know that he didn't like the sound of that. Images flashed across his mind's eye, photographs of bodies covered in blood, chests and abdomens torn open. If he continued to just lie there, he would end up just like them. He would be nothing more than another victim. Another sacrifice.

He blinked bleary eyes and turned his head from side to side, slow and steady, careful not to worsen the dizziness that still lingered. The more he focused his gaze, the more he found he could see. The darkness wasn't as complete as he had first thought, but the little light that did make it through wasn't enough for Stiles to see anything beyond his immediate vicinity. He couldn't tell how big or small the room was, or if it was even a room at all. And his captor? He had disappeared into the shadows, only the sound of his movements giving away his position.

_"We're going to die, Stiles,_" a second voice chimed in from the darkness, gritty like soil and dirt, barely a whisper, so quiet Stiles wasn't completely convinced that he hadn't imagined it. "_He's going to kill us._"

Stiles' head snapped around to the side to face the speaker, but all he could see was shifting shadows, and on top of that, the motion caused a flash of pain that radiated outward from his shoulder. That, more than anything, made everything feel suddenly real. The fog cleared from his mind, his senses returning, consciousness truly coming back to him. He made to sit up but found himself trapped, thick bindings cutting into his skin at his wrists.

A quick glance down at himself revealed what looked like four leather straps – one at each ankle and one at each wrist. It was when he tried to thrash against them in an attempt to free himself that he once again found his voice. The pain in his shoulder intensified, so sharp that it caused him to call out, and yes, he would admit it – scream. It was nothing less than pure agony.

Even when the initial sharp shock of the pain faded, a dull ache remained with the occasional added spike and twinge just to remind him of how bad the wound in his shoulder was.

He remembered now.

He remembered a half whispered apology to a gravestone bearing the name 'Tate' and coming to a rest before it. He remembered footsteps behind him and a complete lack of foreboding. They were just footsteps. How was he supposed to know they meant danger? They were just footsteps... There was no crack of thunder, no dramatic music suddenly falling away to show tension. There was just him, and the wind, and the graves, and the footsteps of an unknown person.

Then there was pain. A sharp blade being buried in his shoulder, more like a hook than a knife, digging in and upwards, a strong force dragging him backwards. Thick and roughened skin covered his mouth, stifling the agonised scream that had broken out then, sharp claws scratching against his cheeks and jaw line. Acrid breath hot against his ear.

He remembered it all. His heels digging into the ground beneath him, the feel of unrelenting hands pulling him back. He remembered his fingers entwining with the metal of his captor's necklace and he remembered tugging so hard he pulled it free, but most of all, he remembered the look on his captor's face when he had done so.

"The moment I saw you, I knew it had to be you," the killer spoke up, the gruffness of his voice echoed in the scratch of the match he lit. The flame did little to soften the features of his face. If anything, it strengthened them, from the hook of his nose to the stubble-lined jaw-line.

Stiles could only watch as his would-be killer used the match to light several candles of varying sizes before blowing the match out just as the flame reached his fingers. The orange glow, whilst not impressively bright, lit up enough of the empty space now for Stiles to make out the painted stone walls that seemed to be slick with water, no doubt from the pipes that lined the higher parts of the walls. He could still hear the faint _drip drip_ every so often beneath the sizzle of the candles.

His captor approached, a silhouette against the backdrop of candles. In that moment, he truly reminded Stiles of the beast that had attacked them at the station and not the man that stood before him now with a smile on his lips. "The heart."

He placed his hand on Stiles' chest and closed his eyes, head tilted just slightly to the sound as if he was listening to the rapid beating of Stiles' heart. Stiles thrashed and bucked despite the pain, desperate to be free of the man's touch. It didn't matter that the touch wasn't direct, skin against skin. The fact it was there at all was invasive enough for Stiles, even if his shirt offered up the bare minimum of a shield against those blood-tainted fingertips. But it was all in vain.

The man opened his eyes but kept his hand where it was. Stiles took it as a challenge.

"Yeah, you're a real big man. Why don't you untie me and see just how big you are then?" he spat out, false courage lining the words as they ripped up his too dry throat and spilled out over his too dry tongue. Each word was like a shard of glass, but the defiance felt good. It helped him feel strong even when his body was weak. He thrashed again for emphasis, shoulders rising up and off the table, fists and jaw tightened, fighting back against the pain the movement caused.

His captor merely smiled at him and turned away again, once more returning to where the candles sat. Stiles hadn't noticed at first, but his attention now focused on the table beneath the candles and the array of tools displayed there. Metal and blood and pain. It wasn't quite a torture dungeon worthy of the Spanish Inquisition, but it was enough to have Stiles' blood running cold.

"I had to work quick with the last one, but with you..." his captor spoke, slow, savouring every moment of it. He picked up one of the tools, a curved blade tainted dark brown with blood, and Stiles felt a pang in his shoulder at the sight of it. A sickle. That was what the guy had used the previous night on him. That was Stiles' blood on the blade. The very blade that the guy now caressed almost lovingly as he turned back around to face Stiles. "With you, I can take my time."

"I wouldn't count on it, buddy," Stiles answered, trying to control the shake in his voice. "My friends are looking for me and when they find me... I wouldn't want to be you. If you let me go now, I might even be able to convince Scott to go easy on you. Maybe he'll only tear one of your arms off instead of both."

But his captor wasn't listening. He moved close once more, and Stiles swallowed against the lump in his throat, unable to tear his gaze away from the sickle. His breath caught when the tip of the blade was placed against his abdomen, lightly, so lightly, and Stiles knew the guy was playing with him. The blade moved lower until it caught on the bottom of his shirt. It didn't take much more effort on his captor's part to create the first initial tear. From there, it was a straightforward rip from bottom to top, the blade cutting through the fabric like it was cutting through water and leaving a cold tingle across Stiles' skin as it went. One done, the killer allowed the tip of the blade to come to a rest over Stiles' heart.

"What are you... what are you going to do with that?" Stiles forced the question out, his tongue snaking out to dampen his lips, a nervous reaction he couldn't swallow down.

"Do you know why they would leave the heart in the body?" the killer asked, as if Stiles hadn't spoken. His eyes were focused on the blade and Stiles' chest, an almost dreamlike glaze taking hold. When Stiles didn't answer, he continued on, pulling at the blade to scratch Stiles' skin just enough to draw blood. "They believed Anubis would weigh the heart and they would be judged. Good heart, the soul goes to heaven. Bad heart, Ammit devours the soul whole."

He laid the sickle down on the side of the table, freeing up his hands to untie the necklace from around his neck. "If your heart is truly as good as it appears to be, you have nothing to fear. Heaven will take you in its grasp." He laid the necklace across Stiles, the metal cold against the flushed skin of his collarbone, and reached behind Stiles' neck to fasten it in place.

To his defence, Stiles didn't make it easy for him. He threw his body up and off the table as much as he could, tugging and riving at the straps that held him in place, kicking and bucking and jerking and doing as much as he could. If anything, his captor seemed to enjoy the challenge, and once the ankh was fastened, he pulled back to reveal a wolfish grin that showed too much teeth for Stiles' liking.

_"Let me in, Stiles," _whispered the shadows, but Stiles' was too focused on those bright blue eyes of his captor to search for the owner of the voice. _"Let me in..."_

Somewhere behind his killer, Stiles thought he saw someone move, the candles flickering. Goosebumps prickled at his skin, the hairs across his arms standing on edge. They weren't alone. He knew that, and he wondered if the killer before him did too.

"_Tick, tock..." _the voice called out from the shadows. "_Tick... tock..."_

"Who is that?" Stiles forced out, the quiver in his voice audible. He didn't even try to stop it from shaking.

His captor narrowed his eyes, head tilted to the side in questioning. He didn't hear it. Why couldn't he hear it? "Perhaps death has come calling for you earlier than I thought..."

"_Let me in, Stiles..._"

"I don't understand," Stiles whispered in return, and though his gaze was still on his captor, he wasn't entirely sure who his words were directed at. The monster before him? Or the one that still lingered in the shadows?

"You don't have to understand," his captor answered, intent clear in his eyes. "Death will come for you either way."

Clenching his jaw tight in rebellion, Stiles yanked his wrists upwards again, fighting against the straps holding him down. He managed to pull himself up enough so that his face was a mere breath away from his captor's, a sneer falling into place across his face. "Death can kiss my ass." And so could the voice in the shadows.

Scott was coming for him. He had to believe in that. He had to believe in his friends, and until they found him, he had to keep on fighting. He had to stay alive. Somehow.

* * *

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	11. Chapter 11

****Shadows of Death** **

_Summary: If the nightmares or recent deaths in town weren't enough, Stiles wakes up to find that he may actually be the latest victim of the newest serial killer to hit Beacon Hills. Stuck somewhere between life and death and with Lydia the only one who can see him, the gang have to work quickly before Stiles' temporary displacement becomes permanent.  
_

_Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3.  
_

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the show or these characters. _

_A/N: Hey! So it's finally here! the final chapter. This took longer than I thought because the chapter ended up being longer than I thought, but I didn't want to split it into two. I needed to get it up now because I'm going away tomorrow for a week so I won't get a chance to do any writing and then when I get back, it'll be November - so NanoWrimo time! Thank you all for your patience - you've all been amazing.  
_

* * *

Chapter 11

_Drip. Drip._

Stiles continued to glare at his captor just as the water continued to _drip drip_ from the pipes lining the walls, and the candles continued to burn bright despite the occasional flicker. The finer details of the place were still concealed in darkness, shadows shifting in a way that shadows shouldn't shift – the way they do when you're a kid in bed, on the lookout for monsters creeping toward you. But Stiles wasn't a kid, and he certainly wasn't in bed, and the monster? The monster was right in front of him.

"You have guts," the killer said, moving his head an inch closer, his eyes trailing up and down the length of Stiles' body, "but it is not your guts I need. Those I already have."

Guts? The word caused Stiles to stall a moment. Guts. Figurative and literal. Bravery and actual, physical guts. He hadn't needed to ask to know what had been taken from Mickey. He had known. After the conversation with Deaton, they'd all known. But hearing it put like that, guts instead of intestines, it brought a whole new light to Mickey's death. He had done something that had caught the killer's attention – something gutsy.

In the back of his mind, Stiles' heard the faint memory of a man's shout. For a flash of a moment, he was back in the graveyard, back against the ground, staring up at the clouded sky above, and struggling to breathe, sickle still piercing his shoulder. Blue eyes stared down at him, before their gaze shot up toward the oncoming stranger. Mickey. It had been Mickey. That was why his voice had sounded familiar earlier at the graveyard. He hadn't been the attacker. He had been the one to scare the attacker off.

And now he was dead.

Stiles found himself sinking a little against the cold metal of the table. His would-be killer seemed to approve of the action, the tick of a smile present at the edges of his mouth. He pushed back, away from Stiles, but his gaze still lingered in a way that made Stiles feel even more uncomfortable than before. The murder was still clear in those cold eyes, even when the glow of blue had faded to be replaced by brown. Each breath was a whispered promise of death. This was a man who had had centuries to perfect his method, and who enjoyed the thrill of the kill all too much.

He moved away from Stiles once more, returning to the table filled with torture tools. The scraping of the metal against wood was a soft echo, breaking through the still air and sending shivers down Stiles' spine. With the guy turned away from him, blocking his view of the table, Stiles couldn't see what he was doing, despite his best efforts of twisting and yanking at his restraints. He could guess though. His abductor, his would-be murderer, was choosing his weapon of choice, because apparently, a sickle alone wouldn't cut it.

The leather straps pulled tight against Stiles' wrists, pinching at his skin, the friction from each tug causing his wrists to burn and sting. Compared to the stabbing pain in his shoulder though, a bit of friction burn was nothing. He jerked again, his elbow catching on the wooden handle of the sickle. Gaze shooting back toward his captor, he waited, tense and holding his breath, for a reaction to the light clink, for his captor to realise that he'd maybe left the sickle a little too close.

Nothing.

He waited a moment, keeping still for another breath, but still – no reaction. His captor was too busy at the table, seemingly searching for something amongst the assorted tools and weapons, letting go of a grunt of frustration at not finding whatever that something was. It gave Stiles an opportunity and he was more than willing to take it.

Careful and slow, he reached out as best he could with his arm, trying to draw the sickle closer. His elbow brushed against the handle, but aside from a brief wobble, it refused to move. Straining, he tried again, muscles tensed, arm twisting awkwardly. This time the sickle moved. Barely a fraction of an inch, but it was something. It made it easier when he tried again, and again, each time managing to bring the sickle that little bit closer, until finally, he managed to set the blade against the leather strap holding his left wrist down.

That was where the real work was. In that position, it was almost impossible to get enough strength together to cut through the tough leather. He pushed the blade as best he could, but instead of cutting into the leather, it caught the palm of his hand instead. He swallowed down the hiss of pain and took a breath before trying again. Getting that first knick was the difficult part, but once he had that, the leather began to give way. Just a little at first, then more and more. He tested his wrist, jerking it upwards, already feeling more range of movement now the leather strap was almost cut clean through. The keyword being almost.

Stiles realised his mistake a second too late. The movement caused him to lose any form of grip he had had on the sickle and it slipped, teetering on the edge of the table for a moment before finally deciding to give in, gravity taking hold. The clatter it caused may as well have been thunder.

Stiles froze. His captor did too.

_Ah, crap..._

Head tilted to the side, a slow smile crept across the face of his captor as he turned to face Stiles once more. It was a dangerous smile, the murderous glint in the man's eyes causing panic to flush through Stiles. It took him a moment before he remembered how to breathe, let alone move, but once he did, he was tugging hard at the straps once more, desperate to break out. Whatever the man had been looking for was forgotten, his full attention now on Stiles.

"_Let me in..._" the shadows whispered, promising escape from that deadly gaze. The candles flickered, as if disturbed by a passing breeze, but Stiles saw no one else aside from his captor. "_He's going to kill us..."_

He half wondered if the voice was that of his doubt. Slow, scathing, a burned out ember. He wondered how mad his temporary out of body experience had made him, but mostly he wondered how much time he had before his captor decided to just end it.

Hands forming fists and muscles tensing up, he tugged and thrashed against his restraints, his captor moving ever closer until he was right upon Stiles. Ragged nails lengthened, human features twisting into those of a predator with sharp teeth and pointed ears and a lupine-like snout, turning the man into some hideous mix that was so far away from the somewhat gentler faces of his friendly neighbourhood werewolves and closer to the monster that was Peter. One hand shot out to grip Stiles' injured shoulder, forcing it downwards onto the table with a harsh thump and causing Stiles to cry out in pain. The nails dug in and the killer leaned closer, sadism too kind a word to describe what lingered in his eyes. He was enjoying this, every minute of it, every single ounce of suffering he forced upon Stiles. He was enjoying it all.

"I was going to make this clean," he whispered, growl etched into his voice, "but I see now that won't work with you. So the good old fashioned way it is."

As he spoke, his features continued morphing. But it wasn't just his face anymore that was changing. Every inch of him was shifting, becoming something else, becoming something more. He was changing into the monster Stiles had seen at the Sheriff's department.

Shoulder still trapped beneath that too strong grip, Stiles continued to fight against the straps. He bucked and pulled and fought with every last ounce of strength he had, and finally, finally, he felt the strap around his left wrist give way. It took him by surprise, and more importantly, it took his killer by surprise. It unsteadied the man, had him drawing back a moment, which gave Stiles the chance to almost fully free his other hand. He was forced back down against the table though at the last second, the man-beast snarling in his face, flecks of spit landing on his cheeks.

"_Let me in!_" the shadows screamed, and Stiles swore he could feel them gripping hold.

"No!" he spat out in reply, tugging once more at the strap holding him down with more force than he thought he had.

It came away. Just like that. And he felt for the first time like maybe he stood a chance. Maybe he could escape.

Then the nails began to dig into his chest and he couldn't help the scream that followed, ripping up his throat and tearing through the silence of the room. It was another moment of agony before he heard the reply, and at first, he thought he had imagined it, until he realised his captor had heard it too, frozen in place suddenly above Stiles. A long, drawn out howl, from somewhere outside, beyond that darkened space. Scott. There was no doubt about it. Scott was coming; Stiles just had to buy a little more time.

He pushed up, taking advantage of his captor's distraction, and quickly set to work on the straps around his ankles, slipping free just in time to narrowly miss his captor's next attack. He rolled away from the snapping jaws and catching claws, and fell to the floor, ignoring each thump and fresh bruise in his eagerness to just be away – to escape and survive. Metal clanked, and scraped, and Stiles looked up into eyes aflame with murder peering down at him from atop the table.

He could have tried to make a run for it, but even without attempting to stand, he knew he wasn't up for it. His legs felt like they didn't belong to him and it was hard enough just throwing himself to the side and under the table, toward the sickle still lying on the floor. Running wasn't an option. Fighting, defending himself, that would have to do. Hands slick with sweat, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the sickle and he brought it upwards as he rolled onto his back, slashing at thin air. He hadn't expected to make contact, but there was a tiny flicker of hope that the action might have at least made the man-beast wary enough to stay back.

It didn't. His captor cared little about the blade in Stiles' hand, straightening up to his full height behind the table, all muscle and mass and dark skin and fur – a shadow with claws and teeth. Said claws gripped the edge of the table and said muscles sent it tumbling away from them with a clatter and a clang, clearing the path to Stiles. Pointed ears stood tall atop his head, erect and focused on Stiles, listening to every skittering heartbeat. That cold blue glow returned to dark eyes, head tilted forward like a bull readying to charge, and Stiles barely had a second of warning before the beast launched forward.

If he had had time to think, he probably would have opted to dodge, to roll away, because that would have been the smart thing to do. But his body reacted automatically, flattening itself down against the hard ground as he swung the blade once more. Thick nails cut into his upper left arm, dragging across the skin, whilst his right arm continued on its journey with the sickle, slicing into flesh. That just seemed to make his would-be killer angrier.

One slash of a claw and the sickle was knocked from Stiles' grip, skidding across the floor towards the table of weapons and candles. Stiles forced himself after it, kicking out when the killer's fingers latched onto his ankles, attempting to drag Stiles toward him. Stiles didn't turn around, he just focused ahead and on the sickle, kicking until he was free. He lunged for the sickle once more, fingers barely having time to wrap around the handle before nails dug into his shoulder again, forcing him onto his back.

Panting from the exertion of it all, Stiles tried to keep a hold of the sickle, but with the added weight of the killer now straddling his hips and keeping him in place, it was a losing battle. The sickle was pried from his hands and this time it was thrown towards the shadows where it was immediately consumed. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, the sound of it in his ears drowning out the background noises that had once been so loud in the silence, Stiles could only watch as the killer raised a claw, ready to strike.

"Stiles!"

One name. One voice. And that was all Stiles needed to hear.

His head snapped to the left. Scott. Thank the heavens. He was there. He'd found him.

Stiles only just caught the brief glimpse of red in his friend's eyes before Scott was darting forward, throwing himself at the killer. In the next moment, the pair were wrestling for dominance, claws and teeth and glowing eyes, and Stiles still hadn't even managed to pull himself up from the ground. He heard a cry of pain followed by a low growl and watched the pair for another breath before turning his attention toward the table behind him.

He gripped the edge of it and forced himself up, gaze wandering over the various bits and pieces there as he did so. Everything hurt. Every movement was agony. Every breath was like breathing in broken glass. But staring down at that table, Stiles found himself gaining enough strength to grip the blackened poker toward the back of the table and turn toward the battling werewolves.

They were almost evenly matched, but his would-be killer was bigger than Scott. Every inch of him was muscle, and he was slowly gaining the upper hand. He knocked Scott to the ground and let go of a low roar that was no doubt meant to intimidate the younger werewolf, but Scott wasn't one for backing down. A mere second away from getting back up again, the killer dropped and pinned him to the floor.

Stiles didn't hesitate. He didn't think twice about his actions. He gripped the poker tight and plunged it into the killer's back. The roar that followed quickly turned into a howl of pain and the killer moved backward, almost stumbling over his own muscled form, claws snatching and grabbing at thin air in an attempt to pull the poker free. Stiles dodged out of the way when the guy came his way, and he watched with a strange sense of surreal distance, as if what he was watching was just a scene from a movie, and not something physical and real, right in front of him.

The table wobbled as the killer knocked into it, the candles toppling over. Some went out, but others spread their flames to nearby objects – including the killer. It wasn't an explosion of flames like back with Peter and the Molotov cocktails, but it was enough to induce panic in the killer. In pain and on fire, he struggled until his back slammed against the wall with such a force that the poker was pushed deeper into him, penetrating what must have been a vital organ and glistening red from the point now poking out of his chest. His face fell slack, his eyes wide. And just like that, it was over.

Scott was by Stiles' side in moments, reaching out for him and forcing his gaze away from the now dead killer. There was such relief in his eyes, but still a hint of fear and doubt.

"Stiles?" he questioned softly. "Stiles, you okay?"

It was a moment before Stiles found he could answer. His throat felt tight, and he blinked. If he had to sum up how he felt in one word, it would have been empty. "Ye-ah," he tried to say, but the word was as broken as his voice was, scratchy and pained. He swallowed, tongue snaking out to dampen his too dry lips, and tried again. "Yeah, buddy – I'm... I'm..." He swayed, losing his balance for a moment, but Scott's grip steadied him.

"Woah, take it easy," Scott urged, refusing to let go, and Stiles was glad for it – for the contact that grounded him.

"I think... I think I'm just going to lie down for awhile..." The room spun, exhaustion taking hold now the adrenaline that had been forcing him to move was rapidly vanishing from his system. "Yeah, just... wake me up in ten minutes."

Scott gave a gentle scoff, a small smile tracing the edges of his mouth. "Not here, okay? Let's get you out of here first. You can sleep once you've seen the doctor."

Stiles nodded numbly in agreement. "Let's do that then. Just, one thing first..." He didn't have the strength to fight anymore. He did have enough strength left to grab the ankh around his neck though, and with one swift tug, he pulled it free. It fell to the floor as Scott wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him away from the body of his would-be killer and away from the shadows that still watched and waited.

It was another couple of days before he began to feel like himself again, except that wasn't entirely true. He hadn't felt like himself since stepping into that icy tub of water and sacrificing himself to the Nemeton in place of his father. But the doctors said he should be fine, he just had to take it easy. He refused to wallow around his room though, and he refused to spend the next week sleeping. The nightmares were still there, the shadows too. Darkness was one thing, but usually it was empty. Now it felt like there was someone always there, just out of reach.

He had felt it before, he knew that. Ever since the Nemeton, since the nightmares started. Someone, some_thing_ felt like it was there with him. But the doctors had given him the green light, so everything had to be okay right?

He evaded the questions from Scott and the others, changing the subject to anything that wasn't about his well-being – like how his dad said they were getting new security measures put in at the office, going all electronic and that, or how the new girl was totally into Scott and was the guy blind to not see that?

No one mentioned the killer, or the lack of news about the guy in the papers. No one mentioned the constant fidgeting that he knew had gotten worse because he still wasn't sleeping properly. And no one mentioned the shadowy figure that Stiles sometimes thought he saw from the corner of his eye, the one with the bandaged face and thick bomber style jacket.

"Mischief night? Really, Stiles?" Scott questioned with the same level of exhaustion he only ever seemed to manage when it came to Stiles. "Aren't we a little old for that?"

"Trust me, it'll be fun," Stiles answered, adding a small wink in with his nod. "Just meet me tonight."

Lydia rolled her eyes, and Stiles thought he heard her faintly mutter, "Boys" under her breath, but he said nothing, just grinned eagerly at Scott, awaiting his friend's answer.

After all, if no one mentioned anything, they could just pretend it didn't happen right? They could pretend everything was back to normal, and Stiles could pretend he was fine. Even if the shadows told him he wasn't.

* * *

_Thank you so much for reading!  
_


End file.

Teen Wolf, Hurt-Comfort