𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗗
chapter sixteen

               As Lydia wandered past the parking lot and toward the nearly pitch-black lacrosse field, a chill crept over her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She squinted into the darkness, her heart racing when she spotted a shadowy FIGURE moving in the distance. "Jackson?" she called out, urgency lacing her voice as she hurried forward. But as she drew closer, the figure slipped further into the inky blackness, leaving her feeling isolated and vulnerable. 

          Stumbling in her heels, Lydia found herself standing in the middle of the lacrosse field, gazing out into the abyss that surrounded her. "Jackson? Is that you?" Her voice trembled, but the only reply was silence.

             Just as she began to feel the weight of her solitude, she sensed movement behind her. Someone was walking toward her, stepping out of the darkness with an eerie calmness that sent shivers down her spine. "Jackson?" Lydia whispered again, her heart pounding in her chest as the figure came into view. However, as he drew closer, dread washed over her—this was not Jackson.

             Before she could react, a familiar voice rang out in the night. "Lydia!" Stiles was racing toward her, his face a mask of panic. "Run! Lydia, run!" His breathless urgency snapped her from her daze, but instead of fleeing, she turned back to face the approaching stranger, her eyes widening as she recognized Peter Hale. He advanced slowly, deliberately, and Lydia felt a magnetic pull toward him, despite the terror rising within her.

                 Then, in a horrifying instant, Peter's mouth stretched open unnaturally wide, monstrous fangs glistening as they emerged between his lips. Lydia's instincts kicked in too late; she screamed, the sound echoing across the empty field as she dropped to the grass, unconscious, her dress marred by streaks of blood. Stiles reached her side just as Peter lunged forward, his claws outstretched like a predator claiming its prey.

           Stiles was frozen in shock, his heart racing as he stared at the blood dripping from Peter's jaws. "Don't kill her. Please," he pleaded, desperation lacing his voice.

        "Of course," Peter said, his tone chillingly calm. "Just tell me how to find Derek."

         "What?" Stiles stammered, confusion morphing into fear.

            "Tell me how to find Derek Hale," Peter demanded, his eyes narrowing with predatory focus.

           "I—I don't know that. How would I know?" Stiles' voice quivered, his mind racing to grasp the situation.

           "Because you're the smart one, aren't you? And because I can smell it on you. Deception has a particularly acrid scent, Stiles. So how about you tell me the truth before I rip her apart?"

            Stiles' heart sank as he felt the weight of Peter's menacing presence. "I don't know. I swear to God, I don't," he gasped, panic rising in his chest.

           Peter's grip tightened around Lydia's neck, lifting her closer to his teeth. Frightened tears welled in Stiles' eyes as he locked onto the bloodstains on her dress. "Please, please stop," he begged, his voice barely above a whisper.

        "Tell me," Peter commanded, his voice tinged with a demonic rasp that sent chills down Stiles' spine.

           "Okay, okay. I think—I think he knew—" Stiles began, struggling to steady his breath.

           "Knew what?" Peter pressed, his intensity unwavering.

        "Derek—knew he was going to be caught."

       "By the Argents?" Stiles nodded, desperate to save Lydia.

        "And?" Peter's gaze burned into him, demanding more.

        "When they got shot, him and Scott—I think he took Scott's phone."

         "Why?"

         "They all have GPS now. If Derek still has it, if it's still on..." Stiles met Peter's eyes, a glimmer of hope surfacing amidst the terror. "You can find him."

              In the middle of the shadowy lacrosse field, Stiles looked up from Lydia's unconscious body, feeling the weight of despair settle in. "No. We can't just leave her here," he insisted, his voice trembling with fear for both Lydia and the threat Peter posed.

         "You're coming with me, Stiles. You don't have a choice," Peter replied, his demeanor unwavering as he prepared to take control of the situation.

            With a satisfied nod, Peter added, "Call your friend. Tell Jackson where she is. That's all you get."

              With trembling hands, Stiles pulled his phone from his coat pocket, realizing the gravity of the choice he had to make—risking everything to protect his friend while navigating the dangerous world of werewolves and dark secrets.

              Celeste stepped out of the school, her heart pounding with anxiety. The rhythmic pulse of the music faded as she searched the dimly lit hallways for her best friend. Her mind raced, filled with images of Lydia laughing and twirling in her stunning dress, moments they had talked about for weeks. But now, that laughter felt distant, swallowed by the growing concern that something might be wrong. "Lydia! Lydia!" she called out, her voice echoing in the empty corridors, but only the distant hum of chatter and laughter from the dance remained as her answer. 

         Frustration surged as she pushed through the throngs of students spilling into the night, scanning every face for a glimpse of her friend.

          As she moved outside, a cool breeze brushed against her skin, heightening her unease. She took a few steps away from the entrance, straining her ears for any sign of Lydia's familiar voice or laughter. The sprawling expanse of the parking lot was filled with clusters of students, but Lydia was nowhere in sight. 

          Celeste's heart sank further with every passing moment. "Where could she be?" she murmured to herself, anxiety bubbling to the surface as she took a deep breath and started calling out again, her voice trembling slightly. "Lydia! Where are you?"

           As she wandered toward the lacrosse field, a movement caught her eye in the shadows. Celeste furrowed her brows, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. She hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, drawn by an instinctual urge to investigate. But as she approached, her breath caught in her throat. "No..." she gasped, her heart dropping as the figure on the ground came into view. There, illuminated by the dim glow of the nearby lights, lay Lydia, motionless, her beautiful dress stained with dark, ominous splotches of blood.

             Panic surged through Celeste, sending her racing forward. She knelt beside Lydia, cradling her head in her lap, feeling the coldness of her friend's skin. "Lydia! Please, wake up!" she cried, her voice thick with desperation. 

         Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the grass as she shook her gently, her heart racing with fear. "Lydia?! Can you hear me? Please!" The stillness of the night was suffocating, and the weight of the situation bore down on her chest like a lead weight.

           Desperately, Celeste looked back towards the school, her voice rising to a frantic pitch as she yelled for help. "Help! Someone, please!" The urgency in her voice pierced the stillness of the night, but the sounds of the dance continued in the distance, blissfully unaware of the horror unfolding just beyond the parking lot.

           Just then, a silhouette emerged near the school, drawing closer to her. Celeste squinted through her tears, relief flooding her veins as she recognized Jackson. "Help! Help us!" she screamed, her voice raw with fear and urgency. Jackson rushed toward her, his eyes wide with panic as he took in the horrific sight of Lydia's bloodied form on the ground.

       "What happened?" he asked, his voice shaking as he knelt beside her.

          "I don't know! I just found her here!" Celeste sobbed, her hands trembling as she stroked Lydia's hair, hoping against hope that her friend would wake up. Jackson took a deep breath, steeling himself for action. "We need to get her help," he said, determination flickering in his eyes like a flame against the darkness.

         Without hesitation, Jackson crouched down and carefully lifted Lydia into his arms, cradling her as if she were made of glass. "We need to move!" he urged, urgency flooding his voice. Celeste stood, the horror of the scene gripping her heart as she felt blood from Lydia's dress seep onto her own white dress, a stark and shocking contrast. 

        Together, they sprinted toward the parking lot, Jackson carrying Lydia with an intensity fueled by fear and desperation. "Somebody help us! Help us!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the night, desperate and pleading.

                As they burst into the parking lot, screams erupted around them. Students froze, pointing in terror as they witnessed the nightmarish sight of Jackson emerging from the shadows with Lydia in his arms, her dress tattered and saturated with blood. "Please! Someone!" Celeste echoed Jackson's frantic calls, her voice breaking as panic surged through the crowd. 

        The students who had moments before been laughing and dancing now stood transfixed, shock washing over their faces as the reality of the situation dawned on them.

              Jackson raced between cars, the sound of his frantic footsteps pounding against the pavement mingling with the rising chaos around them. "Somebody help us!" he yelled again, his voice growing hoarse, but the urgency only escalated in his chest. The crowd shifted, panic beginning to ripple through them, but Celeste felt rooted to the spot, her heart racing as the reality of their situation sunk in.

              Shoes and heels pounded on the tile floor of the hospital as Jackson barreled around the corner past a sign reading: INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. Celeste followed closely, her heart in her throat as dried tears stained her cheeks. They were closely followed by two deputies, their expressions grave as they tried to process the emergency unfolding before them.

         Amid the chaos, Stilinski, the sheriff, spotted them pushing through a group of officers. "Where's Lydia? Where is she?" Jackson demanded, desperation choking his words.

             "Is she okay?" Celeste asked, her voice shaky and filled with worry, her gaze darting between Jackson and the sheriff.

           But Stilinski's usually kind demeanor vanished, replaced by a stern urgency. He grabbed Jackson by the coat, yanking him against the wall with a fierce intensity. "What the hell happened to that girl?"

           "I—I don't know," Jackson stammered, confusion mixing with fear as he struggled to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "I went out looking for her—"

              "And what? You wandered into the middle of a field and just found her like that? What happened?" Stilinski pressed, the weight of the moment heavy between them.

        "It's not my fault," Jackson shot back, frustration boiling to the surface, his fists clenching at his sides.

      "She's your girlfriend—"

            "No, she's not! I didn't go with her to the formal!" Jackson snapped, desperation spilling over as he recalled how the night had spiraled into chaos.

      "Then who did?" Stilinski demanded, his gaze narrowing as if searching for answers in Jackson's frantic eyes.

        "Some guy," Jackson replied, the words tumbling out in a rush then he looked at Celeste nodding to her "She went with Stiles."

       Stilinski's expression shifted as he turned to Celeste, a mix of concern and urgency flashing in his eyes. "What?"

           "She went with Stiles," Jackson reiterated, and Stilinski released him, worry etching lines into his features as he turned to his deputies. "Somebody find my son," he instructed, urgency lacing his voice. Then, looking back at Celeste, he asked urgently, "Where is Stiles?"

                     Celeste's voice trembled as she replied, "I—I don't know. We went different ways looking for Lydia." The panic and uncertainty hung heavy in the air, the fear tightening its grip around their hearts as they all stood on the brink of the unknown, uncertain of what had happened and terrified of what might come next. The echo of their earlier laughter felt like a lifetime away, replaced by the haunting reality of the night.

          Celeste stood outside the hospital room, her heart heavy as she gazed through the glass at Lydia, lying unconscious on the bed. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor filled the sterile air, a stark reminder of the fragility of life. Celeste's eyes traced the contours of her best friend's face, once vibrant and full of life, now pale and drawn. 

             She could see the white bandages wrapped around Lydia's arms, but it was the dark stains of blood seeping through that made her throat tighten with fear. A choked sob escaped her lips, and she quickly pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

                The world outside the hospital seemed distant and muted as she stood there, lost in her thoughts. Memories of laughter and carefree moments flooded her mind, each one a painful reminder of how quickly everything could change. Celeste's fingers grazed the cold glass, yearning to reach out and touch Lydia, to assure her that everything would be okay. 

        Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she recalled the last time they had been together, dancing under the stars, their laughter echoing into the night. Now, that joy felt like a lifetime ago.

                     As the seconds ticked by, Celeste's sniffles grew louder, breaking the heavy silence that surrounded her. She fought against the wave of despair threatening to pull her under, trying to stay strong for Lydia. "You have to wake up," she whispered, her voice cracking. 

                  The words hung in the air, a desperate plea to the universe that felt almost futile. She took a step back, her heart aching as she struggled to accept the reality of the situation. 

         Stiles rushed into the hospital, his heart pounding from the exertion of sprinting through the hallways. As he entered the waiting area, a group of classmates looked up from their low murmurs, their faces etched with worry and concern. Among them, he spotted his father, Sheriff Stilinski, deep in conversation with Jackson. Stiles slowed his pace, gasping for breath as he approached, trying to gather himself for the grim atmosphere that enveloped them.

         "There he is," Stilinski said, a mix of relief and frustration in his voice as he turned to face Stiles. "It's a good thing we're in a hospital. Because I'm going to kill you."

           Stiles waved off his father's mock threat, his words spilling out in a rush. "I had to run here. My Jeep—the keys—I lost my keys." His breath began to steady, but his eyes darted towards the intensive care unit, the sight of Lydia's room looming ominously behind his father.

         "Lydia—" Stiles started, but the worried look on Stilinski's face silenced him.

         "They don't know," Stilinski replied, his voice strained. "Partially because they don't know what happened. She lost blood, but there's something else going on with her."

      Stiles furrowed his brow, dread pooling in his stomach. "What do you mean?"

             "They're saying it's like some kind of allergic reaction. Her body is just going into shock," Stilinski explained, his gaze drifting towards the closed door of the ICU. Stiles' heart sank further as he processed the implications of an allergic reaction, linking it in his mind to the terrifying bite of the Alpha.

          "Did you see anything at all? Any idea who or what attacked her?" Stilinski pressed, urgency in his tone. Stiles hesitated, the weight of the truth heavy on his tongue, but he could only shake his head.

         "What about Scott?" Stilinski asked, searching Stiles' face for answers.

       "Wait. He's not here?" Stiles glanced at Jackson, who shrugged, equally lost.

       "I've been calling him, but there's no response," Stilinski said, worry creeping into his voice.

       Stiles' mind raced as he realized, "You won't get one." Just then, he noticed Celeste walking toward the window, a coffee cup in her hand, her face a mask of worry and fatigue. He felt an urge to go to her, to offer comfort in the midst of their shared anxiety.

      "Dad, I have to go," Stiles said, nodding towards Celeste.

         Stilinski frowned in confusion, turning to see where Stiles was pointing. With a sigh, he relented. "Off you go."

        Stiles walked up to Celeste, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. She froze, turning slowly to meet his gaze, and in an instant, she wrapped her arms around him tightly.

       "Hey," he murmured, rubbing her back gently. "It's going to be okay. Lydia is tough. She'll pull through." Celeste nodded against him, but he could feel her anxiety. As he noticed his father walking away, he leaned down to whisper to her, "I have to go."

           She nodded in understanding, and as he stepped back, he could see the sadness in her eyes. Stiles followed his father down the corridor, the weight of his questions pressing down on him.

      "Go back and stay with your friends," Stilinski instructed, but Stiles wasn't about to let this go.

        "Dad, tell me. You know it has something to do with Derek," he pressed, urgency making his voice sharper.

      "I thought you two barely knew him," Stilinski replied, skepticism creeping into his tone.

           "Yeah, we might know him a little better than that," Stiles admitted, feeling a surge of determination.

      Stilinski hesitated but then turned serious. "That girl in there has nothing to do with a six-year-old arson case."

       "Wait, when did you decide it was definitely arson?" Stiles asked, pressing further.

          "We have a key witness. And I'm not telling you who. But yeah, we know it was arson. And that it was probably organized by a young woman," Stilinski said, his expression grim.

      Stiles' curiosity piqued. "What young woman?"

      "We don't know," Stilinski said, and as he spoke, his cellphone began to ring incessantly.

        Stiles continued to press, "Was she young then or young now?"

         "Probably in her late twenties now. And I have to take this call," Stilinski replied, clearly distracted.

        The ringing grew louder, drowning out their conversation. "You don't know her name?" Stiles persisted.

        "No, but she had this—she had a very distinctive—what do you call it?" Stilinski stumbled over his words, the urgency of the moment pushing him.

       "A pendant," Stiles guessed, a hunch forming in his mind.

     "A what?" Stilinski asked, but the ringing reached a deafening volume.

     Stiles pressed on, "A what? What was it?"

            "A necklace," Stilinski finally said, answering the call. He turned away, and Stiles was left standing there, a look of realization washing over his face as he pieced together the threads of information in his mind.