***STILES***

When I wake up, I hear birds twittering outside my window. I never hear birds twittering outside my window. That’s probably because Beacon Hills, despite all outward appearances, is far from your ordinary, garden-variety sleepy small town. I should know. I’ve spent the better part of the last year or so discovering just how supernaturally screwed-up this place is. Not to a Twin Peaks level or anything, but then Beacon Hills doesn’t pretend to be as charming and sickeningly-fifties-sweet as Twin Peaks ever did.

I’ve always thought that usually, there’s no birds because some werewolf or other, more dangerous creature eats them all. I don’t think it would be Scott - he doesn’t have that serial-killer animal-killer thing going on. Derek probably does, but I can’t imagine him maintaining his ripped bod on a diet of however many mourning doves and robins every night. He’s much more of a red-meat kind of guy.

I pull the covers off. Because of the high altitude here, nights tend to get really cold, even in summer. Like, here it is, June 3rd, and according to the thermometer on my alarm clock, it’s only 58 degrees in my room. Which probably translates to low 40s outside. Definitely cold enough for my breath to show.

So far, this first weekend of summer vacation hasn’t been very eventful at all. In fact, Scott suggested we go see Age of Ultron today. Just him and me. It’s what he needs, after he broke up with Allison. I feel so bad for them both. What they had together was special, something I honestly don’t think I would ever experience. Especially if I keep foolishly holding out for Lydia. I know she and I don’t click that way, but you can’t fault me for continuing to carry that spark of hope in my heart, can you?

I didn’t think so.

I change out of my usual sleepwear and put on my usual street-wear. In this case, blue jeans and a Captain America T-shirt. Yeah, I’m going to be that guy, wearing a shirt advertising the movie I’m going to see. And why not? It’s perfect for the occasion.

Then my phone rings. My ringtone, “Gold” by Imagine Dragons, fills the room with its indescribably awesome sound. But seeing Scott’s name on the screen, I don’t feel quite so awesome. Scott almost never actually calls me. If he wants to talk to me, he either texts, video-chats, or actually talks to me in person. That last one’s kind of a lost art, even more so than making phone calls. Even my dad’s office has started using one of those automated monstrosities that puts you on hold when you try and call to report a mugging, or a drunk-and-disorderly, or a brutal Kanima attack on your friendly local gay club.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say, trying to fight down the slowly rising paranoia I’m feeling somewhere in my throat.

“Stiles, you gotta come down to Deaton’s office,” Scott says, his tone of voice urgent. “It’s Allison. She’s been bitten.”

“Bitten?” I repeat. I’m about to add “By what?” - but that would be a stupid question. Unless there’s some other kind of creature in this town that spreads its supernatural ability through biting - and as far as I’m aware, right now there aren’t any - the answer to that stupid question would be “a werewolf.”

“Yeah, so, uh, you need to come down here,” Scott says. “It’s too bad we probably won’t get to see that movie, huh?”

“Yeah, too bad,” I say, letting the words drag out a bit. “But, to be honest, I had a premonition our little hangout time wouldn’t get to happen anyway, so…”

I think I hear Scott trying not to laugh. At least that means he’s not too emotional over what’s just happened to be even the tiniest bit cheered up.

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I say.

“Okay. See you later.” Scott hangs up, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a moment. I look down at my Captain America shirt - now I don’t want to wear it, because I don’t want to keep reminding Scott (and myself) of the cinematic awesomeness we won’t get to see today. So I change into a plain white ringer tee, adding one of my many plaid button-downs on top of that. Before I put the Captain America shirt away, though, I wrap it around my head so I can let out a string of angry swear words while not waking up the neighbors. Real swear words, not that sort of “daggummit” crap that comes from the mouth of the dad on A Christmas Story.

I swear to God, one of these days, I’ll have to help Scott find out what the hell it is that attracts all the werewolves to this town, then kill it with fire or wolfsbane or silver bullets or whatever it’s most vulnerable to. Don’t get me wrong, at least it gives me something to do, fighting the inhuman threats that come to Beacon Hills on a way-too-regular basis. But like lacrosse, it’s not something I can see myself doing for my entire life. Mostly because I think one of these days, it just might kill me first.

I grab my wallet before heading out the door. I haven’t even had any kind of breakfast - no bowl of cereal, no toaster waffles, not even a single cup of coffee. I want to stop at the nearest coffee shop and get an espresso, at least. But waiting for that might take me at least ten minutes, and I promised Scott I’d be there in five.

So I fold my wallet closed, blocking my driver’s license from view. I’ve gotten so used to being called “Stiles,” even by my own dad, that I don’t think I’ve ever answered to my real first name. Sometimes, I even make the mistake of signing my name as “Stiles Stilinski.” In fact, when I first applied for my license, Dad made sure I got about five different copies of the form. I needed all of those, because I wasted the first four before finally entering and signing my actual name: “Casimir Stilinski.” But as soon as I’m old enough, I’m planning to legally change my first name to “Stiles.” And if anyone asks me after that why I’m not a certain British boy-band member, I’ll just say I had the name first, and it was stolen and altered for the other guy’s purposes.

Sometimes, the trains of thought I find myself boarding just astound me. None of them ever follow a straight path, but instead wind around and around in spirals and pyramids and other shapes best left in sci-fi books. It’s a wonder the paths I follow in the physical world take me where I’m supposed to be going. Like right now - after all this random crap about my name going through my head, here I am in the parking lot of Deaton’s office. Right on time, too. Imagine that.

As I get out of my Jeep, I see a girl walking up the street. She’s really tall for a girl - I mean, Allison’s also tall for a girl, but this one looks even more so. She’s got a hoodie on, her head bent down. But then she looks up, and I catch her eye. “Excuse me?” she calls out in a strange accent. British, I think. Or maybe Australian. “Could you, er, tell me where to find this address?”

She holds out a slip of paper in a pale brown hand with slim fingers. I take a look at the paper and recognize the address right away. “Um, sure. Yeah, I know where it is. But what are you goin’ there for? There’s nothing there but a wreck of an old house.”

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for,” the girl says. “So which way do I go?”

I consider it for a moment. If this girl really has business with Derek, I should send her up to his new place - he’s now living in a loft in an old warehouse on the edge of town. But what if she’s a bad guy? What if she’s been sent to kill him or something? Derek’s been really cagey lately - even more so than usual. Scott and I both think he’s trying to hide something. Like, does he know when the next new threat is coming? Or who they might be?

Of course, if this girl really is meant to attack, hurt, and/or kill Derek, she’ll have a tough time of it. She’s tall, but very thin. He’s got her by a good four inches and at least seventy-five pounds. There’s no way she could beat Derek in a fight, if it came down to that. Whoever would have sent her to fight him would have to be a complete and utter moron. So, I’m gonna guess that she’s here for a much less violent purpose.

I direct her to Derek’s loft, then go into Deaton’s office after she heads off in that direction.

Allison’s lying on the metal table where Deaton usually examines his animal patients. A table where Derek, for one, has been a patient himself on a few occasions. Like the time when Kate Argent shot him with a wolfsbane-tipped bullet.

Allison normally has this aura about her...I wouldn’t call it “happy,” but “positive.” Even when she’s not in the best of moods (which is, admittedly, pretty rare), her presence is usually enough to make people feel better. Again, I find myself wishing she and Scott were still together. Looking at them right now, the way Scott is standing and watching over her, it’s easy to forget they ever broke up  - but for all the wrong reasons.

Allison’s not looking so positive right now. She’s gone pale, and she’s clutching her arm. There’s a bandage there, with a roughly circle-shaped ring of blood soaking through the gauze. I bet the actual bite’s healed by now, depending on how long it’s been since she was bitten.

Sure enough, when Scott unwraps the bandage, there’s no sign of any bite on Allison’s skin. That’s a good sign because it means the bite didn’t kill her. But it’s also a bad sign because it means she’s not immune like Lydia was. She’s turned. Or she will turn. Either way, she’s no longer 100% human.

“So, now what?” I ask. “We gotta start lookin’ for the one that bit her, right? Was it Derek? Or one of his pack? I knew we couldn’t trust those-”

Allison sits up and shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t anyone we know. I didn’t recognize this one. But I knew he was an Alpha - he had red eyes.”

Scott nods. “She already told me all that, Stiles.”

“You said you didn’t recognize him?” I ask. “But that means you saw his...oh wait, he would’ve been shifted. Yeah, I don’t think gettin’ a sketch artist is gonna do us much good.”

“You’re probably right.” Scott sighs through his nose.

“Wherever he is, though, he can’t be that far,” I say. “I mean, if he’s an Alpha, maybe he’s got a pack with him too. And maybe he’s tryin’ to muscle in on Derek’s territory.”

Allison lets out a bark of laughter. (I’m not kidding - it really is a bark.) “Muscle in on his territory? I’d like to see him try.”

“Well, Derek’s not been an Alpha for very long,” Scott points out. “You think he’s ready for a challenge like this? And his pack is a little bit on the dysfunctional side and all…” He’s interrupted by his phone ringing. I think he’s changed his ringtone recently - I don’t remember it being “Oh Love” before. “Dammit,” he groans before answering. “Hey, Jackson,” he says. I know right away what they’re going to be talking about - ever since Jackson was turned from a Kanima to a plain old werewolf, he and the other young wolves in Derek’s pack, plus Scott, have all been doing this daily werewolf-practice sort of thing in the woods near the Hale house. “I’m sorry, but the whole workout thing’s gonna have to wait. Allison’s been bitten, and-”

“What?” Jackson’s voice comes through the phone so loudly that Scott is forced to hold it away from his ear. Allison and I both cover our ears at the same time. I bet it’s worse for her, though, since her hearing’s now werewolf-enhanced.

“Did one of you guys do it?” Jackson yells. I guess he’s talking to the rest of Derek’s pack, because next, I hear someone mumbling something - Isaac, I think - followed by Jackson growling, “Don’t lie! Did you attack Allison last night?”

He must be totally wolfed out right now. I exchange glances with Scott, who shakes his head as if to say, “The Lord is testing me.” Jackson needs the training more than any of the others, because he’s not been a werewolf for very long, and he used to be something much worse. He’s still having trouble keeping a handle on his inner beast sometimes. And who knew he could still get super-defensive over Allison? I remember he and Scott were sort-of rivals for winning her heart before the whole Kanima thing, but I thought he was all into Lydia now. If I weren’t such a nice guy (or such a skinny, defenseless one), I’d have done what Scott once did, and really taught him a lesson.

“Jackson, it’s not one of ours,” Allison says, sliding off the table. Scott holds the phone out and presses the speaker button, so now we can all hear Jackson loud and clear, myself included.

“What?” A bit of noise comes out of the speaker - I guess Jackson dropped the phone when he went after Isaac. That part’s confirmed when I hear him distinctly muttering “Jesus Christ” somewhere in the background.

“Are you sure?” Jackson asks as soon as he’s got the phone in hand again.

“Positive,” Allison says.

Jackson sighs, the sound scratchy and harsh over the speakers of Scott’s phone. “We’re gonna start lookin’ around. Where did it happen?”

Allison’s about to answer when the phone beeps a couple of times. “Shit, I’m gettin’ another call,” Scott says, checking the screen. “Jackson, could you hold on a couple of minutes? Allison and I will meet you guys in the woods.”

He and Allison, huh? What am I, chopped liver? I give Scott a pained look while he thumbs the screen to take the other call. In my head, I’m butchering a Christmas song: All of the other werewolves used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Stiles join in any werewolf games…

Scott takes a split second to check the name on his phone’s screen before talking to our new caller. “What’s up, Derek?” he asks.

Derek doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets out a huge, almost melodramatic sigh. I guess he’s pissed, and my guess turns out to be correct. “Pardon me for soundin’ like your lunatic lacrosse coach, but which one of you teenage morons led a goddamn vampire to my door?”

Scott and Allison look at me suspiciously. Do they have some kind of lovers’ telepathy that lets their minds tune in with each other?

“Why’re you lookin’ at me?” I ask. “Do you really think…” I stop when I see their eyes flash gold. Allison’s, too. The sight is enough to disturb me like I’ve never been disturbed before. “Okay, I did it. But I didn’t know that girl was a vampire, I swear! Is it really as bad as you’re makin’ it sound, or…” I can almost feel Derek looking down on me with disapproval through the phone, which is sitting there, eerily silent. “Okay, I’ll shut up now.”

“Derek, we can’t deal with this right now,” Allison says. “I got bitten by an alpha last night, so we’re gonna go looking for it in the woods.”

“Not all of you,” Derek says. “Send Stiles up to me with a couple of stakes. I know that druid vet keeps a few locked up somewhere in his office.”

“Me? Really?” I ask, not sure if I should be the one sent to take care of a vampire.

“Yes, you, Stiles,” Derek says. “Bring two at least. One for me in case you miss.”

If I’d been drinking something, I’d be spitting it all over the place right now. “We’re not gonna kill her, are we?”

“Only if we have to,” Derek says.

“Excuse me?” I hear the British-accented voice of that girl I saw on the street. Nothing about her appearance really screamed “vampire” to me...well, she did have her hood up and her head down. Maybe she was avoiding the sun that way?

“Just sit tight,” Derek tells the vampire girl. To me, he adds, “Oh, and Stiles? Make sure they’re mountain ash.” He hangs up, leaving me to stare at the phone.

Scott pulls a key from his pocket and crosses the room, opening a small, out-of-the-way metal box. Inside, I see a number of stakes of various types of wood. At least two are mountain ash - they’re the same light color as the railing in Deaton’s waiting room, which is made of the same wood to deter unwanted supernatural callers. Because Scott can’t pick up the stakes himself, I have to take them before he locks up the box again.

“You guys need a ride?” I ask Scott and Allison, tucking the stakes into the waistband of my jeans like they’re guns.

Allison shakes her head. “No thanks. I could do with the exercise.”

“And besides,” Scott says, “you need breakfast, dude. Or at least a cup of coffee. You’re a sugar crash waitin’ to happen.”

“You can smell that, huh?” I ask, cocking my head. “Next thing you know, you’ll be my cancer-sniffing service werewolf.”

Scott and Allison literally laugh me out the door. “No, but your hands are hella shaky,” Scott points out. “Seriously, get something to eat. I dunno much about vampires, but I bet they’d be tricky enough to take on even on a full stomach.”

“It’s daytime, though,” I point out. “All we’ll need to do is cook her in the sun for a bit.”

Allison’s lips curl. No doubt she’s seen worse, especially with her family being a bunch of hunters. But she must have a renewed appreciation for supernatural creatures, knowing that there’s some exceptions to the rule of them always wanting to hunt humans down. Like Scott, for instance. I bet she’s a lot less “shoot first, ask questions later” nowadays. Which is good for her, I guess.

Scott and Allison wave goodbye to me as I get into the Jeep. Before turning on the engine, though, I’m forced to take the stakes out of my pants. What the hell was I thinking, sticking them back there? Whichever action-movie hero was the first to put weapons that close to their valuables ought to be shot with their own gun. I mean, seriously.

I stop to get myself a cappuccino on the way to Derek’s loft. My only hope is that when I leave the stakes on the passenger seat, nobody from the Sheriff’s Department (least of all my dad) stops to look in my Jeep for any reason.