Archive of Our Own

“Mieczyslaw.” His father’s voice yanked him from sleep, his breath spiced with bourbon and grief. “Get up.” 

Stiles scrambled to get dressed with groggy limbs. Perhaps if he’d been more awake with an hour of farmwork under his belt we would have questioned why he was being led into the deep, dark woods. Perhaps if it was during daybreak and not the witching hour the extra light could have illuminated the intentions on his father’s face. 

Stiles followed his father without question. 

He was young and naive then. He believed all fairy tales had happily ever afters, that wraiths and ghouls could be thwarted with a pure heart. He believed in a world where fathers loved their children unconditionally, through sickness, plight, and grief. 

Perhaps if his mother had still been alive none of this would have happened. 

Branches snapped under boots and thick trees and brambles suddenly parted, revealing a clearing made in a perfect circle. His father stepped into the clearing and Stiles followed. 

The forest, which had been awash in noise suddenly fell silent. It was as though cotton were stuffed in Stiles’s ears. A full moon loomed above. 

“Father?” Stile’s own voice made him flinch, it was so loud against the silence. 

They were not alone in the clearing. 

Under pale moonlight stood the Witch. Her body was tall with bursts of bubbled, callused flesh, covered in rotting cloth that shivered with slight movement. Unkempt knots of black hair trailed down her knobby back in clumps. Her shadow did not match her body and was so dark Stiles knew if it hit him he’d fall into a never ending abyss. 

The last tattered veil of innocence was ripped away by gnarled hands with long, yellowed fingernails. 

“Papa,” his voice was pulverized to a whisper around the childish word, “please.” Later, when Stiles had the comfort to be bitter, he’d wish he was braver, the kind of man who knew he was being wronged. Instead, he gasped for air in unseasonably water-logged air. “Please.”

His father’s hand was heavy on his shoulder. He gripped Stiles tight and pushed him forward. 

“Witch. I offer up unblemished blood.” 

The Witch hissed with many mouths hidden under thin black tendrils of hair. She moved, slowly yet eerily fluid, like an insect with too many legs. Closer and closer she drew until some of her hair fell down Stiles’s back. His father’s hand shook. 

“You wish to make a deal with me?”

Her breath was spoiled soil. Her voice was writhing worms in the dark, curdled milk, and meaty snaps of animal tendons. Stiles recoiled but his father’s iron grip kept him from retreating. 

“I do. My son, in exchange for my wife remade.” The Witch didn’t move. His father shook Stiles by the shirt. “He’s twelve years of age, he hasn’t tasted any of man’s vices. He has all of his teeth.” 

“You are not selling me a cow. I need to see the child myself.” 

His father shoved Stiles forward. He fell to his knees. Run , his blood, head, and heart sang with desperation. Run . Tears blurred his vision. A heavy ache bloomed in his chest, a spiraling hopelessness that was born the moment his mother died. Each day the pit of worry-loneliness-despair was fattened with the way his father wouldn’t look at him, taking longer pulls of bourbon instead of speaking to Stiles. Grueling farmwork couldn’t chase away the feeling of encroaching doom. He was trapped, too young to understand the intricacies of loss, and too naive to realize that sad and desperate people are capable of monstrous things. 

Boney fingers ghosted over his skull. 

“I can not raise the dead. But I can construct a wife. She will be made of clay and ash, so she can not go out into the rain. She will have earthly beauty and will obey your every order. But she will not be the woman you lost.” The Witch withdrew her fingers. Stiles turned back to take in his father's moonlit face. “This is an acceptable trade. Is this acceptable to you?”

A tiny ray of hope in Stiles’s chest grew. His dad would only want his mother, the woman who taught Stiles how to sing, dance and play. Surely his mother rose above a demonic offer. A clay stand-in wouldn’t compare to the mother who gave Stiles his preferred name, a play-name when Mieczyslaw was too difficult for his mother to say.

“I accept.” 

Stiles’s last hope was extinguished with two words. His father said it easily, like he’d made up his mind long ago. Stiles wheezed as the Witch slid her long fingers down Stiles’s arms. 

“Your new wife will be formed at dawn. The deal is done.” 

The Witch squeezed Stiles’s shoulder and they vanished. 

::::

Witches coveted unblemished flesh. They stole babies from cribs and children from beds, all in service of their demented spells. All the horrible stories whispered at the schoolyard came rushing back to Stiles. I will be killed. Parts of me will be eaten, others preserved or ground down until there is nothing left to bury in the earth . 

Stiles worried his lips with his teeth as harsh branches and stone turned to silken grass. Rot and decay was washed away by faraway florals. 

“Well, that was uncomfortable.” The Witch spoke in a clear, human voice that wasn’t painful to hear. Stiles turned to see that the Witch was shrinking, her hair losing its grime and knots, smoothing out into long black rivers. By the time she was finished, the Witch was only a head or so taller than Stiles. She shook out her arms and the dirty rags that covered her skin were replaced with a simple dress. She glanced at him with warm brown eyes. “If you’re feeling sick, put your palms on your knees and take deep breaths.”

Stiles followed the Witch’s suggestion, pulling in deep breaths to keep himself from fainting. After a half-minute, Stiles got a better look at the Witch. 

She wasn’t the tall gnarled creature that towered in the moonlight. She had round cheeks and dirt on her nose. She kept squeezing her fingers like she was nervous. 

“You’re the Witch?” Stiles asked before he could stop himself. “But you look like a normal woman.” 

The Witch pressed her lips into a thin line. 

“People tend to be erratic when things don’t look or behave the way they expect.” She flashed him a hollow smile that cut through him like a frigid gale. She knew that he knew exactly what she meant. “What’s your name?”

As the last remnants of terror and betrayal slid off him, cunning returned. 

“Stiles,” he said, recalling fairytales and their lessons about the importance of names. “What about you?”

The Witch’s smile widened and warmed. She held out her hand and Stiles shook it. 

“Kira.” 

::::

Kira was an odd Witch. Stiles followed her deeper into the forest, on edge and aware he had nowhere else to go. Kira didn’t eat him, maim him, or cut out his tongue for lying about his name. Stiles was pretty sure she knew it was false. Instead, she crossed a wobbling bridge made from a falling tree to a small hut. It was made out of moss-covered wooden slats. 

A mangy black dog was curled up on the doorstep. Its ears perked up and when it saw Kira it stood on spindly legs that were too tall for its stout, chubby body. 

“Who the fuck is that?”

The dog spoke in a raspy voice that made Stiles leap out of his skin with a yelp. He stood rooted to the spot as Kira rolled her eyes. 

“Quiet, Bobby. Don’t be rude.” 

The dog ( man, Bobby?? ) snarled and bumped against Kira’s legs, circling her three times. 

“It’s not rude, it’s a genuine question. Why did you bring a baby home?” 

A weird burst of spiteful pride cut through Stiles’s fear. 

“I’m twelve and a half,” Stiles insisted to a dog. 

“Oh my apologies,” Bobby the mutt spat back, “I stand corrected, Kira.” He put his two front paws on Kira’s knees. If it were a normal dog the action would have been an affectionate one. But this… creature named Bobby was agitated and the move was to stop Kira from moving past the sagging wooden porch. Stiles had never seen a dog that looked annoyed and anxious like a man. “What are you doing with a kid?” 

Kira glanced back at Stiles with a weird look on her face, like she wished he wasn’t so close. 

“Bobby,” She tried to push him off and he nipped at her fingers. “I couldn’t leave him. His dad wanted to make a deal. How do you think it would have gone if I said no and lectured him on the responsibility of being a parent?” Bobby returned his front paws to the ground. Kira opened the door with a sigh. “Come on in, Stiles. It’s not much, but make yourself comfortable.” 

Bobby followed after Kira and when Stiles didn’t move to follow, he glanced back and barked. 

“Move it, kid. You’re letting all the warm air out.” 

Stiles scrambled inside. 

The ground was beaten down dirt, flattened and firm. Large pots lined the wooden walls, each one smelling muskier than the next. Dried flowers, mushrooms, and wheat hung from the ceiling. Books were piled in uneven stacks on the ground. Kira hooked a stool’s leg with her ankle as she pulled some herbs down from the ceiling. Bobby grabbed some twigs and sticks in his mouth and put them under a large cauldron suspended by iron chains above a fire pit. 

Stiles’s knees finally gave out and he crumbled to the dirt floor. The sound was swallowed by Kira and Bobby talking in low, familiar tones. Bobby dragged a second cauldron, much smaller but still heavy, and Kira poured grains into it by the handful. She poured water into each pot before striking the flint to make a fire. 

Once the fire was crackling, Kira sighed, her body unfurling like a flower in the sun. She held her fingers and toes close to the flames. After a while, Kira turned back to look at Stiles. 

Her shadow stretched long and dark, but also the fire softened her features. Even though Stiles was still dizzy with nerves, he saw Kira’s true face. 

“I’m not going to eat you.” She brushed her fingers through her hair, wincing as she tugged out a knot. “I don’t mean you harm, neither does my familiar, Bobby.” Bobby huffed before he went back to nosing along various jars and sacks. Stiles’s breathing evened out as a silence stretched between them, the only noise coming from Bobby dragging various things to Kira’s feet: a small sack of potatoes, root vegetables, and a jar of thick red paste. Kira pushed her hair back over her shoulder. “I won’t tell you what to do. You can stay here with Bobby and I, or I can bring you back to your home,” she raised her shoulder, a skeletal smile stretching across her face. “Well, not your home, but back with your people. Humans.” 

Kira turned back to the now bubbling cauldron. She went through the things Bobby brought her. She cut potatoes, diced root vegetables, and spooned the paste into the pot. 

Wiry fur brushed along Stiles’s legs. Stiles looked down to see Bobby sitting by his side. 

“Eat something. I’d say you look like you’re about to fall over but you already did that.” A a startled laugh left Stiles’s lips. Bobby looked equally surprised, his ears perking up and his hair fluffing out around his neck before he laughed, a wheezing, not human, not dog sound. “If you're asking me, big decisions shouldn’t be made on an empty stomach.” 

“Or with a lack of sleep,” Kira said as she brought them two bowls. 

Bobby dug into his right away, his tail wagging with each bite. Stiles’s mouth watered at the hearty smell of stew and grain. His stomach growled but he didn’t eat until Kira took a spoonful from her own bowl and ate. 

The stew was flavorful, filling in a way Stiles hadn’t experienced in years. The meals his father made were meant to line Stiles’s stomach so he wouldn’t be as hungry. His first spoonful of stew was warm and rich with flavor. Food ebbed away the lingering tremors that plagued him since entering the clearing. At the first spoonful, tears began to fall. 

Warm food filled his stomach and it sunk in how alone he was, how his father had given him up so easily with no tears. The bitter anger that roared from starvation was filled with dinner, and though it was present, it no longer clawed at Stiles’s throat. He wasn’t sure when he finished dinner, or when his numb limbs carried him to a small bed pushed up against the far wall. The sheets smelled like grass and old paper. 

Stiles woke up with a start from a nightmare. He blinked spots out of his vision, dreary flickers of his father’s growing disdain that eventually became murderous. He dreamt of being killed, by poison, drowning-- whatever it took to free himself from Stiles’s burden. The moon was still out and Kira snored softly in a hammock. 

“You’re okay.” Bobby’s gruff voice came from Stiles’s feet. The familiar was curled up on Stiles’s legs. “Go back to sleep.” 

His nightmares did not return. 

::::

Stiles stayed. 

He didn’t formally declare or agree to anything. He simply didn’t ask to leave and Kira never pushed him in either direction. For three days he watched Kira, how she moved books and jars around for her various projects. Sometimes she’d hunch over parchment with a quill in her mouth as she squinted at old notes, sometimes she went for long walks to gather herbs, and other times she’d spend all day over the cauldron. Stiles slowly joined her, picking ingredients, drying flowers, and stoking the flames for the cauldron. 

He got comfortable. 

“Kira,” Stiles spoke after Kira had finally found the book she was looking for after digging through three separate book piles. “Why don’t you have bookshelves?” Kira pushed hair out of her face. “If you had a shelf, you wouldn’t need to go through the piles. And you could get more books.” 

Bobby cackled from the far corner of the hut. 

“Ha! I told you, how many times have I said we need more furniture in this shit hole?” 

Kira glared at her familiar.

“Well I don’t know how to make them, Bobby, and you don’t have the thumbs to help.” 

Bobby’s fur fluffed out in anger and Stiles interjected before a real argument could break out. 

“I have thumbs.” Stiles wiggled them for Kira to see. “Dad and I made tables and chairs for the church. I bet I could figure out the shelves. I could even make you a bed frame.” 

Kira dusted off her hands. 

“Okay. I want to learn. What tools do you need?” 

Stiles showed Kira how to chop down trees, strip the bark, and sand down the wood to something workable. Kira’s hands, which had small callouses from grinding down herbs and roots, accrued new rough spots. She’d wince when a piece of wood slipped in her palm, but she never bled. They cleared and stripped six trees and dragged them back to the house. 

They built shelves, then floorboard, solid walls, and bed frames .Their days were filled with hard work and sweat. Kira would ask if something was possible, sketching out her and Stiles’s idea on parchment, never worried about running out of ink. Bobby would nip at their ankles if their plans got too outlandish, a harsh voice to ground them back to reality. “How about a table and chairs before you start putting in expansions?”

Together they laid down a solid foundation, floorboards, tables, chairs, and bookshelves. Stiles’s arms had gained muscle. His limbs were longer, and Kira glanced at his sleeves and pants, frowning at how they didn’t fit anymore. 

“Let’s get some materials and books.” Stiles watched Kira get excited, then her brows furrowed. She glanced at him. “I’ll need things from you if you want to come with me. Otherwise, you can wait here until Bobby and I come back.” 

A chill crawled down Stiles’s back. 

“What things?” 

Kira crossed her arms. 

“Two locks of hair and ten drops of blood.” Stiles wasn’t afraid , per say. A mixture of wariness and excitement stilled his normally rambunctious body. Kira nudged his shoulder. “Bodies can be used for witchcraft. To amateurs who don’t build strong foundations in study and structure, it’s a shortcut. A powerful enhancer but with low resilience. Spells for beauty, longevity, vitality, knowledge without a strong base, the power from living flesh will burn it away too quickly.” Kira leveled him with a solemn stare. “I only take what I need and I never let it go to waste. And, if I can help it, I will always do my best to give you a choice.” 

“Okay.” Stiles cut his hair and pricked his thumb with a sewing needle. “What will my hair and blood do today?” 

Kira had two small bags, one lock of hair in each and five drops of blood on the fabric of each. She tied the pouches on each side of Stiles’s belt. Her pouch went to her belt and Bobby’s were tied to a collar that she fastened around his scruffy neck.

“It will allow you to walk out of my woods and back into the human world. And it will ensure your safe return.” 

She carried Bobby in a large basket and held Stiles’s hand. The air grew colder with each step they took away from the house. The trees lost their lush foliage and the leaves turned orange. Bobby shifted in the basket and met Stiles’s wide-eyed gaze. 

“Hold your breath, kid.” 

The last step felt like falling. The wind blew their hair back and bowled in their ears. Air came from all around like a tornado until suddenly it all went still. The trees were gone and they were no longer standing on dirt but some kind of smooth, uniform stone carved in the shape of a road. Horses trotted down the road, hitched to ornate carriages not meant for lugging materials, but people. Buildings made of brick stretched along the road. 

Kira squeezed Stiles’s hand as she led them further into the town. They passed families, shops, and all sorts of sights and smells that made Stiles dizzy. Bobby sniffed, his tail wagging and his ears perked as they walked with a steady pace. Kira’s cheeks were flushed as her dark eyes darted to various signs, doors, anywhere within her line of sight. 

Time has passed, Stiles realized. More time than a boy who grew up on a farm could imagine. But he was no longer living on a farm. He lived with a Witch. Think of all the books I could read, Stiles thought with a dazed smile on his face. 

Kira bought them both a new pair of outfits, cloth to sew new clothes, and books. So many books that the old man at the trading post peered down at Kira over his glasses. 

“Are you sure you’d like to buy all these ma’am? They are awfully heavy.” He glanced at the more technical, non-fiction titles. Agriculture, aqueducts, basic mechanical systems, almanacs. “Maybe a little off the top will--eep!” 

He yanked his hand back when Bobby snarled and lunged at his encroaching fingers. 

“We’ll be just fine, thank you.” 

Kira led them back off the road of smooth stone and back to their green forest. Stiles buried himself in almanacs to catch up on the years he missed. Kira read almost as fast as Stiles, and even Bobby kept pace. Kira wanted to expand her garden so useful ingredients were at her doorstep. Stiles studied blueprints of gears, pulleys, and small mechanical systems. 

Together, the three of them sketched out a three story home, a tower with balconies wrapping around the entire house and big windows to let the sun in. Trellises would line the first two floors so all kinds of vines with useful flowers could bloom. The third floor would be kept clear for Stiles's biggest project yet, a series of ropes and pulleys that would expand throughout the forest to various outposts: the river, the swamp, the cliffs, and the outer edge. His system of ropes would have carts and pulleys so a person could ride easily there or send back things like water or vegetation. 

Stiles became accustomed to always smelling like wood and dirt. When his calluses tore and bled, Kira demanded that he pause his projects and help her, either in the garden or mending their clothes. Bobby was always by their heels. 

They journeyed back to the human world twice more, each time more exciting than the last because Stiles got to see how technology and ingenuity had progressed. 

Back in the human world, Stiles’s and Kira’s projects would have taken lifetimes and community effort. WIthin Kira’s domain, time moved at a leisurely pace and soon they’d erected a second story to their single floor home. Gardens with vegetable and flower beds stretched across the yard. Stiles had a separate area for his small experiments, running tests with self-carved miniatures in preparation for the third floor’s construction. 

He still had nightmares occasionally but once he was awake the warmth of the fire and the promise of more learning tomorrow settled his dark thoughts. Sometimes he’d worry he was dreaming, that surely it was impossible to be so happy and fulfilled. Sons were supposed to weather the storms from their fathers, sons were supposed to carry on a lineage, bound by blood and tradition.

Bobby griped at him and his worries were chased away. 

It had been a sunny day, the kind when Bobby and Stiles woke up early to cut down trees and drag them back for stripping. Boby sniffed out good trees and told stories all the way back, long yarns of olde. 

Kira hadn’t been at the house when they returned. It wasn't uncommon, so Stiles didn’t think twice, distracted by Bobby’s bizarre stories. 

“I’m sorry, Bobby, it’s hard to believe you had a salacious relationship with a vegetable spirit.”

“Radish spirit, Stiles, get it right.” Bobby huffed, his hurry body quivering with mirth. “I have a long string of lovers in the Feylands.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes as he chiseled out harsh knobs from tree trunks. 

“And yet here you are without a lover of any kind.” 

“Psh, says who? I’ve got the best partner a familiar can ask for.”

Stiles hummed, used to Bobby’s shenanigans, but the serious tone made him pause. He glanced down at the mutt when the implication hit him. 

“Kira” Stiles shuddered. “But you’re an animal-- that’s not--” Stiles yelped when Bobby bit down on his fingers. “Ow!” 

“Do I look like an animal to you?” Off Stiles’s flabbergasted expression, Bobby rolled his eyes. “Okay, let me rephrase that. Do I sound like an animal to you?”

Stiles huffed. 

“No, but--”

“But nothing. Besides,” Bobby nipped Stiles’s fingers again, lighter that time. “There are many kinds of love, not whatever sordid images in your Puritan-poisoned mind. I love her, she loves me, she’s a companion unlike any other I’ve had.” Stiles frowned at that. Bobby made it sound so simple, the way a child would confidently declare a personal philosophy on life. Stiles was raised to know the severity of love, that it was a hardship, an arduous and holy task tied with bearing children. Bobby hopped up onto a workbench, studying Stiles’s tight frown. “You’re young. You’ll have time to figure out what kinds of love work for you. All I can say is Kira and I love each other in our own way.”

Stiles picked up his chisel, his throat tight. 

“It’s nice you get to define it for yourself.” 

Bobby tilted his head. 

“So do you,” Bobby said easily. 

A bubble formed in Stiles’s chest, a growing sense of wonder and hope. Bobby dozed in a sunbeam and Stiles worked. Eventually a cool breeze blew and distance chimes could be heard. Stiles picked his head up, knowing Kira would return from wherever she’d wandered to. Bobby sniffed the air and when Kira came out of the woods she was not alone. 

Lydia Martin arrived on a sunny day and their odd family grew by one. 

::::

“Allison,” her aunt Kate gently jostled her awake. “Get up.” Allison groaned and snuggled back into her aunt’s guest bed. She always brought out the fluffiest blankets when Allison visited. It was the third day into her stay with Kate, a summer tradition that Allison looked forward to every year. The first week she'd have dreams, not quite nightmares. She figured that’s what this was until Kate peeled back the blankets. “Come on, Alley-Cat. Get up.” 

The slightly chilled summer air pulled Allison from sleep. She rubbed her eyes, glancing up at aunt Kate. 

“Is it morning already?” 

The question slipped out as her eyes adjusted. It was still dark outside. Kate smiled and helped her out of bed. 

“Not quite.” Kate bopped the end of Allison’s nose with her finger, smiling like a rogue from Allison’s favorite books. “It’s time for an adventure, just you and me. How does that sound, Alley-Cat?” 

When Kate smiled at Allison like that and used their special nickname, it made Allison giddy. Being an only-child was lonely. Kids at school said that only-children were spoiled brats. Allison wasn’t sure if she was a brat, but she was lonely. Her aunt Kate was one of the few friends she had. “You’re an old soul like me,” Kate always said. Allison was around adults all the time. She had no problem talking to older people, but she had no idea how to talk to anyone her own age. 

It’s why the kids at school called her weird. Stuck up. Teacher’s Pet.

Kate never called her any bad names.

Allison pulled on overalls and her favorite t-shirt, one from her dad’s old college. She laced up her boots and followed Kate out of the back door. 

“Are we going on a hike? Are we going on a hunt?”

Her parents and Kate talked about hunting. It was the only conversation they excluded Allison from. “You’re not old enough,” her mother would say with a firm, no-negotiation voice. “Be patient, sweetheart. Don’t grow up too fast,” her dad would plead. Kate would catch her gaze and wink. 

Kate was always cool like that. 

“No, we’re not doing anything like that.” Allison’s smile fell. She didn’t know what hunting entailed but she wanted to. Desperately. Kate nudged her with a smile. “It’s better than all that stuff. I promise.” 

Allison’s spirits lifted. She believed her. Kate told Allison all sorts of stories and secrets. While kids her own age struggled with long division, Kate was telling Allison all about her adventures overseas. Kate was an explorer, a pirate, a fearless soul stuck in a time with too much technology. Too much mundanity. 

Her dad said Kate was a barn cat, friendly to people she loved but happier in the great outdoors. Kate drove down windy roads that turned to dirt. They hopped over a fence that said “No Trespassing,” and when Allison pointed it out, Kate smirked. 

“Come on, Allison. I thought you were an adventurer like me.” 

“I am,” Allison insisted as she followed Kate deeper into the unfamiliar forest. 

They walked for a long time and Allison began to wonder where Kate was going. The ground, which Allison had anticipated being uphill because she had seen mountains from the road,” was flat. The dirt was oddly firm even though there had been rain storms recently. Kate, who was usually chatty during hikes, was quiet. Her smile had gone tight and hollow, like she was pushing through a painful injury as she studied tree park and squinted at leaves. 

Kate muttered under her breath, inspecting the forest floor before trudging on. Allison glanced back towards where they came but all she saw was darkness. 

Allison’s legs shook. She didn’t like the hush that had fallen over Kate. She didn't like that her phone was still in Kate’s car (at Kate’s insistence, telling her to “live a little”). Kate ground her teeth and right when Alison thought she was going to snap, Kate sighed. Deep and relieved. 

“Kate?” Allison whispered. “What is it?”

“I found it.” Kate heaved in breaths like she’d run a marathon. “That smug wolf asshole was right.” Allison squinted at her aunt’s loud voice. Kate whirled on Allison, her usual grin back. “Alley-cat, we struck gold.” Kate gripped Allison’s shoulders tight. Allison tried to smile back. She didn’t want to be a brat, she wanted to be cool, but something in her aunt had changed. “You’re going to make me rich.” 

Allison tried to pull away but it was too late. Something sharp pierced her neck. All the insects went quiet as Kate dragged Allison to a clearing by her overall straps. Allison could only move her eyes and she spotted a towering figure that almost blended into the trees. 

“Witch,” Kate’s voice rang out in the night. “I come with an offering.” 

The thing (Witch!) approached, long-limbed with breath that slithered. Skeletal fingers closed around Allison’s. She tried to scream but the air left her lips in a weak wheeze. 

“I am listening.” 

::::

Lydia came, then Isaac, then Erica, and then Boyd. 

Other Witches usually stole their more volatile ingredients, but some had started exchanges, one untouched child for a simple charm or boon. When those witches got what they wanted, they were lost in the ecstasy of short but intense bursts of power from the flesh. If they were called again they rarely appeared. People would get desperate, reaching back to religious texts and improvising. They would slay their children like lambs all in the hope to summon an indifferent Witch. 

Kira answered one summons intended for another Witch on a whim and ended up with Stiles. She answered other calls, and their family, over centuries, grew. 

Lydia Martin was the daughter of a Baron who traded his outspoken and intelligent daughter for an obedient doll that would look like a real girl to everyone else. Isaac’s father traded Isaac for ten acres of property from a rival family. Erica’s mother traded her for her lover’s safe return from a war. Boyd’s mother traded him for the improved health of his little sister. 

Each new addition mourned before finding their own space within Kira’s house. Lydia had been stern-faced, demanding facts from Stiles and scouring his findings until she was satisfied. Isaac was the most skittish, flinching whenever Bobby talked and then profusely thanking Kira for every meal until it clicked that he had nothing to be afraid of in Kira’s house. Erica was less interested in written accounts from Stiles or Lydia. She admitted she knew the three of them were happy and healthy. “Your cheeks are full and your fingernails aren’t chipping.” Boyd had been the oldest when he was traded. He hadn’t cried, his sister’s health had been worth whatever waited for him. 

Stiles and Lydia were book obsessed, Boyd called them “brainiacs.” 

Isaac stood by Kira whenever she cooked and brought his own recipes to share. He became the go-to seamstress without having to fear violence that he wasn’t a respectable man for preferring to sew. 

Erica had been harder to coax out of her shell. She switched who she’d spend time with until Boyd arrived. He’d taken one look at Erica forcing herself to read in silence with Lydia and Stiles and said, “Why bother doing something you hate? They won’t like you any more or less for it.” The ensuing screaming match had rattled the walls hard enough for Bobby to hide behind Kira’s legs. It was the most they’d heard Erica talk. Once their tempers cooled Erica and Boyd were often found side-by-side. 

Erica was good at carpentry and Boyd was an apothecary. He called it “being the son of a doctor.” Stiles was learning new words and professions everyday. 

They were a family of seven for a long time. Five humans, a Witch, and her furry familiar. 

Stiles and Bobby had taken over chasing away any noble knights and hunters who wanted the head of an evil Witch who whisked away children. Kira taught Stiles runes that brought illusions to life. 

As time moved on and technology progressed, rumors of witches and magic were forgotten. Stiles went back to his projects and Bobby returned to bothering Isaac for bits of his cooking experiments. 

Life went on. 

“I’m going to ask Kira if there’s a spell to make you stop growing.” 

Isaac frowned, a sewing needle held in his teeth. Stiles cackled and nudged Isaac’s knee. 

“You’re just mad that you can’t catch up to me.” 

Erica laughed from the third floor. 

“Isaac, you’ll get there eventually. As revenge, you could always refuse to alter Stiles’s clothes.” 

Boyd laughed somewhere deeper in the house. Lydia snorted, nose deep in a book from their latest haul. Stiles scoffed, an “aw, come on,” on his lips as Isaac went to retake his measurements. 

A gust of wind blew against the east side of the house, rattling various wind chimes they’d made over the years. Claws skittered across the floor as Bobby careened into the room. All his fur stood on end. 

“A summons?” Bobby’s voice cracked as the rest of the kids thundered down the stairs, Kira close behind them. Boyd must have been in the process of giving her a French braid to keep her hair out of her face because it was half done and getting loose. An icy chill slithered down Stiles’s back. Bobby barked. “When the fuck did we last get a summons?”

“I don’t know.” Kira blew hair out of her face. “Centuries.” Kira drew in a sharp breath, so deep that the curtains rippled. “I need my things.”

“On it.”

Stiles gathered up various satchels while Kira whispered under her breath to change her appearance. She grew taller, her fingers became long and knobbier, and her clothes grew moth-eaten holes. Boyd and Isaac held Kira’s hands so she could duck out of the house. 

“Be fast,” Isaac pleaded. 

“Be safe,” Bobby demanded. 

“Always am.” Kira took two steps forward and vanished. 

Stiles tried to rub the goosebumps off his arms. When Kira came and went the six of them usually went back to whatever they were doing. That day, they lingered on the front porch. 

“I got some blankets,” Boyd huffed, putting the folded cloth on a rocking chair. “In case they’re in shock.”

Lydia frowned, catching Stiles’s gaze. 

“Don’t you think it's weird Kira got a summons now?” Stiles didn’t have time to roll his eyes before she continued. “Think of the kind of person who’d still have the knowledge and then use it.” 

“Maybe it’s some kind of mistake,” Isaac whispered. Lydia shot him a look that made him flinch and hold Bobby closer to his chest. “I mean, it’s not probable, but it’s possible.” 

“Anything is possible,” Bobby huffed, “but we should--” 

Wind whipped across their cheeks. Dirt and pebbles cut their skin as Kira appeared, wild-eyed and mid-transformation with a little girl in her arms. Bobby barked and Erica covered her mouth with a choked “oh my God.” 

The girl's eyes were wide open and bloodshot. Frothy bits of spit clung to the corner of her gaping mouth. Kira’s body sagged under the girl’s weight. 

“Something is wrong.” Kira hurried into the house, placing the girl on her bed. “Boyd, I need you.” 

“Erica,” Boyd snapped, “get my supplies.”

Stiles was helpless, pushed to the sidelines with Lydia, Isaac, and Erica as Kira, Boyd and Bobby leaned over their new member of the family. 

“I know she can hear me,” Kira waved her fingers in front of the girl’s face, watching her eyes track Kira’s movements. “But she can't speak. She’s breathing, but…” 

Kira trailed off, her fingers digging into her own arm. 

“It’s getting worse,” Boyd finished. He held his fingers in front of the girl’s lips. “She’s breathing, but it’s shallow. I’ve seen something like this before.” Boyd glanced back towards the rest of them. “Kira, if her lungs give out, there will be no use trying to flush whatever poison might be in her system.” 

“I can keep her breathing.” Kira spoke quickly, her voice gaining an otherworldly rattle, like ice breaking atop a lake. “Remember, time moves differently here. We don’t have the same restrictions. If her lungs fail I will keep air flowing until you can fix them. Bobby, I need you here for guidance. Kids,” Kira called out over her shoulder. “I need you for supply runs, fresh herbs, roots, and blood if it comes to it--” 

Before they could leap into action, thunder rumbled in the distance. Stiles’s mouth fell open. 

Thunder was the first warning that they were being hunted. 

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles spat. “We just got a new arrival and some meat-head is trying to hurt a Witch?” He peered out at the gray clouds that gathered on the horizon. Usually Stiles and Bobby would go together, spinning illusions and farces that would have the hunters feeling victorious in killing a puppet and Stiles leaving with the satisfaction that his family was safe. “Bobby,” the familiar looked at him from Kira’s feet, fluffed out and conflicted. “I got this. Help Kira, keep that girl breathing. I’ll throw whoever is sniffing around off our trail.” Stiles grabbed his satchel and readied himself against the coming storm. “I promise.”

::::

Peter Hale knew something was wrong the moment Allison Argent went missing. 

Argents didn’t go missing. If anything they made other people go missing and Allison was too young to do that. When Peter saw it in the paper ( Young Girl Missing in Neighboring County Woods) he brushed it off as a young girl running off with some friends. When search and rescue dogs turned up nothing but an errant sock, Peter crumpled up his paper and pride. 

He swallowed bile, grabbed his keys, and drove to Chris and Victoria’s compound. 

It was a long drive. Every mile marker made Peter want to turn back with his tail between his legs. He was sure he was wrong, that even Argents could be struck with tragically bad luck. Her picture in the paper was haunting only because of the context. Missing Girl. Little Allison Argent had gone missing. Plenty of people went missing but very few were related to Kate Argent. 

“Peter.” Chris answered on the second knock. He had puffy bloodshot eyes. The police were in his kitchen and yard. Dogs were everywhere. Chris's lips pulled into a tight grimace, aware of his voice and the presence of law enforcement. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” He drew Chris into a hug, hitting him on the back and letting out a loud, broken sob. A couple of nearby cops awkwardly scuttled away. Peter squeezed Chris and whispered, “Kate came by months ago with a lot of money looking for old tomes. She was looking for a Witch, Chris.” 

Peter pulled back as Victoria came into the foyer. Her body was sharpened steel. She was quick to hide her defensive stance and violent disdain. She was fast enough for the cops. She’d never be fast enough for Peter. 

“Ma’am,” a doughy Sheriff unfurled into the room like a moth-eaten quilt. “We’re going to comb the barrens again. We’ll be back at ten, then again at dawn.” 

Victoria, Chris, and Peter put on a unified grief-stricken yet polite front until the last cop car rolled out in the driveway. 

If this were a movie Victoria and Chris would have rounded on him with guns blazing. The reality was Victoria taking a deep breath and long as Chris sighed. Peter spoke quickly because as much as he loved dramatic flair, he wouldn’t jeopardize a ten-year-old’s life. 

“Kate came to me looking for everything I had for Witches. Any accounts, folklore, tomes, she wanted it and paid more than double. I thought,” Peter grimaced, “I thought she was researching for a hunt. I thought it was odd because all Witches had been killed off centuries ago. Everytime I found a story about a Witch, it also came with tales of victory and defeat. I was wrong. She wasn’t looking to hunt a Witch. She was looking to trade with one.” 

Victoria was an icy inferno. 

“You’re coming with us to Kate’s house. We’ll see what she has to say.”

Kate had nothing to say because she wasn't home. Drawers were empty, suitcases gone. The house had been picked through top to bottom. Peter sniffed the stale bed sheets that had fallen to the floor. She’d been gone for weeks. 

“I’m going to kill her.” Victoria shuddered with rage. “She can’t run fast enough. She can’t hide well enough. I’ll find her, and I’ll--”

“Victoria.” Chris interrupted. He stared at the pictures on the wall, several with Allison growing throughout the years. “Either we focus on revenge, or we focus on Allison. Kate will be here within our reach no matter how far she runs. The Witch is a different story.” 

Victoria’s eyes went from Chris to Peter. 

“You sold all of your records on the Witch to Kate, correct?”

“I did, but not before making copies.” 

Victoria smiled, a quick flash of teeth that startled her as much as it did Peter. 

“Okay. We go after the Witch first. Then we take care of Kate.” 

Peter ran his thumb over his fingers. His body was wound tight with guilt. 

“Everything I have is at your disposal. I’ll do everything I can to track down the Witch. It will be hard work, it might not be as fast as we want, but I believe we can do it.” 

He shook both of their hands and they went to work. 

Peter was right. It wasn't easy. Kate had wanted to summon the Witch for a trade. Chris, Victoria, and Peter wanted to hunt a Witch, to track it in its own domain and kill it. They traded their bodies, minds, and souls for years of gathering artifacts, constructing sigils, and learning to work as a team in research and combat. 

By the time everything was aligned, Chris and Victoria had strands of gray hair peeking out at their temples as they stood in their backyard with Peter. 

“Ready?” Peter asked with this heart in his throat. 

It had taken more years than they would have liked, but all the preparations were complete. Victoria and Chris had crossbows on their backs with guns and knives on their hips. Peter was stretched and limber, claws out and ready. They’d pieced together an unholy doorway, a circle of brambles and meticulously grown and tended orchids. Orchids that feasted on blood, sweat, and tears, woven together with strips of animal meat. 

Under a glowing blue moon the doorway’s shadow stretched, long and dark.

“Ready,” Chris and Victoria said in unison.

Peter lit a torch of sage. It burned bright and billowed white smoke. He found Chris’s hand in the plums of white clouds. The three of them stepped forward, holding their breath as smoke and shadow pulled them from one world to another. Peter’s stomach flipped, his mouth went dry, and the torch of sage was snuffed out. His eyes adjusted to an unearthly dusk, frozen in time. Endless slabs of dark, wet rock, moss, and gnarled trees greeted them. 

“We made it,” Victoria’s stern voice reeled Peter in from the enormity of what they’d accomplished. “Keep your minds clear. Weapons at the ready, pointed forward, never at each other.” Peter shuddered. Though he’d never admit it, Victoria’s commanding voice made him feel calm. “Peter, what do you smell?” 

“I smell many things.” Peter couldn’t help himself and smirked. Victoria narrowed her eyes and Peter relented. “Everything smells wet or dead, but it’s odd,” Peter looked to the east. “I don’t smell flesh, sweat, bad breath, you know, the usual smells that come from the living. But that way,” Peter took a deep breath, “I smell cedar, old cloth of some kind, and paint.” 

Chris and Victoria shared equally confused looks. Chris cleared his throat. 

“Everywhere else smells the same? Wet and dead?” Peter nodded. “Then we go east.”

Their boots squashed on moss and rock. They climbed up a jagged cliff face, pulling each other up the rocks while keeping lookout. When they reached the top of the ledge, Peter pulling Victoria and Chris over, they were met with burned trees and acrid earth. 

A humid breeze carried the smell of wet clay, dried herbs, and fresh blood. The sound of cracking branches in the wind set Peter’s hair on end, because none of the nearby trees moved.

A towering figure in the trees came forward. It was humanoid, draped in rotting rags with long arms and legs that made it over eight feet tall. It had a woman’s body and long black fingernails. Greasy sections of black hair fell away from what should have been her face, but instead it was a fleshy hole, with bits of flesh carved away to reveal an abyss of impossible darkness. 

Victoria recovered from the shock first and fired off a shot from her crossbow. 

She hit the Witch in the dead center of its not-face. The arrow lodged in the dark hole and the Witch let out a shrill scream, like a field of pigs shrieking. 

“Break left!”

Chris’s command unfroze Peter’s legs and the three of them moved fast, ducking behind a dying cluster of bushes. The Witch recovered and pulled the arrow out. Black icor clung to the silver tip and dripped onto cracked earth. 

“Old fools! This is my hour,” the Witch roared, its hair blowing back to reveal its horrible hollow face. Chris readied his rifle and Victoria grabbed another arrow. “Do you not know death when you see it?” The Witch cackled and whipped her arm in their direction, sending a gust of wind to blow them back from their cover. “Die now,” The Witch giggled, “and curse in vain!” 

Something tickled in the back of Peter’s brain as Chris fired at the Witch, peppering her putrid body with bullets. She swung at Chris and Peter clawed off her hand before it could touch him. He threw the appendage to the ground. 

The Witch drew her stump back. Animalistic shrieks came from the pit in place of her face. Victoria shot arrows and Chris shot bullets. The Witch lunged and knocked Victoria off her feet. Chris unloaded on the Witch, buying Peter enough time to reach Victoria and leap away from danger. 

“I’m okay.” Victoria hissed when she took a deep breath. Chris caught up to them, leaving the Witch behind to screech with her bullet-ridden body. Chris’s eyes frantically darting over Victoria’s body. “I’m fine, Chris.” 

Peter glanced at the creature, how it turned toward them, sluggish. 

“I will bear thee to the house of lamentation,” the Witch stumbled forward. “Beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shriveled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.” 

Peter pulled Chris and Victoria away, darting through the trees, retreating instead of advancing. Chris tried to yank his arm back and Peter came to a stop, casting a frantic eye back towards where they came. 

“What the hell, Peter?” 

“Something isn’t right.” Peter rubbed his nose. “She smells like wood, not flesh. I think we’re being tricked.” Trees groaned and splintered as they were pulled apart by blackened, boney hands. The Witch was getting closer. “It’s quoting the The Lord of the Rings novels.” 

Victoria’s face went slack with shock. 

“It what?”

“It’s exclusively quoting The Lord of the Rings. I’ve read those books countless times. If you keep fighting the Witch, I can look to see if I can find whoever is pulling the strings.” More trees cracked and fell. “Do you think you can handle being on your own for a little bit?” 

Chris’s jaw muscle clenched. Victoria nodded. 

“Yes. Be quick and report back before doing anything.” 

Peter ran as fast he could, across dead dirt and burned trees. Death filled his nose but he didn’t relent. It was tempting to give up, to turn back, but Peter knew that was what a trickster counted on. He pushed forward until the ground softened into grass. Death no longer overwhelmed his senses. 

Something smelled wonderful. 

Peter slowed, ducking behind lush trees that were full of thick foliage. He took a deep breath. He smelled life. Sweat, wet soil, cold wind, and something that felt like home. Home in a way Peter had never truly known. The unsettled Wolf in him, the beast that prickled around every Alpha and always had one eye on the door, felt at peace. 

Peter’s legs were jelly as he followed the scent, salivating the heavier it got. 

A slender young man was tucked under a weeping willow. Peter crept closer. He heard the young man’s heartbeat. His fingers ached every moment Peter didn’t reach out and take. The boy manipulated a wooden, hand-carved puppet with his right hand and held a large crystal ball in his lap, peering into it and changing the puppet’s actions. The young man leaned forward and Peter was treated to a glimpse of the young man’s long neck and pale skin. 

“You will be strangled,” the young man’s deep voice set fire to Peter’s blood, “or pursued to madness by phantoms of terror.” 

The puppet lost another arm and the young man made it shudder and collapse. Somewhere far away, the false-Witch shrieked. 

Peter stepped closer, aching to see more skin, the swell of his cheek, the slant of his nose, the bow of his lips. Each detail made him want more. Peter ran his tongue over his fangs. 

He remembered when his mother spoke about mates. It sounded like a fairytale. Romantic. Sanitized. Peterk knew himself, he knew the kind of man he was. He was not a man with a soft heart. He could not sweep or be swept off his feet. He was not a man who could have a mate, Peter decided at a young age. 

He was wrong. 

Peter found his mate and it was a baptism in fire, a benediction that evaporated his blood and drowned him in champagne. It was otherworldly pleasure and pain, terror and bliss. Peter found a partner. Not a missing piece, because Peter was whole. Peter burned.

And burned.

And burned. 

And burned. 

He was aflame with desire and horror. He wanted to touch, taste, laugh, and the fear of not knowing if he could survive one more second apart from this man consumed him. 

Peter must have made a noise because the young man scrambled to his feet and turned to face him. Beautiful brown eyes washed away the fire. Peter blinked tears out of his eyes, his heart fluttering like a bird. 

“Who are you?” Peter Hale whispered. “Please,” the young man dropped the puppet. The ground beneath them shuddered. “Tell me your name.” The young man flinched and Peter surged forward without thinking, taking the boy’s wrist into his clawed grasp. The boy jerked back but Peter held him steady. “I know you can feel it. Our connection.” Peter breathed against his soft wrist before licking the young man’s pulse. “I can smell it on you.” 

The trees faded away like sugar disappearing in water. Peter caught sight of Chris and Victoria out of the corner of his eyes, much closer than he would have estimated. They were yelling, but Peter was deaf to everything that wasn’t the young man in his grasp. 

“Let me go,” the young man spat. 

Each puff of Peter’s breath made the boy’s pupils dilate. 

“No.” Peter sucked on the young man’s pulse. The man whimpered, his cheeks flushed a delicious pink. “Not when I’ve just found you.” 

“Peter,” Victoria skidded to a stop. “Who is this? What the hell are you doing?” 

The young man’s heartbeat spiked with fear. Peter’s Wolf was drunk off pheromones. Tell us what scares you, the Wolf howled and we’ll rip out its heart and place it at your feet. Peter’s mate pulled at his arm again. When Peter didn’t let go, he brought his other hand to his mouth and bit down hard. Peter smelled blood and the world titled on its axis and sent all four of them into a free fall. 

::::

Fuck, Stiles thought as he dissolved the illusion, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

This had never happened before. He’d never come close to being discovered. He’d carve different Witch puppets inscribed with runes that Kira and Bobby taught him to bring his illusion to life. He’d use Kira’s scrying orb to watch the battle and keep the illusion’s taunts and responses in check. Bobby was there for security. It was nice for the first few runs when Stiles had been so nervous he’d thrown up. But after the initial nerves wore away, it became something Stiles and Bobby did together, hanging out, scrying at a faraway battle where spirited warriors cheered over defeating a great evil as Stiles burned the puppet to end the fight.

Stiles had forgotten what it was like to be afraid of being caught. He’d been struck dumb by a handsome stranger with claws and sharp teeth. 

The stranger was the worst part. 

For centuries, Stiles had kept a voyeuristic distance, happy to watch from the safety of the orb. The handsome stranger had slashed away all barriers, had pulled Stiles close, licked up his arm with a tongue that promised all sorts of things. 

All the confusion that came from eroding the illusion gave Stiles the opportunity to take his arm back. 

Stiles twisted so he fell on his back. 

The sky was dark, fireflies blinked in the air. The three hunters fell behind him and Stiles forced himself to his feet. He ran on wobbly legs, still shell-shocked that he’d been bested. His feet slipped on grass and pebbles. He ran for the river, there was no time to reach he bridge. His feet touched the water when he heard sharp movement behind him. Strong cords shot at him and wrapped around his ankles, and another rope caught his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He cracked his face against the rocks and water. 

He dipped below the surface. He wondered if he was going to drown, so close to his family but unable to do anything to protect them. He trashed, but it did nothing with his bound arms and legs. 

Strong hands gripped the cords around his chest and pulled him up out of the water. Stiles coughed as blood sluiced from his nose. 

“Easy,” the handsome stranger said when Stiles tried to kick his feet. 

The man held him up with one hand. The other two hunters were a man and a woman. They had their weapons drawn. Stiles clamped down on the urge to squirm. 

“Where is the Witch?” 

The woman stepped close and Stiles’s breath came in short bursts. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

The woman didn’t blink before unsheathing a large hunting knife and pressing the metal against Stiles’s throat. 

“You don’t have to protect it. We can do this the civilized human way, or we can behave like animals.” The stranger who held him above water growled, low and dangerous. The woman didn’t bat an eye. “Where is the Witch?” 

Stiles tried to hide his quivering lips by pressing them together but it was futile. Fright and frustration choked all hope from him. 

“I’m not telling.” 

Tears blurred his vision, turning the crusaders into splotchy patches of color. Fingers gripped his chin before another hand whipped at his eyes. Stiles jerked back, pushing closer to the handsome stranger as the woman held his face so he couldn’t look away. 

“It’s okay to be scared. You were taken from your family. My daughter was taken too. You can help me get her back and take down the monster who stole you.”

Stiles laughed, loud, phlegmy, and hysteric. 

“You think you’re defeating some evil, you’re not. She saved us. When we were abandoned she gave us more of a home and family than any of us ever had. You’re gonna take that away because you can’t handle the responsibility of what you did? Grow up. If your daughter is here it means you or your husband traded her for whatever bullshit your life was lacking.” 

The woman drew her hand back to slap him, but the stranger caught it, growling as he pulled Stiles closer to him. 

“He’s telling the truth. Obviously,” the stranger’s claws tore through the cords around Stiles’s legs, but lingered on his chest. Stiles hated how his heart raced with fear and arousal watching the clawed hands test the tightness of the cords, knuckles brushing against Stiles's chest. “There’s more at play--”

Before the stranger could finish his thought, Stiles felt a yank on his navel. He slipped free from the cords and fell back into ether and landed on the other side of the river closer to home. Relief took Stiles’s legs out when a familiar rush of angry cold wind whipped against his cheeks. 

::::

The moment the girl took a deep breath on her own Kira sobbed with relief. Boyd wiped sweat from his forehead. Kira wanted to curl up under a mountain of blankets and sleep for a century. Instead, she stripped off sweat-soaked sheets for the fifth time and remade the bed, careful to work around the girl’s recovering body. She took a clean cold towel from Erica as Lydia took out the full bucket of bile to dump in the compost pile. Kira dragged the cold cloth over the girl’s forehead. 

“How do you feel? Better?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her voice was a ghostly rasp. Kira waved Erica over for a cup of water. She held it to the girl’s lips but she quickly took the cup, sitting up despite being dehydrated and exhausted. Her watery eyes took in the exits and people in the room. 

“What’s your name? I’m Kira,” she looked back towards the rest of her family. “Boyd is the one who expelled the poison. Erica and Lydia helped keep you cool until your fever broke. The furry menace in the corner is Bobby, my familiar.” 

The girl finished the water. Erica refilled it. 

“My name is Allison.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Allison.” Kira swallowed  an exhausted sigh. “You’re safe here. I know it’s a lot to take in. We can give you space if you like, or stay and answer any questions. But you don’t need to worry. Your mother can’t poison you anymore.”

Allison glanced up sharply. 

“My mother didn’t poison me. My aunt did.” Allison dug her fingers into the sheets. “I want to go home.” 

Boyd shot an alarmed glance to Eric and Lydia, no doubt stunned at the depths people would sink to in the name of greed. Kira and Bobby understood the darkest places humanity lingered. Kira pressed her fingers against her mouth, already thinking of the things she’d need to do a trip outside of her realm. Her head throbbed. She suddenly felt a powerful burst of untapped energy. It tasted like copper and thunder. 

“Bobby,” Kira gasped, “keep the kids safe.” 

Before Lydia could object to being called a kid, Kira vanished into the ether. She stepped between shadow and light, awash in the power that came from untainted blood. Kira closed her fingers around Stiles and dragged him through ether and away from the intruders. 

“Who are you?” Kira was too strung out to keep her appearance in check. Darkness crept in from her temples. Her eyes were dark stars, a cosmic mirror reflecting millenia of knowledge. “Tell me now.” 

Kira let her rage unfurl. Her hair grew until the river was awash in darkness. Crackles of energy burned the air in thin fissures. She wanted answers. If the intruders didn’t start talking soon, Kira would pull the words from their mouths, teeth and all. Stiles was bleeding . Kira couldn’t look at him or she’d lose herself in a violent dream. 

“They’re missing a daughter.” Stiles’s hands covered Kira’s. “A trade wasn’t made. Not by them.” 

Kira’s rage evaporated into a dizzy wave of confusion. The darkness faded and her eyes lost their abysmal depth. She blinked fully onto the physical realm. She wiped bitter icor from her mouth. 

“Are you Allison’s parents?”

The cascading relief was more of an answer than the man with the salt-and-pepper hair saying, “yes, yes we are.” Kira rubbed her temples, struggling to get her breathing to a calmer pace. 

“Great.” Kira gathered up her hair and slung it over her arm. “Come this way. She’s fine. She’ll be happy to see you.” Kira finally looked at Stiles and helped him to his feet. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nodded, grabbing an armful of Kira’s hair so she didn’t have to lug it all back by herself. 

“I’m good.” 

Kira pulled Stiles in for a hug.

“Good.” Kira kissed Stiles’s brow. “Good.” 

::::

Amber firelight lapped at the sounds the chaotic day left behind. Boyd spread a light herbal paste over the abrasions Stiles received from the river. Stiles’s nose had stopped bleeding but Boyd still prodded the remaining bruises with shrewd eyes. 

“You’re all set. I’ll check on your bandages again tomorrow.” 

Stiles curled up on a rocking chair and pulled a knitted blanket over his knees. 

“What about you? Lydia told me what I missed. Sounded intense.” 

Boyd glanced at the front window. The rest of the visitors and their family were inside. Allison’s parents ate dinner at the table while Stiles’s brothers and sisters ate on stools by the cauldron floor, not wanting to be too far from each other after such a wild day. Kira strung up her hammock and snored softly. Bobby was curled up on her stomach, eyes open and glowing in the firelight. 

“Kira kept her breathing when her lungs were fully paralyzed. It took a lot of water to wash the poison out. But she made it.” A low creak from the front door caught both of their attention. The handsome stranger leaned his hip against the open door, eyes on Stiles. “Well, I’m going to grab some dinner. Don’t stay out too long. There might not be any food left.”

They both knew that would never happen, but the stranger didn’t. Boyd closed the door behind him and then Stiles was alone with the not-human man once more. 

An anxious buzzing grew in his chest. His cheeks warmed at the sight of the man, the memory of his touch, of how his eyes blazed like a starved man before a feast. Stiles worried a thread of the blanket between his fingers, not flinching when the stranger dragged another rocking chair closer. 

Their breaths puffed out in the chilly night air. Fireflies danced in the dark, flickers of light shimmering on the stranger’s crooked smile. 

“How did you see through the illusion?”

The stranger’s lips split into a sharp-toothed grin. 

“You don’t want to know my name first?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes despite how his heart hammered faster behind his ribs. 

“No one’s seen through my illusions before. No one’s come close.” Stiles bit his lip and a perverse thrill ran through him when the man’s eyes dropped to follow the movement. “What gave me away?” 

The stranger’s smile warmed. 

“You were quoting The Lord of the Rings.” Off Stiles’s stunned, flustered look, the man continued. “I’ve read them cover-to-cover several times. I know the passages anywhere.” 

Stiles stretched out his legs until his ankle brushed against the stranger’s. The warm murmurs from dinner inside were far away, receding into the dark. 

“What’s your name,” Stiles whispered. 

“The man chased goosebumps up Stiles’s wrist with his fingers. 

“Peter Hale. What’s yours?” 

Stiles swallowed as Peter drew circles over his pulse. 

“Stiles Stilinski,” he answered. 

He’d never felt more awake as his lips curled into a smile, not entirely sweet as a new chapter in his life began.