Chapter Text
The fingers of the wind are tapping on the car panes; he rolls them down, breathing in the freshness, lofty pine trees, and whirling yellow leaves. He stands on the threshold of winter. Autumn has slipped through his hands.
He spins the ring, which betokened his teacher's affection, enticing him with the promise of power once, on his finger, round and round. Some days, it felt like it could easily fall off. He dispersed the thought swiftly.
As hard as he stared at it, it remained snug.
And Lydia stares as well at him, her brows knitting in concern, and he finds something else in her expression that is like forgiveness, as if there had ever been anything to forgive.
Another town, another case; he is so far away from the smog of the city lights and the sultry atmosphere of Vieux Carré, yet Stiles finds his thoughts corralling back to him. Reminiscence: a road he traveled one too many times; he swallows his fear, it has only been a year, but half of him lies buried still in this past.
"You make me heartsick." She scowls, and Stiles lets out a half-whistling sound in response.
Silently, he shook his head, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel. Lydia has turned eerily silent in the back seat. He turns upwards the rearview mirror, although he can barely hold her in line of sight, much less touch.
Her gaze became infused with pity, "what a wonderful time you have chosen to have second thoughts." She sneers in a vitriolic tone he learned to dismiss from his mind.
"There is nothing to regret," Stiles murmurs, swallowing around the blockage in his throat and plastering a smile on his face; her hand combs its way through his unkempt hair in impalpable strokes, so naturally he caves in, taut muscles turning slack.
"We've certainly taken a stride forward. I see, I see." Lydia susurrates into his ear, and his smile melts into a scowl of despair. Albeit, even without any kindling on his part, conversations of this kind seldom dwindled away. Stiles' gaze swings at the passenger seat; although he doesn’t see it, he knows it to be there, somewhere amidst yesterday's newspaper, Chinese leftovers, and garbage. He doesn’t even hesitate, crushing his fist around the hex bag, and the world tilts on its axis.
He barely registered the dim outline of the figure crossing the road, headlights flashing too quickly for him to see anything but brief images. The sudden jolt throws him forward, and the Jeep skews across the road.
He had half-expected the car to blow up, his limbs to scatter and litter the grass below, sinew tottering, or something equally gruesome.
His once-alert mind clouded over and hollowed. Neck, unnecessary, suspended at an odd angle atop the steering wheel. He wakes slowly—too slowly—as if from a dream. Eyelashes stir in the dark, and he hears nothing but the clicking sound of crimson dashboard light resounding throughout the empty space.
A screech prises him off his stupor, opening the glove Stiles selects a knife at random and toils up the woodland track, with no plan in mind — he didn't even know he was going to get up until he was standing among gnarled trees. Gradually, he sees less sky and more leaves, boughs obscuring his vision.
The atmosphere is infused with something bitter: 'blood', his brain supplies unaccommodating, although his mind can play tricks like that he had his dagger drawn, his shoes soak in the puddle as Stiles inches forward, the water swirls around his legs reaching almost to the point of his ankle, diminishing his movements. The cries grow stronger and cease just as abruptly as they commenced.
Below, near his feet, his eyes beheld a terrifying sight: the body of a woman violently contorted, bleeding sluggishly from the haphazard wound on her neck. He stares at her, grateful for the coverage the thin veil of darkness provides, his breath wheezing in and out through gnashing teeth.
Red orbs shining through the lattice of leaves was all he saw before it lunged towards him.
Brandishing the knife, thumb pressing lightly, is experimental, soughting to cut as much surface as possible. It swished in the air, slashing slantwise across its back once, finding little to no resistance. Stiles hummed, pleased, taking a step backward.
In the mischief of moonlight for a moment, the first of many, his stomach churns in macabre delight.
He is thrown down; it takes longer this time, agonizingly so, to resume his movements, and it excites him. He hardly can withstand the ferocity of every hit; adrenaline was still being pumped by his heart, though his uncoordinated attacks had little chance of success.
He is spun around and entrapped in a nearly bone-crushing grip. Stiles turns his frenzy eyes on them, bringing the knife down. Skin turning pliable under the sharpened tip.
With a grip of unsteady fingers, Stiles clutches the hex bag.
——+——
He brushed the sheen of sweat away from his forehead. It wasn't a werewolf he knew as much. However, he absently noted to give Peter a call later, nonetheless, as he disregarded his shirt, changing to another one decidedly less clammy, and rested an arm outside the window, allowing himself to relax at last.
The night carried a gentle blanket of chill, extinguishing the last embers of autumn. The cold nipped at the back of his neck, and Stiles tugged at the lapels of his jacket.
'Welcome in Mystic Falls' engraved in wood greeted him. He came to a stop outside a bar close to the town square.
When he opened the door, he was instantly wreathed in smoke. From what he could tell, the 'Grill' was operating as a dining spot in the afternoons: billiard, bar, and booths; overcompensatory amenities that can be a flaming red flag; expenditures that scream “I don’t have any trust in this!” justifiably so; people settle in places like this, but not everyone is cut out to live here, a small rural town, they stay for a while and then they go out to Lynchburg, though the lack of decoration to accommodate Halloween pleased him greatly. It was a nice change from the blinding lights and the suffocating smell of incense and burned wax. The French Quarter was imbued with holiday spirit this time of the year; the quaint streets were buzzing with people who were most likely to engage in all manner of things one would usually do only under the hush of night.
He slides into the booth, his palm itching, and Stiles has to fight the urge to light up a cigarette, but he pictures the ashtray stub the same color as the one that sits in his lungs and stops his movement midway.
He notices a lingering gaze on his back and quickly lifts his head to meet it, glancing through the near-empty bar stools until he finds him: A man conversing with a conspicuously young boy who reeks of aftershave and something vaguely alcoholic. He backhanded the boy, prompting the slouchy teen to go home, although Stiles doubts the stranger had scant regard for them.
He sits next to Stiles; +bourbon was his poison of choice; he orders two glasses and slides one over to him and Stiles nods curtly in return, not bothering with a proper greeting.
He doesn't want to deal with the man right now. A part of him doesn’t want to be here at all, so he springs from his seat, more than ready to bid the stranger goodbye.
"I think you and I both prefer it that you don’t," he whispered, his black hair cascading down his neck as he made a lurch for Stiles' wrist.
He neither recoils nor flinches; he doesn't even blink at the undercurrent of violence. He thinks of his former mentor. She was truly a stage entity, she would move with a poise he couldn't replicate and would never refuse a good game. She could defuse such an erratic situation instantly. Whereas Stiles would try to spare himself the shame and fail.. "...I can hardly refuse." He says carefully, and the man relinquishes the grip on his hand.
He was hardly able to enjoy his night as it is. Tonight was a disaster just waiting to happen. Right from the incident in the woods to the present. He should have seen it coming. Saw the inevitability of it.
He jars his whiskey; it doesn't hurt to take his fill just once to indulge himself, or well, so he has been told. His eyes carelessly hover to protruding cheekbones and settle over to darkened ocean ones, and Stiles takes a sip, welcoming the familiar burning, a sour tinge coating his tongue.
"If nothing else, you have to admit it tastes sublime," his fingers skirt Stiles' glass rim, bumping their knees together, but he could tell he wasn’t drunk. His actions were much too deliberate and swift for it.
He hums a tuneless song and inquires about his whereabouts and what brings Stiles to town, promising 'he would not tell a soul' in a tone that didn't lend his word any credibility.
"A couple contacted me for a cleansing ritual; it seems they have encountered some unusual activity-"
"You're a witch?" Damon asks, suddenly looking amused—as if following some joke Stiles wasn't privy to. "You don't look the part," he taunts, but there's an edge to his voice, razor-thin—arousal too, and Stiles cringes at the abrupt click of teeth.
Damon's gaze is far too intense for his liking; Stiles pauses, setting his drink down, and scrunches up in confusion. "No, a spiritualist." He corrects.
"What's your angle then?" Damon's voice drops to a whisper, barely audible. "Sure there must be more to it for someone to travel here, we don't have that many visitors and i doubt the money is that good" he leans in a bit more, and Stiles isn’t sure whether the man had a contemptible consideration of social etiquette or if he should read a threat into it—most likely the second one, but he always had a penchant for trouble.
His eyes close, taking a long sip, he reopens them to see Damon still staring at him expectantly. He looks up at the ceiling, still aching for smoke.
Perhaps Stiles should have opted for the shawl instead of his leather jacket; it would have been arguably more plausible.
“Well no, to be frank, I do other things like readings and energetic purification” Stiles offers nonchalantly. "But dude I'm only here for the exorcism.” He says, accentuating the last word.
And he wasn't lying. It was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill job. He offered consultations, most of his clients wished to communicate with a departed loved one or were weary of their new house, and Stiles happily relieved them of their worries and more often than not their money. Seldom he had the pleasure of a real hunt at hand.
"I'm sensing...so much negative energy." With calculated flair, he reached deceptively long fingers into his pocket. "Here," he said and unceremoniously dropped an unassuming white crystal on the man's hand. “Meditation is extremely helpful too.”
He stares at him incredulously, and Stiles expects to snap in anger; however, the man bursts into a gurgling laughter. Shaking his head, he laughs decidedly less hysterical this time before patting Stiles in the arm.
When Damon shifts in his chair he catches the dawning of a scar at his collar, and Stiles fleetingly wonders if he missed this somehow, squeezed in in the fine print.
Still, strangely enough, he thinks that he would like to see Damon play.