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“What are you doing here?”
Stiles’ head shoots up from his reclined position, wedged against the burnt-out husk of what used to be the house’s front entry way. One of his hands is planted firmly against the gnarled, soot-smothered wooden boards like always, feeling out the minute vibrations as it sends shock-waves up his arms—and in a strange turn of events, the presence of these strangers makes the very ground under him tremble, gooseflesh rippling in its wake and leaving every hair on his body standing on end.
The voice, and its bitten-out question, came from a woman who appeared seemingly out of nowhere. There’s a man standing slightly behind her, feigning being relaxed—with squared shoulders and hands flexing rhythmically. Dad’s made him take numerous self-defense classes over the years and they’re actually useful for once, in recognizing that this guy is, not only ready for a fight, but practically guaranteed to win—given the poorly veiled, corded muscle straining through the tight arms of his leather jacket.
There’s something familiar about these people though, and he can feel a strange trio of sensations all over; a nagging, twitchy jolt from between his ribs, a pulsing pull leading him towards the two figures, and a throbbing pressure at the base of his skull. They’re nearly identical too—with dark hair, defined cheekbones and strong features, coupled with twin scowls.
The only major difference between them is their eyes. One, a steely, determined hazel-gray, reminding Stiles of the piercing gaze of a falcon. The second set—an amber starburst surrounded by a startlingly clear pine-green—hard and unyielding, assessing and observing and categorizing his obvious weaknesses.
“Normally, I’d say you have to answer that first but seeing as you’re—” Stiles waves his hand in a generalizing, circular motion. “—you know, very… intimidating, I guess I’ll go first. I’m—”
“Get lost, kid,” the guy interrupts with a twitchy scowl, like his lip is itching to slide over his teeth like some sort of animal. “This is private property.”
Stiles huffs a quiet laugh, giving them both another once-over. Both are still staring at him intently, simultaneously confused and irritated—the man says something too low for him to hear but the other gives a soft ‘it’s okay, Derek’ and a figurative light-bulb sparks to life in his brain.
“Private property,” he murmurs to himself as a smile starts to grow. They start to look a little apprehensive at the look on Stiles’ face, and then flinch back minutely as he lets out a laugh. “Private property, as in—! Holy shit, it’s your private property! You’re the Hales, you finally came back!”
The siblings—because now he knows they’re siblings, because he knows them—must be Laura and Derek Hale, the only two survivors of the fiery tragedy, save for their comatose uncle.
Laura looks blindsided, but Derek merely narrows his eyes and all-but snarls in his face, “And who the hell are you?”
Behind Stiles, the house lets out a creaking groan—a warning. He pats the wall beside him reassuringly, letting out a gentle hum. “It’s alright,” he says to the still-groaning structure, wind stirring up ash and dust in twisting circles around him. “It’s alright, he’s allowed to be upset. I’m not scared of the big bad wolf.”
Derek steps forward with a snarl, eyes glowing, but Laura grips a firm hand on the back of his neck and Derek’s affront quiets to a bone-deep rumbling growl, though it doesn’t calm the angry glares they keep trained on Stiles.
The house groans again in protest, this time louder—and something near the back of the house splinters and cracks violently, startling a large flock of birds out of the trees. Without hesitation, the siblings snap to attention, each flanking one side of the house in low crouches and making their way around to the rear.
“There’s nothing back there!” Stiles calls out into the trees, stifling his laughter at the echoing, muted grumble that reaches his perch on the front step. “You’ve gotta trust in your own senses, Derek.”
There’s that same strange-yet-familiar tugging sensation pulling him through the wreckage so he follows, trusting his instincts. He runs a gentle hand along one of the last remaining walls as he walks and smiles as it seems to sag against him, a subtle pressure against his palm.
“They’ll figure it out soon,” he reassures quietly, fully confident. “So long as they inherited your brains.”
The house shifts with a sound like a combination of a creaking laugh and a sigh, […]
[…]
When Stiles turns the corner towards the back porch, Laura’s staring out into the Preserve with jaded eyes and Derek has crouched in the dirt beside the front step, hand planted beside a spread of sun-faded handprints in what clearly used to be colourful paint as his stiff shoulders tremble slightly.
“She just wants you to listen,” Stiles murmurs, knowing full well they both could hear his whole trek through the burnt husk of their home, despite pretending to not recognize his presence. Laura’s head shoots towards him with a fiery glare, eyes glinting in the dappled sunlight, but Derek doesn’t react, merely staring down at the handprints. Stiles risks a couple steps closer but comes to a swift halt when a low snarl erupts from Laura’s throat.
“She?” Laura spits, risking a loaded glance at Derek; her fierce expression falters slightly when she registers Derek’s blank look, and Stiles knows Derek's letting off all kinds of overwhelming chemo-signals right now.
“The spirit,” he replies simply, shooting a look over his shoulder towards the Preserve—right to where he can sense the swirling vortex of pure energy, where those tendrils of power snakes out in every direction—and smiling when the leaves rustle a response in a distinctly unnatural manner. “The one in your house, in the Preserve. She’s been waiting for you.”
A wave of… something rushes out from the Vortex and Derek finally looks up; Stiles can feel it spreading over everything, like a blanket of pressure heavy enough to compress your bones. He laughs, tipping his head back slightly as a gust of wind spirals around him, rustling his hair and clothes in what feels like affection. Stretching his hand outwards and flexing his fingers, he lets the force weave between them and up his shirt sleeve in dizzying circles like a playful pet, trying to stifle more laughter at the odd sensations against his ticklish skin.
“Alright, alright, I’m starting now. Just—hah!—hold on a sec, Kyria, jeez!” Both Hales stare at him, like they’re peering into his soul; the feeling of their gazes are hauntingly familiar. Unceremoniously, he raises his hands towards the tree canopy above them; the sweeping gales coil back down his arms and around his fingers, taking on a vaguely iridescent shimmer as he lets his energy seep into the air around them and the spirit takes it on to strengthen its presence just enough that the siblings in front of him can now sense it. They stiffen, whirling around to scan the treeline and snarl towards the empty remains of the house respectively; Stiles fights a slightly mean-spirited snicker—with arms still raised—but doesn’t manage to keep quiet enough to avoid his preternatural pals hearing it, and only laughs harder when Derek spins around with gnashed teeth and a furious glare.
He lets his hands drop, turning slightly to glance at Laura then back at Derek. “You guys have allergies, or anything? Like, bees or nuts or… huh, I don’t actually know what else people can be allergic to. Shellfish? Yay, nay? May-bay? Er, wait, can werewolves even have allergies?”
Derek starts forward with fists clenched at his sides, but Laura throws out an arm to stop him with a glare of her own. “Why?”
He shrugs unceremoniously, jerking a thumb back inside the house over his shoulder. “I brought snacks. You like trailmix? It’s got M&M’s, mostly blue ones ‘cause those are the only ones I don’t like. They taste like pencil crayon.”
“What do you want from us?” Laura asks lowly, stepping in front of Derek as her eyes flare red—ignoring how Derek’s snarling steadily rises in volume.
“I don’t want anything,” he repeats, emphasizing the ‘I.’ The only reason he’s even hanging around at all is because Kyria found him, followed the trail of his magical energy signature thing, and asked him to keep her company—who knew living as an invisible spiritual force in a derelict, shell of a house could get so lonely?
to be continued...