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The scream died in her throat, drowned out, no doubt, by the cold fluid now seeping through her veins.
Her mouth opened in a silent, terrified O, clawing at her neck, right where the man in the tactical mask had jammed the syringe, taking away the only potent weapon when she needed it the most.
Were these the people Stiles had warned her about?
She should have listened.
She should have left last night when she had a feeling something was going to go down.
That someone was going to die.
Was she going to scream to warn about her own death?
She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“Don’t bother,” one of the guys sneered, tossing the now-empty syringe behind him.
“That cocktail was modified just for you, banshee. You won’t be making a sound for hours, perhaps even a day.”
She stumbled backwards, her back hitting the dinner table, the cutlery and glassware making a sound.
Four of them that she could see. Perhaps more upstairs or outside. No phone near her, no way to call for help.
She grabbed a glass from the table, brandishing it like a weapon, but whatever they gave her made her hands shake so hard the glass just crashed to the ground.
“Grab her,” the guy who’d sneered at her ordered, “He wants her intact, but there was nothing said about making sure she kept her pretty face.”
Two of the men lunged forward, and Lydia tried to grab something else, ending up throwing a plate and some cutlery at the two, who didn’t even flinch. She turned to run, but one of them threw a backhand so hard she flew over her dinner table, head cracking against the wall, vision swimming as the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
Instinctively, she tried to scream again, but only a strangled gasp left her.
Was this it?
No Scott.
No Malia.
No Stiles.
Just me?
The two men grabbed her by the arms and roughly lifted her to her feet, the leader reaching for his gun, opening his mouth to say something when –
The door to her house didn’t open, but more flew in, wood splinters raining down like confetti.
“FBI! Drop it!”
The voice was so familiar, but it couldn’t be him. He was nowhere near home.
The men who grabbed her swivelled around, and she was turned with them too, her vision still swirling, but even through the haze, she could tell her ears had not failed her.
Stiles was here.
He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, framed by the lights she’d forgotten to switch off in the hallway, his own gun gripped in his hand, aimed at the man who had been talking to her.
That man must have taken his gun out, for the next thing Lydia comprehended was the fact that he was on the floor, bleeding, no longer a threat.
The other two men were confused momentarily, and they, too, were stuck down, leaving just the other one she spotted initially.
He didn’t take too long to bring attention to himself and popped up from the side, his own gun pointed at Lydia, who was busy keeping herself upright against the far wall.
“Drop the gun, or I will kill her,” he said.
Stiles’ eyes momentarily flickered to Lydia, noting the trail of blood trickling down the side of her cheek, the way she opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
“You’re making a mistake,” Stiles told him, stepping closer towards Lydia, not holstering his gun.
“I said, drop it,” the one living attacker demanded, now much closer to her than Stiles was.
One shot, and she was certainly dead.
Stiles slowly lowered his gun, complying with the demand, holding his hands out.
Fuck, backup would be great now.
Before Stiles could speak more, the survivor shifted his aim from Lydia to Stiles and pulled the trigger.
Lydia screamed, once again, no noise leaving her lips, but Stiles could tell by the contortion of her face that it would have been one that could have brought the entire house down on them all.
Stiles did a stupid thing – at least that’s how Lydia described it to him later – he decided to lunge towards the surviving mercenary, tackling him, and driving him into the kitchen counter, his head smacking off it with a deafening crack, before the two of them toppled onto one another. The mercenary's gun slid out from between the two and Lydia reached for it, her hands still shaking.
Fuck.
By the time Lydia managed to steady her hand, Stiles had already delivered a devastating blow to the guy’s throat, and he was out cold. Stiles rolled off him, gasping for air, his hands clutching his side, the blood already seeping in between his fingers.
Stiles could see Lydia mouth attempt to say his name as she knelt beside him, panic engulfing her.
“I’m… okay,” Stiles wheezed out, one of his hands fumbling with the pocket of his windbreaker, pulling out a small auto-injector and handing it to her.
“It’s for you… antidote. Jab it in your leg.”
Lydia grabbed it and followed his instructions, feeling worse for a couple of seconds before feeling much, much better.
“Stiles?” she tried to speak, delighted her voice was working again.
“Good, it worked,” he wheezed out, and Lydia plastered her hands on top of his, “Glad to… hear your voice again…”
“You won’t be hearing it if we don’t get you help. Besides, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be safe away from here.”
“Don’t worry about that now. All that matters is that you're safe and the antidote worked. I managed to come just in time.”
“But you’re not safe. You got shot. Stiles, we need to get you help. Did you come here ALONE?”
“Kinda… yeah… sorry… they knew about you, Lydia, and I couldn’t exactly explain how you were definitely the next target and that you were a banshee… and you know… ouch…”
He took a shaky breath in, continuing, “I thought I would beat them here. That I could protect you, get to them before they got to you… I failed in that…”
“Shh, you idiot,” she chastised him, “you didn’t fail. I’m still alive, and I have my voice back. Besides, I don’t need a bodyguard, Stiles – you told me, and I should have listened. Now, shh, let me get you help.”