Chapter Text
The geraniums bloom early, which is just typical form for this entire year. Climate change has made a mess of everything. The orchard bore fruit too late for the local festivals, so Stiles had to pay his normal employees to work overtime to help pick, rather than the cheaper migrant workers who, hands down, needed it more, and didn't bitch about the whole ordeal. He'd managed to sell off most in town and gave away what he couldn't eat. Aside from frost wiping out half of the peaches, it had otherwise been an unremarkable haul that season. But now the geraniums were off their mark, and seemed a bit top-heavy for it. They'd been destined for the shop, so at least they'd get some use out of it. The only question was whether anyone would actually buy them, they were so dull. If some wonky weather cost Stiles his entire crop, someone would hear about it.
He straightened from where he'd just bent to thump a large bag of fertilizer on the growing pile. Sure, Stiles owned a few dozen acres, the nursery, barn, and old Victorian farmhouse that stood on it, and the most prominent flower shop in town, but that didn't mean he didn't like to help with the actual manual labor that came from owning a business. Besides, while he preferred to handle the majority of his accounting, there was a set point when his ADHD had him crawling the walls, and he just didn't care to renew his Adderall. During crucial moments, like crises, or end-of-year inventory updates, he would swallow his meds manfully and stick to the books. A bunch of flowers with bad timing didn't exactly count as a crisis.
It was a rather seasonal day, if he didn't say so himself. Not warm enough to prompt Beth Ann, the grandmotherly bat that ran the register down at the entrance of the first greenhouse to turn on the misters for the customers. The plants needed a light shower every once in a while, but a soft breeze and scudding clouds kept Stiles only sweating from actual physical exertion.
He had a trolley pulled up loaded with more fertilizer from the storage shed. Apparently, this particular brand was popular. Considering most of the customers who bought it were notorious for their vegetable gardens, and he himself used it in his own, he couldn't imagine why. Even as he continued stacking, a somewhat older woman in pastels snagged the bag he'd just placed down, grunting and staggering a bit. Stiles already had another one tossed over one shoulder, to make the trip between cart and pile easier to navigate, mainly because the "aisles" we're too narrow for the thing. He reached out and plucked the bag from her, slinging it over the same shoulder, and reaching out to steady her.
"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned. "They're a bit heavier than they look. It didn't hurt you, did it?"
"Why, thank you, young man," she breathed, chuckling. "I didn't expect that! I'm fine."
"Good. A few of the girls pull muscles or have sore backs after restocking these. Wouldn't want a customer getting hurt," he said, removing his hand now that she was righted. "Here, I'll carry this for you. Is it just the one, or...?"
"Two, actually. I'm planning on expanding my garden. I'd like to grow my own food this year."
"Ah, good choice, then. I use this in my vegetable garden. Haven't entered the produce section of the grocery store in months. So, where to? Do you have a cart?"
"Oh no, I just needed the two bags. It's too early for seedlings, yet," she said airily, while threading through the snug walkways between various gardening supplies. Stiles followed at a respectable yet sociable distance, shifting the two bags once so they sat better on his shoulder. They weren't heavy yet, thankfully. He'd have to jog a mile with them before he felt like he needed to dump them. "I've still got to ready the space."
"Sure. Then it's off to checkout. Here, follow me; I know a shortcut."
He branched off down an aisle composed of a bank of hanging plants and the edge of a section of heavier building supplies meant to help spruce up and separate areas of the average American backyard. She followed along, passing forth anecdotes about her plans and what she was growing. Stiles laughed and chattered right back, occasionally responding to her ideas with suggestions and information regarding materials in stock that might help. He tried to keep the casual sales pitch to a minimum. He hated thinking of customers as just sources of income. They were, but they were also living people who appreciated talking to people who were mutually passionate, rather than just greedy. He tried to stick to personal experiences and asking questions.
About a minute later, they'd emerged from the maze to the three cash registers that stood between the rest of the nursery and the gravel parking lot. Beth Ann was the only person running checkout, since it was about one in the afternoon on a Wednesday. The Roumis-Lakeview Nursery was going through a rare slow period.
"Hey, Beth, has he showed up yet?" he called mid-approach.
"Nope, but he's still got a few minutes. Be patient, he was too eager when he filled the application. He'll show," she chided, as he set the bags on the counter and stepped back. "Ah, good afternoon ma'am, is this all?"
"For now, yes," the pastel-clad woman replied in a way that promised future patronage.
"Alright, your total's on the screen."
"I'll carry these to your car," Stiles offered, patting the bag on top. When the woman opened her mouth—to complain or thank him, he couldn't be sure—he barreled on. "No, really. It's no trouble. I'd rather help than see you fall over. So, direct me, O mistress of the vegetable patch."
He followed her to a dusty hatchback and bid her adieu before trudging back to the open end of the nearest greenhouse, where Beth Ann had been. He'd intended to have her send the job applicant back to him where he was restocking, but he found her with someone else. It was probably a customer.
"Stiles!" She waved before he could slip quietly away. He stepped closer. "This is the boy who's here for the interview."
She said boy, but when you were sixty-something like her, age was irrelevant, and everyone younger was a boy or girl, not a man or woman, and never anything so crass as a dude or chick. Said boy was actually a young man, who could have been Stiles' age—a ripe old twenty-five—or he could have been in high school. Stiles was no stranger to his own reflection, but he might spring for claiming the applicant was younger. Not bad looking, by a long shot, but Stiles was the owner of the establishment and wasn't out for a pretty face, but someone who would get as much out of the job as they could give. He'd allow himself to drool over potentially jailbait dimples never or at least after he'd denied the guy the job and ruled out his libido as any of the reasons. Stiles was a professional. Professionals don't bang their employees, potential ones included.
Besides, he didn't even know if the guy swung that way.
"Hi, Isaac, right?" He offered a hand to shake. "I'm Stiles Stilinski."
"Yeah, Isaac Lahey," the guy returned. "This place looks awesome. I got lost wandering around back there."
"People tend to do that," Stiles joked. "It's kind of fun rounding them up at the end of the day and leading them back to civilization." He turned to Beth Ann again. "I'm going to take Mr. Lahey up to the house. I left a pallet of fertilizer back there by the lawn ornaments. Get Richard to deal with it, would ya?"
"Sure thing, boss." Beth Ann tipped an imaginary hat at him then went back to the paperback she'd taken to reading during slow parts of the day.
Stiles was keeping in a chortle and walking away when Isaac spoke, causing him to out and out laugh, shake his head at Beth Ann, and motion him to follow.
"Wait, you're conducting the interview?"
Stiles knew why he was surprised. Here and now wearing jeans, a short-sleeved plaid button-up, and an old, stained baseball cap, he looked like a part-time employee, rather than someone trusted to conduct job interviews for the privately-owned business. Being the actual owner of said business would be a fair bit more difficult to fathom.
"Well, of course. I am the boss," he joked. "Come on, the farmhouse is just around this greenhouse, down the path, and across the bridge. It's a five minute hike. We can have our chat with some lemonade in the study."
The Roumis-Lakeview Nursery and old Roumis farmstead were situated on about forty acres of land divided unevenly between open fields, and dense woods. The farm had always been small; the Roumis clan, Stiles' relatives on his mother's father's side, had opted more for growing just enough to feed themselves and make a minor profit for necessities. The fields eventually were overtaken largely by wildflowers and weeds. Meanwhile, the Lakeview family who were Stiles' relatives on his mother's mother's side, who ran a professional flower shop nearby, had a daughter and a proposal. Stiles' great-grandparents were wed, and their respective family businesses joined the bandwagon. About sixty years ago, they were combined into one mostly self-sufficient business. When Stiles' mother died, the succession of ownership passed to him. It was just good luck he already had a passion for growing things and majored in botany in college.
The actual nursery was composed of three main buildings, and a few clustered storage sheds. The first building, the one which stood closest to the lot and the road beyond, was the largest. It had once been a grand old greenhouse before it was refurbished to half-resemble a barn. The end facing the road was left as a gaping opening devoted to a manual garage door with a small service entrance to the side. During the day, the door was left up and customers could walk in and out as they pleased. At night or during poor weather, it was left closed in favor of the service entrance. Most of the first building was devoted to supplies and tools, with few floral displays.
It was flanked to either sides by its slightly smaller sisters whom divided their leafy, growing contents by climate. The south greenhouse had a koi pond to follow its tropical theme. Betwixt the greenhouses was a covered storage area and far behind were the fields where the hardier and more common flowers were grown.
A thin arm of woodland was sandwiched to the south of the nursery along the road. A dirt path wide enough for a pick-up to navigate wound through that stretch of woods and picked up on the other side of a small but serviceable bridge spanning a creek. That path lead to the actual farmhouse, which Isaac realized had to be a euphemism for "Victorian manor." The path doubled as a driveway which skimmed along the front porch and continued on until it reached the main roadway just down a tree tunnel.
The house itself really was big. And old. And rambling. It had three notable floors, and a basement, with a stately wraparound porch. Vine-strangled columns gave the façade a sturdy, upright appearance. An impressed breakfast nook and library mirrored eachother's picture windows. Trees grew dense and shaded the front of the house and the turn-about that lead off the driveway. To the back, the sky was open.
Isaac had perhaps taken Stiles' words too literally because he stayed silent the entire walk. And he had this poorly-restrained intensity about him. The guy fidgeted and tensed, his eyes darting everywhere, kind of like a dog's ears twitching. It gave Stiles the heebie jeebies which he had to fight to keep visibly contained. When he caught the younger man sniffing the air, he had to refrain from cracking a joke about decaying leaves. Stiles led Isaac to the back porch, which had a perfect view of the small clearing his ancestors had created over a century ago. A long path cut off to the left through berry brambles until it met with the edge of the fields. A long time ago, it had been a private logging road.
"Here, sit down, I'll go get us some drinks and your application," he told Isaac before disappearing behind the screen door. He left the heavier door open to let in fresh air and so he could keep up a steady monologue directed at the applicant. "I hope you like your lemonade a little bitter. I'll bring out the sugar anyway, but there's something about the tang I just can't help but love...Hmm, I know I put it here somewhere...Ahh, here it is...so your application says you're twenty-one. Not a bad age. I remember it, all the newfound freedom. My birthday was a few months after I inherited this place. I was such an asshat back then that a few of the girls had to drag me to the bar to get plastered that day." He'd been practically shouting, but tapered off to a more polite volume as he came back onto the porch with a cup in either hand and a sheaf of paper tucked under one arm. "Says a lot about what kind of boss I am that my employees can get away with getting me smashed out of my mind. Here."
Isaac took the glass, smiling warmly and taking a grateful sip. Stiles didn't miss the grimace and laughed appreciatively as he dug a diner-style sugar dispenser from one pocket and passed it over. I knew it, he told the other man conspiratorially while he sat in a wicker chair beside his companion. No one can handle my lemonade in its original form. He set his glass aside after a hearty swallow, then went back to skimming the application packet. Isaac waited silently, nervous energy pouring everywhere, enough to shame Stiles' ADHD. After a few minutes, he set it aside, and appraised Isaac, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips in scrutiny.
"You applied for a part-time job and you're still at an age where you would normally be in college. Is that the case, or is there something else consuming your time?"
"Ah, I take online courses, so, yeah, a bit," Isaac began, scratching his philtrum and looking out at the long grass. Stiles needed to mow it. "Otherwise I just hang out with my friends. But lately I could use a little extra cash, y'know?"
"Yeah, I was a barista and TA back in college," Stiles admitted fondly, trying to push the conversation along in a positive direction. "So why work at a nursery?"
"Oh, well, I like growing things. It smells nice out here, and it's quieter than working retail or fast food," Isaac said, seeming to find something fascinating in his cup. "I can relax here."
Relax? If fidgeting out of his skin the entire walk over was his version of relaxed, Stiles didn't want to know how Isaac got when he was stressed.
"I see. Do you have any experience with plants?"
"Besides snagging oranges from my neighbor's trees on the way to school? None." Isaac gripped the cup, twisting it around against the skin of his palm. "But I'm strong. Real strong. And I learn things fast. And I'm good with my hands."
He fell silent, and Stiles suppressed a grin. Clearly, Isaac was nervous. Somehow Stiles had impressed some weird importance on him and he was sweating under the effort of trying to convince him. Which was sort of sad because Stiles was one of the most easy-going people in the area. And, frankly, he kind of liked Isaac. Not in the mattress mambo way, but in general. Isaac was twitchy, yeah, but when he spoke about why he wanted to work at the nursery, his voice held true notes of relief and joy. He spoke gently, like he was choosing his words carefully, but they rang genuine. When Stiles had gestured for him to follow, he hadn't missed the way the younger man flinched, or the growing desire he had to put a stop to whatever got him so riled that he flinched from Stiles' expansive gestures. If he had to put it into words, Stiles almost felt protective of him.
If this was an act, this kid was good.
"Okay, you know what? I like you. Come by tomorrow at, oh, eleven, and we'll put you to work. We can work out all the details after your shift, okay?"
Isaac, predictably enough, lit up, but a hint of disbelief colored his mannerisms. He agreed readily and thanked Stiles and chittered away about how he wouldn't regret it, Mr. Stilinski-
"Stiles. Call me Stiles, or boss," he interrupted. "'Mr. Stilinski' was my grandfather. Besides, I prefer to cling to my childhood dream of being a badass mob boss."
Stiles walked Isaac back before heading off to check on one of his personal projects. That night the nursery shut down as it normally did. A few of the staff gathered at a pub downtown to commemorate a staff member's resignation. The next day, still somewhat hungover, Stiles welcomed Isaac to his first day. His instincts proved to be spot-on and a few weeks passed.
The loud slamming of a door in the otherwise empty house had Stiles visibly relaxing as some of the accumulated tension fled his body through the medium of the gusty sigh he heaved. He hadn't had a guest in about a month and the anxiety had been suffocating. He pushed back from the heavy wooden desk in the center of the room, relieved for reasons stemming from distraction. He'd just been running numbers and preparing payroll and was beginning to grow antsy. Twenty five years of this shit, and it seemed spectral timing was still as unreliably reliable as ever.
He rolled his eyes as he heard the telltale dry scrape of fingernails across a wall while he made his way to the kitchen for a soon-to-be-needed beer. Clearly this spirit was a dramatic one. How very cliché. Eventually it would get enough sense together to realize he wasn't impressed and they could get down to the meat of the matter. Stiles was a grown man in his own home. A home that had been free of unwanted hauntings since the day he moved in. If this ghost wanted to chat, it would find him, or get lost. If it refused either option? Too bad. Stiles, being what he was, had ways to get what he wanted.
Right now he was thinking he already wanted that beer. Over the hiss of the vacuum seal releasing, Stiles made out voices, one shrilly familiar. The other low and alien.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Lucinda, owner of the shrill voice and one of the house's cohabitants accosted the new arrival. "You're making a racket and some of us are trying to relax and enjoy our afterlife!"
"Chill out, I'm just getting my spook on," the low voice responded harshly. "Just go do whatever it is you do and I'll leave you alone, capiche?" Heavy footsteps sounded from the family room.
"Fuck no. Look buddy, knock it off now before he offs you. Like, really offs you, ghostliness and all. He's got zero tolerance for all that low-quality white noise you're pulling out of your ass."
The footsteps stopped. "'He?' Who's 'he?'"
"Jesus, what kind of dumbass are you? Do you have any idea whose house this is?"
"Judging from the greenhouses out back...Some tree-hugger?" The guest guessed half-heartedly.
"No, dipshit." Lucinda's voice dropped into a barely-audible whisper. "A necromancer. You should go talk to him. Now, before he decides to drag you into a dead cat and make you dance like a marionette. He did it to the guy that boiled to death, you know. Fucker laughed while the fella screamed."
"Feh, you're full of it."
Stiles sighed, before deciding to do the sensible thing and drag the guest to him. His mind passed lightly over his intent, he snapped his fingers, and with hardly any effort, the newly-arrived ghost was standing in the middle of the kitchen. It, a man wearing a sweater vest, of all things, gasped and shivered, hunched over and breathing heavily. He stared wide-eyed at Stiles, confusion rapidly being overcome by fear when he realized Stiles' gaze was meeting his evenly, one eyebrow cocked.
"She wasn't lying, you know," he informed the ghost, in case that hadn't been made apparent. "I'm a necromancer. People– dead people tell me I'm pretty good.
"So." He hopped, sliding up onto the counter behind him, guiding his movements one-handed. "Why are you here?"
"I-" The ghost straightened, swallowing. "Died. Uh."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "No shit. I mean why are you making an ass of yourself at my house? Don't you know it's rude to go bump in the night?"
The man bristled and grit his teeth, his face darkening into rage remarkably fast. Peace talks corroded in seconds as energy shivered through the air. Cabinets and drawers slammed open as things began to shake and rumble against the counters and floor. A toaster started levitating shakily as Stiles looked on, thoughtful, but unperturbed. When he felt the fit had outlived its usefulness for clarity, he brought up a hand, palm down, and moved it gently towards the floor, as if gesturing for the ghost to sit. Abruptly, everything stopped. The cabinets closed softly, their contents resettled, and the toaster set back down on the counter. Stiles nodded to himself once he was satisfied everything was as it was.
"Bit of a short fuse, huh?" He asked conversationally. "Let me guess, your death was really unfair—" His voice oozed sarcasm. "—or you have anger management issues. Amirite?"
"How did you do that?" He asked intelligently. Clearly the shock hadn't worn off. Just then Lucinda appeared in the entryway, and Stiles shifted his focus to her.
"And where have you been, missy? It's been radio silence for a month! Have you all suddenly resolved your issues and passed on?"
"What are you talking about?" Luci settled easily into her old role of bickering with him. "I saw you just last night while you brushed your teeth. You wrote a banishment rune in toothpaste on the mirror because I kept making your towel fall off."
"Yeah, one month ago. And then everyone disappears and I'm stuck panicking wondering if I accidentally poured too much juice into that damn charm," Stiles retaliates hotly, because how dare she try to act dumb. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? Boris wasn't there to wish me a good day on my way out the door! For four weeks!"
"Stiles, stop exaggerating, it's only been a day," she groaned as his more dramatic tendencies took hold.
"Excuse me, but what the hell is going on?!" Douche-vest actually squeaked. Stiles had almost forgotten about him.
"Jeez, you're dumb," he muttered, grimacing before enunciating every syllable carefully, while also adding shakes of his bottle for emphasis. "I'm a necromancer. You're a ghost. I win. Comprende?"
Vest-o gaped openly. "No?"
Stiles ran a palm roughly over his face before jabbing the neck of his bottle at Luci. "Whatever. You. I want the truth. What the hell happened to you?"
She pulled a face at him. "You can just keep asking, sweetie, because I sure as fuck don't know."
He grunted, released a hissing breath then set to drinking his beer. A migraine was already catching up on him.
"So you disappear for a month, and have no memory of it?" He asked, trying to buy time to process. Or maybe he was just processing out loud. Luci didn't find it amusing.
"No, you throw me out of the bathroom and the next thing I know this fucker-" she jabbed one long index finger at the new guy "-is 'getting his spook on' in the living room—very loudly I might add." She took off in a tangent, seeming to find threatening the guy in the vest more amusing. "You're lucky I didn't use Gretta's needles on you, asshole."
Stiles chewed on the inside of his cheek as he processed. Excusing, of course, his wince. Aunt Gretta's knitting needles weren't to be taken lightly in the spiritual world. He took a drink so he wouldn't have to actually speak immediately, mainly because he wasn't sure entirely what was happening. Little did he need the excuse of cheap beer because Vest-o took the initiative to derail the discussion.
"I just- I don't understand," he began in hushed tones. "I mean, you can see us?"
"Yep. He can touch and control us, too," Luci replied acerbically. "You starting to get the picture?"
"I. Maybe? I just- how?" He went on.
Stiles couldn't think of a logical reason for the entire household to disappear at the same time and for so long except for a glitch in the rune he'd written. Which, shit, he'd only done to get a few minutes of peace to get ready for bed. He started imagining how the apologies might go and quickly switched over to dealing with the guest.
"Dunno, it's just something I've always been," he informed the guy, setting down his beer and making his way to the pantry. He hadn't had dinner yet and he was starting to crave some tomato soup. With grilled cheese, yum. "Like, I was the kid from that one movie. The 'I see dead people' kid? Yeah. And then I figured out having nightmares about a zombie apocalypse was a bad idea so- Jesus!"
Stiles took a moment to steady himself where he'd landed after opening the pantry door and jumping in shock. Luci rolled her eyes, but Vest-o looked concerned. When he had repositioned himself to see into the pantry as well, he winced and looked away. It had taken a month, but Stiles had managed to forget the traumatizing experience of looking in the pantry only to find Ricky in the midst of his nightly fit. He inhaled once more for the sake of it, and held it in before reaching around Ricky's leg and snagging the can he wanted. Stiles shut the door gently behind him and busied himself at the stove. It didn't help anything to think about Ricky after seeing one of his fits. They happened every night like clockwork, and were nobody's business but his own. Thinking about it wouldn't stop it from happening, and Ricky had yet to ask Stiles to help him pass on, so he would respect the ghost's wishes. Death was a pretty big deal, and having Ricky relive his in the pantry was infinitely more preferable to pretty much any other part of the house. It wasn't exactly nice to look at, so having him somewhere out of sight was easiest.
"Why-" Vest-o began before Stiles cut him off.
"Because. He can't help it. I'm not about to turn him out because of it."
Perhaps his tone properly conveyed the "shut the hell up" he'd hoped it would. The guest fell silent and no one spoke for several minutes while Stiles stirred his soup and rummaged around in the fridge. A pan with the makings of a grilled cheese joined the pot he was nursing by the time he felt the need to break the silence.
"Look- What's your name?"
"Thomas."
Stiles turned around just to eye him incredulously. "Really? Not Tom or Tommy, just Thomas?" His stormy expression gave Stiles the answer he needed. "Okay, Thomas it is. Look, Thomas, what Luci said was true. About the boiled guy. I'm not exactly someone you want to mess with. But—big 'but,' here—I'm not heartless. There are others who stay here and they're welcome to as long as they don't act out. All that cliché moaning, rattling chains, footsteps—the whole nine yards—just pisses me off. In return for the company, I try to help them move on. Some prefer to stay, but most go. If you promise to follow house rules, you can become a guest here for as long as you want."
He brought down the heat to a simmer and went to open his second beer of the evening. This time, he went to recline in one of the chairs set around the small table shoved into the breakfast nook. He nudged one across from him out so Thomas could sit down without passing through anything. Thomas took the proffered seat with some measured concern but Stiles didn't say anything about it.
"So? Would you like to loaf around here for a bit? You might like it."
"What are the house rules?" Thomas' eyes took on a hard quality.
"Simple, really," Stiles listed them off with a gentle tilt of his nearly-full beer. "None of the spooky special effects, especially not when there's living company over. You respect my privacy, I respect yours. Uh, mainly the idea is not to be a dick. Ask yourself if what you're thinking of doing might annoy me, and if it will, just don't. It's really not worth it."
Thomas seemed to need a moment to mull it over. Stiles stood again, this time to take the sandwich off the stove. He moved to toss the empty can away before noticing the recycle bin was almost overflowing. "So? We cool?"
"Fine, I'll stick around for a bit," Thomas agreed grudgingly.
"Cool, watch the soup for a minute. I'm gonna go take out the trash."
The night was one of those balmy ones that always followed hot days. A discordant symphony of crickets sang about the ambient temperature as Stiles skirted the house with the full bin. He thought back on the day, remembering almost too late that tomorrow was the collection day for recycling. He emptied the smaller bin into the larger blue one before maneuvering it around onto it's wheels, and trundling down the driveway towards the road. He passed his jeep where it was parked in the turn-about and smiled fondly. Stiles loved that jeep dearly and still got little giddy shivers whenever he saw it. Like he was reliving the moment he found out it was his.
His feet moved confidently as he followed the driveway through the dark. Under the trees, it was almost black, but he knew what he was doing. This was familiar, muscle memory. Still, seasoned veteran that he was, he still found the looming darkness of the surrounding foliage unnerving from time to time. Not for the first time he wished he'd gone through with the old pipe dream he'd had of lining the drive with lights. Maybe twinkling ones, to resemble fireflies. He could still do it. Maybe take a day over the weekend to set it up.
He was halfway back up the driveway, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, when he heard a very loud, very green snap coming from his right, off in the trees. Stiles immediately stopped in favor of rolling all his weight to one leg and letting his head fall back so his next words were addressed to the canopy.
"Holy god, what now?" He let his gaze drop and draw in the direction of the noise, wishing he'd brought his phone or at least a pen light. He only used the former for business calls and no one called him this late so he'd felt confident enough to leave it behind. But still, it was too dark to see, and what if it was a bear or a cougar that had made that noise? Shouldn't Stiles have the privilege of getting a good look at his killer?
Except, maybe not.
There, something like fifty feet away, a pair of glowing yellow eyes stared back at him from near the ground. Stiles drew in a sharp breath and watched as the eyes flickered, a blink, and then rose. When they stopped, they were about five or six feet off the ground, and locked steadily on him. Now that he wasn't moving, he was able to pick up a few soft scuffs before a second pair of yellow eyes joined the first, this one higher.
Whatever they were, they weren't human, but they weren't normal animals. The eyes, when he got over the whole glowiness, and that color, were surprisingly similar to a human's, though. Stiles had seen some abnormal shit in his time, but he'd never quite come across something like this. The closest thing had been a particularly derailed spirit of a middle-aged guy who shapeshifted into a wolf dog whenever angry. He'd always sported electric blue eyes and a pretty hefty case of revenge-fueled psychosis. His soul had been weak or broken, which led to him being see-through in every kind of light, and eventually disappearing literally piece by piece. Now that he'd peered down memory lane, Stiles was drawing a lot of similarities.
If these things were anywhere near as loco as the other guy, he should probably make some sort of effort to run. Yeah, running would be good since he wasn't entirely sure what he could do to defend himself.
At the somewhat familiar low rumble he recognized as the noise the other guy made when he growled, Stiles made up his mind. "Not again," he whined, before taking off toward the house.
He was running blind part of the way, but within seconds he drew close enough to glimpse the lights from within. Stiles didn't hear any footfalls following, but he knew better than to relax, and just barreled on ahead, head held low to watch his feet. He had a hunch these things, whatever they were—hellhounds?—didn't make much noise when moving. He also had a hunch they were faster than humans, so his best option would be to run his little heart out and try to follow his instincts.
Pain, bright and sharp, exploded in his head, then spread to his jaw, neck and shoulders, before being compounded by similar pain spreading across his front. He barely had time to register jerking to a stop when he lost track of everything. All there was left was darkness that put his forest at night to shame, and pain. Throbbing, pounding pain.