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Stiles grunted with effort as he forced the last door shut on brute strength alone, and then let himself slide to the floor with a well-deserved sigh of relief. The various incursion attempts were increasing in both frequency and intensity, and they were really starting to become a hassle.
(He’d never tell Allison, of course, but sometimes, he wasn't sure the second sacrifice he'd made was worth the gains; it had cost him Scott, and the pack, and Beacon Hills, and it wasn't like he wanted all this power, anyway. He'd done what he'd had to do, no matter what his best friend thought at the time. Just because things hadn't turned out the way Scott had expected didn't mean that Stiles hadn't done his best to make his friend happy.
Of course, based on the way Allison liked to pop in and punch him in the arm, especially when he was feeling a little depressed, Stiles was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking anyway.)
“It's getting worse, isn't it?”
Allison was suddenly next to him, concern plainly on her face as she took in his disheveled appearance. Stiles could only imagine what he looked like at the moment--gnomes were surprisingly spry for being what amounted to little globs of mud.
“The good news is,” he sighed, “there's not much they can do at the moment, besides be incredibly annoying, but there's just so many of them--”
“What do you think of Peter?” she interrupted before he could get started on yet another rant on gnomes and their utter uselessness in every magical ecosystem. “I'm sure he could help,” she added.
Stiles wanted to scowl at his friend, but Allison looked so earnest from her perch on the kitchen counter that he bit back the irritation on the tip of his tongue. Between Allison and the jeep, they really did have a good sense of who could physically handle the demands of the job at hand, but the mental demands were much trickier, which was why Stiles was still alone in this huge house. Allison really couldn't have chosen a worse time to bring him someone new, what with the current pest problem, but he knew he should be glad that she cared enough to worry, especially considering--
The magician shut that thought down before it could take root. That line of thinking led to nothing good, and possibly to lots of bad. Also, it would make Ally punch him again, if she knew what he was thinking. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye to see if she’d noticed, but thankfully, she’d looked away.
Gigantic bruise averted, then.
Stiles needed help, he knew that, but this wasn't a job for just anyone. It wasn't as if he could advertise his needs, and even if he tried, he wouldn't be able to trust the majority of respondents. Ally's snatch-and-grab method hadn't really worked out over the long-term, either, but at least the visits were nice while they lasted, and Stiles had learned things from his various guests.
Granted, they were generally not things useful to the task at hand, but still.
“There's something about him,” Stiles admitted slowly, when Allison turned back to him, “something more than his werewolfdom. It--I don't know. I can't explain it.”
Another bang echoed from somewhere further in the house, and both friends sighed.
“Don't say it,” Stiles warned. He let himself sink into one of the kitchen chairs and laid his head on the table. He knew what she was going to say, and he really didn't want to hear it.
Allison, naturally, ignored him. “Something's going to get through eventually,” she said, not unkindly, “and you won't always be able to protect yourself, there's just too much ground to cover. The jeep is amazing, sure, but it can't do everything a real familiar can, and neither can I. You need someone living to help focus your magic, probably multiple someones, and if Scott doesn't like it, he can take over as Gatekeeper and give you your life back.”
It wasn't that easy, of course, but Stiles was glad for the support.
“Now,” Allison said brightly, “what are you going to do about Peter?”
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The next time Peter woke, the sun was shining brightly through the window and breakfast was waiting on the side table next to the bed. The werewolf wasted no time in eating his fill, taking in the room around him as he did so. The space itself was nondescript save a wooden chest that sat unassumingly at the end of the bed. Peter couldn't say why he was drawn to the chest, but the longer he gazed at it, the more he felt the urge to look inside it. By the time he had finished his meal, his fingers were trembling minutely like they were going to open the box regardless of what the rest of him wanted.
Even more strangely, Peter couldn't sense anything from the chest itself. There were no spells that he could sense, or any carvings or other identifiable marks to beguile or ensnare an unsuspecting victim. There was no reason that Peter should be drawn to the chest, any more than the werewolf should have been drawn to the chest's owner, yet here he was--staring at a piece of furniture as if it would attack him at the slightest provocation.
The werewolf snarled angrily and practically threw himself away from the chest. He might have been distracted by the enchanting young man yesterday, but he was cognizant enough today to recognize that he was in a strange place with a man of unknown magical abilities that had subdued him without any effort the night before, and that was cause for concern. The man may have given him permission to explore, but Peter knew better than to touch random magical objects--especially one as confounding as this.
He would need to be careful when roaming the house, of course, but there was no way he would simply remain in his room while he waited for his host to return.
A quick look around showed that while the werewolf's original clothes were gone, another set had been left in the bathroom, and he donned them gratefully after a quick shower and the rest of his morning routine. By the time Peter stepped into the bedroom one again, the bed had been made, the dishes removed, and the bedroom door left wide open.
Peter crossed the room to peer out the door and into the hallway, his senses automatically reaching for any sound or movement in the area, but there was nothing, save a strange sense of anticipation that seemed to hang in the air.
Torn between curiosity and suspicion, Peter hovered doorway, waiting, until a woman's voice spoke from behind him.
"Stiles already gave you permission to look around; you should take advantage soon, if you're going to. You should consider yourself lucky; some people never even make it out of the bedroom."
Peter yelped and spun around to face his visitor, who was watching him from her cross-legged perch on top of the infernal chest at the end of the bed. "Who are you?" he demanded.
The young lady grinned at him. "I'm Allison," she said cheerfully, not at all bothered by the way the werewolf was gaping at her, "and you're Peter, and you've got one chance to prove that you belong here, so try not to screw it up. Okay?"
"What--?" Before Peter had a chance to ask the woman what she meant (or how she'd gotten past him, or how she knew his name), she faded away like a ghost, leaving the werewolf staring after her in shock.
Because, as far as Peter knew, there was no such thing as ghosts.