REAPING INNOCENCE ◦ STILINSKI [3]

xxix.

xxix. LET IT ALL IN

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STILES TOLD HIS father that he had a lot of homework to do, and that he didn't want anything to eat. There was a case that the Sheriff was too invested in to be aware of anything unusual in Stiles' face or tone. Stiles briefly recalled what the case had involved, something about an early morning jogger finding Erik Stone lying unconscious in town square with almost all of his blood having vanished from his body.

He was lucky to be alive; the police were just waiting for him to get stronger to see if he remembered what or who attacked him.

Once in his room, Stiles locked the door. He dug through his desk until he found a pair of headphones, and he plugged them into his iPod. He picked an album that Liam had requested right after Carter had died. It was one of Liam's favorite bands, but they used a little too much bass and shrieking for Stiles' tastes. He selected to repeat the album and lay down on his bed. He put on the headphones, hit Play, and turned up the volume until it hurt his ears. He closed his eyes, but the light still intruded, so he added a pillow over the top half of his face.

Stiles concentrated very carefully on the music, trying to understand the lyrics, to unravel the complicated drum patterns. By the third time he'd listened through the album, he knew all the words to the choruses, at least. He was surprised to find that he really did like the band after all, once he got past the blaring noise. He'd have to thank Liam.

And it worked. The shattering beats made it impossible for him to think—which was the whole purpose of the exercise. He listened to the album again and again, until he was singing along with all the songs, until, finally, he fell asleep.

He opened his eyes to a familiar place. Aware in some corner of his consciousness that he was dreaming, he recognized the green light of the Preserve. He could hear the rushing water of the quarry somewhere nearby. And he knew that if he found the quarry, he'd be able to see the sun. He was trying to follow the sound, but then Malia Tate was there, tugging on his hand, pulling him back toward the blackest part of the Preserve.

"Malia? What's wrong?" Stiles asked. Her face was frightened as she yanked with all her strength against his resistance; he didn't want to go into the dark.

"Run, Stiles, you have to run!" she whispered, terrified.

"This way, Stiles!" He recognized Logan's voice calling out of the gloomy heart of the trees, but he couldn't see him.

"Why?" Stiles asked, still pulling against Malia's grasp, desperate now to find the sun.

But Malia let go of his hand and yelped, suddenly shaking, falling to the dim Preserve floor. She twitched on the ground as he watched in horror.

"Malia!" He screamed. But she was gone. In her place was a tan coyote with glowing cold steel blue eyes. The coyote faced away from him, pointing toward the shore, the hair on the back of her shoulders bristling, low growls issuing from between her exposed fangs.

"Stiles, run!" Logan cried out again from behind Stiles. But he didn't turn. He was watching a light coming toward him from the shore of the quarry.

And then Carter stepped out from the trees, her skin faintly glowing—like a porcelain doll with a candle lit inside—her eyes dark and dangerous. She held up one hand and beckoned him to come to her. The coyote growled at her feet.

Stiles took a step forward, toward Carter. She smiled then, and her teeth were sharp, pointed.

"Trust me," she purred.