Teen Vamp

Chapter 9 - Just Let Me Go Down And Do My Stuff

***STILES***

Seriously, Derek's got a great hunch about Deucalion. And also seriously, I'm agreeing with it. Why, I couldn't tell you. But I'm guessing it might be because I've just had sex and so I'm in a more amenable frame of mind. Ah, endorphins. I should get hits off you little chemical guys more often. You do a boy good.

"My question is," I say as we get into Derek's Tahoe, "where's Deucalion?" I have to recline the front passenger seat as far back as I can to avoid the sun, but hopefully not for long, because the sun's going down in about two or three hours. And also hopefully because Hunter has to sit by himself in the second row, with Skylar all the way in the back. With my seat all the way back, there's virtually no room in the passenger-side second-row seat. Or the middle seat in the same row, for that matter. But bonus, Hunter's close by enough to stroke my hair and relax me.

"I bet he's at my place," Derek says.

"Then why are we leaving where he might be?" Hunter asks. "We should go back into the loft and tear out all the sheetrock from the walls."

"Are you trolling?" Derek asks Hunter.

"I could be!" He winks at me to show the answer to Derek's question. Silly werelynx. Though I'm pretty sure his silliness and (especially) current predilection for trying to ensure my comfort is his way of coping with his own bad feelings about his dad. Which is also why I'm concentrating on Deucalion's location instead of Thomas Renard's, even though we all know they're one and the same location. Or are they? We're jumping into this crap so blind, we barely even remembered to put on chest waders. Which won't do us much good when we find out the hole of crap is neck-deep. Even mouth-deep.

Speaking of mouths touching shit, note to self: if Hunter asks to eat my ass, tell him it's a hard, hard no. I wouldn't do the same to him myself.

"The thing is," says Skylar, "it's...unlikely our dad would want to actually share living space with a werewolf for any amount of time. He may not be at the cabin at all."

"Unlikely," Hunter points out.

"But not impossible," I chime in.

"I know, I know," Skylar says with a sigh. "But if he's doing the unlikely, it only means he's fully embraced chaos."

"Arsehole," Hunter says.

Derek steers us off the main road. "Yeah, no shit."

"Actually, yes shit," Hunter says. "The kind of arsehole that vomits its contents anywhere and everywhere it can."

I don't know how Derek manages not to wrap his ride around the nearest tree, but he does have the self control to do no more than say, "Thanks for that lovely mental image."

"You're welcome."

I'm dating a troll. It's official. One who's clearly seen Pink Floyd: The Wall one too many times. Which, as I can tell you, means he's seen it twice.

Derek pulls up outside his old cabin and shuts the engine off, then honks the horn twice. "We know you're in there, ya assbutts," he calls through his open window. "Come on out and we won't have to take the place by force."

With the trees shading us, I raise my seat back up. "Little out of character for you, am I right?"

"I gotta be a little out of character for dealing with these guys."

"I can see that. You're practically quoting Saint Castiel the Archangel, for God's sake."

Derek smirks. "You can still say 'God?'"

"Oi!" Skylar cries.

"Yeah," Derek says with a defiant set to his jaw. "'Oi.'"

"Ooh," Hunter says, and oddly, not mockingly. "When'd your English accent get so good? Stiles still can't do one to save his bloody life."

"If that's a challenge to me to try it right now," I say as I watch the door open up, "then watch these assbutts tear me limb from limb for butchering their native tongue."

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Skylar asks.

A pale, pale man with shades over his eyes - not Deucalion, not without a cane, so it must be the dreaded Thomas Renard - emerges from the front door. "Up here!" he shouts in a Northern English-sounding semi-burr. It comes out sounding like "Oop here!"

In response to Skylar, I shrug and say, "Better me than any of you."

"We'll discuss your suicidal tendencies later," Derek says. "Right now..." He emerges from the driver's seat, rolling up his sleeves to expose his beefy, hairy arms. Arms that won't burn as the tree-filtered sunlight dapples them. "I have...negotiations...to do."