Broken Kiss (a Teen Wolf story)

Part 10

        On an impulse, Peter had returned to his stock room to recover one more item. The term “necklace” didn’t do justice to the delicate weave of gold filigree interlaced with apple green stones. The necklace was rumored to be Mnemosyne’s Kiss. Named for the Greek titan who governed memory, it was supposed to give the wearer perfect focus so that every experience they had while they wore it could be recalled perfectly. A dozen jewelers hadn’t been able to identify the stones, which made it more likely that it was authentic. It should help Lydia with her gift, and really it was the least he could do.

            He’d felt the scar he left on her beneath the hospital gown the night before, pits and hard ridges marring the soft side of her belly. He was proud of it, and horribly ashamed.

            Leaving his car across the street, he walked down her driveway. The sound of his cargo had nearly driven him insane, and the uneven gravel would toss him over the edge. It would be easier to bring her to it, and he had to make sure she was alone before he revealed it. The Hale vaults might be compromised but he wasn’t about to give away his personal collection.

            He was still amped, as if a live wire were poking at his nerves, when he rounded the tree-lined corner. Her car was tucked neatly against the side of the house. She liked this place, which made sense. Her house alternated between caustic turmoil and weepy sadness. This place and its calm solitude had to be a breath of fresh air. The scent of her came to him on the breeze. Normally he would have paused to take it in. Instead he started running, flat out, the tension of the last few miles exploding inside him as his bones changed and his canines erupted in his mouth.

            Lydia’s scent was tainted by acrid brimstone. A dark fog coated the house, thin and clinging. Peter rounded the corner of the house, his vision fragmenting as the beast took over. Lydia stood there, a slight, bright thing swaying toward the tower of darkness that was Hades. The god raised his hand toward her. She raised hers toward him. And Peter roared.

            His. She could not leave him alone in this world. He wouldn’t let her.

            “Your services aren’t needed,” the god said mildly. “I’ve struck a bargain with her.”

            His services. As if he would have traded her like a token. Leaping onto the porch, Peter slashed at the god. Hades didn’t flinch, didn’t even raise his hands as Peter’s claws gouged into the flesh of his arms, his chest. Blood sprayed, hot and fragrant. With a disharmonious crash, the gate to the underworld slammed closed.

            Peter tore the rail apart and leaped to the ground, stalking around the yard to ensure the god was gone. The air softened and grew damp. The stench of Hades retreated. Gone. Safe. He returned to Lydia, who’d backed against the wall of the house. Her arms were raised in front of her chest and throat. A defensive posture. He slowed as he approached her. His body had changed, his chest and shoulders expanding so much that the seams of his jacket had torn. His uneven fangs grated against each other.

            Blood dotted one side of her face. He should let her be.

            He couldn’t.

            Her eyes were on everything but him as he approached her. She flinched when the back of her head hit the wall, began to shake when he touched her. He rested a single claw against her cheek. She was so strong on the inside, so delicate everywhere else.

            A dog barked, up on the hill. Peter growled in response, and Lydia shook her head and raised her eyes to his face. She was scared, but more than that she was angry.

            “What the hell did he mean,” she spit out, “‘your services aren’t needed’?”

            He tried to speak, but the rough sounds that came out weren’t words. The distortion of his face faded a little as tension receded, but the change didn’t reverse completely.

            “Did you have a deal with him?” Lydia demanded, her green eyes narrowing as the heat rose in her voice. “You told him where I was in exchange for what, money? Or wait, I forgot. Money isn’t what you lack. It’s power. That’s what you lost, isn’t it? That’s the only thing you care about.”

            Her scornful words struck deeply, and he would have been mad if he weren’t on the verge of panic. He was stuck, caught in an in-between form where his mind wasn’t quite his own and his body was mostly beyond his control. He did things in this form sometimes, and while he didn’t always remember them, he knew they were bad things. Talia had tried to train it out of him, and when that hadn’t worked she’d tried other methods. Pain. Starvation. It had only made him more desperate.

            Huffing, Lydia turned away from him, aiming for the door. With a snarl, he slammed a fist into the wall in front of her.

            “No,” she snapped, spinning toward him. “You don’t get to do that to me. Not anymore. I am done with you pushing and pulling me around.” Her little chin quivered as she raised it. “Move, Peter.”

            Or what, he wanted to demand. Would she call for Scott? Throw it in his face that he was so diminished that a teenage whelp could take him down? Or maybe she’d summon Derek so that his nephew could smile that smug smile and shake his head at the latest misstep Peter had found himself taking. A low growl rumbled in his throat. He hadn’t planned for Hades to be here. He hadn’t planned to lose control again, not in front of her.

            “Let me go,” she said, focused on the curled talons buried in the wood shingles. Hysteria ringed her quiet words, as well as a kind of resignation. She didn’t expect anything better from him. She didn’t think there was anything good left in him, and Lydia treasured goodness.

            He had been, sometimes. He could be again, for her. But he couldn’t retract his claws. Concentrating, he tried to force the change. Pain tore through his spine, but nothing happened. He began to pant from the strain, his own panic building. It was like being trapped in the house during the fire. Like being trapped in the prison of his own body. Control, control. He needed to regain control.

            Winding his head back and forth, he whined.

            “What was that?” Her voice very small, Lydia tentatively touched his chest. “Peter? Are you hurt?”

            God, the heat that exploded through him at that small touch.

            A car peeled out on the street, and he was done. Tearing his hand out of the wall, he scooped her up in his arms. Pulling her against his chest, he peered into the trees. He couldn’t stay here. He needed to run.

            “Uhm.” Lydia’s fingers tugged at his collar. Her eyes were round, her lush lips pursed. “Can we go inside, instead of running off into the woods like cave people?”

            “How can you stand to touch me?” he asked. The rough jumble of words made him wince. He sounded like the beast she took him for.

            “It’s easier,” she murmured, as if making an admission, “when you’re being gentle.”

            He looked down. His claws had retracted. With a grinding slide, the bones of his upper body realigned themselves until he was human again. Eyes wide and solemn, Lydia looked up at him. Her hand spread itself across his chest, fingertips brushing his neck, and he had to open his mouth to get a deep enough breath.

            He’d meant to claim her. He hadn’t anticipated losing himself to her in the process.