Broken Kiss (a Teen Wolf story)

Part 12b

            “Peter?” She was repeating herself, Lydia knew that. But he wasn’t answering and he’d been right there. She shuffled to the door in untied shoes and leaned out.

            Dim street noises. The shushed rattle of the breeze through the remains of the leaves. No sign of the blue-eyed werewolf. Well, he was good at running away. With a sniff, she reached out to shut the door. Then froze. Her hand began to tremble before she realized what she was looking at. Blood, tiny droplets splattered across the small panes of glass. Peter hadn’t run away. He was taken.

            And she couldn’t feel him at all.

            For the first time since that night, with the cold dirt scraping the underside of her fingernails as he dragged her across the field, she couldn’t feel him. He didn’t push or pull her anymore, not from inside her own mind anyway. Funny how the strongest hold he’d ever had on her had been when he was dead. When she felt lost to him now, she was aware of every minute, every second, of the experience.

            Droplets ran together and dripped onto the welcome mat, and Lydia shivered. He had attacked Hades. There was no way that wasn’t a criminal act in the other plane. What were they going to do with him, and which version of Peter would he be when he came back? If he came back.

            He’d said he had something that would help her with Hades. It might be a trick, some side bet he’d made with the lord of the underworld. But the way he’d behaved tonight – right until he’d shut that door inside of him – she didn’t think he was trying to pull anything. Wrapping her hoodie tight around her shoulders, she walked out into the night. His SUV was at the top of the driveway, gleaming and black. It barely had a speck of dust on it.

            The driver’s side was unlocked. He’d tear apart anybody who dared touch his stuff most likely. Lydia climbed in, running her hands over the smooth leather and opening and closing storage spaces. Nothing. He didn’t even have a map in the glove compartment. Actually he didn’t have a registration either. The car was new, but over that sticker-fresh smell was Peter’s scent – masculine, slightly spicy. She closed her eyes. She never had time to think when he was around. Even when he was prowling – he did that, especially when he wanted something – everything always felt so rushed. It was like he didn’t want her to have time to think, like he had something he needed to hide.

            She could take all the time she wanted, now. He was a survivor. Wherever he was, he would survive. And if he didn’t…well, she’d know if death were coming for him. She didn’t like that idea. If she’d been around when Allison’s aunt had gone all psycho pyro on the Hales, she would have known. Maybe she could have stopped it.

            A car drove past and Lydia opened her eyes, but not because of the car. Because of the sound that filled the SUV, created by the vibration of the passing vehicle. She popped the trunk and walked around to the back. A duffel bag held a neatly folded set of clothes. Jeans, a faded green Henley, and a pair of black boxer briefs. Blushing, she glanced around but she was the only one on the street. She zipped the duffel hastily. A rough burlap bag sat next to it, on a wool blanket that had been curled into a kind of nest. The sound came again, like high-pitched chimes, when she opened the bag. Inside were three apples. One gold, one silver, and one that was tarnished, with bright green veins. Oxidized copper.

            Apples sounded very mythological. Weren’t gods always tricking humans and each other with magical fruits and animals and whatnot?

            Pulling her sleeve up, Lydia reached into the bag. Her fingers brushed against the gold apple, and the world turned inside out.