Becoming A True Alpha (Teen Wolf)

Chapter 14: There's No Place Like Home

Chapter 14

Stiles and Lydia do not hear Allison's faint plea for help. They are far too busy bickering among one another. Stiles mouth is wide open, spewing word after word at the girl, not seeming to care who he was taking to. Lydia on the other hand is silent, her calculating eyes narrowed in disgust. She seemed more disgusted at what the boy was saying rather then the boy himself. A year ago Lydia surely would have walked away by this point, not giving one care towards the clumsy and pale Stiles Stilinski. Now it was as if she had found someone who may not be exactly on her intellectual level, but would damn well try to find a way up there.

Maybe Lydia Martin wanted a challenge and maybe Stiles was the first person to ever play against her rather than for her, but this wasn't a game. Stiles wasn't meant to be played with and then thrown away like some broken toy when she was done with him. I was not going to let Lydia Martin, with her intelligence and fiery personality, do to Stiles what- what I did to him.

Stiles didn't seem to need any defending at the moment. He was perfectly capable of ringing Lydia out without me joining in to help. "Oh come on, Lydia. You seriously think this isn't a coincident?"

"I had nothing to do with this," she growls at him.

"I never said you did. I just think it's worth noting that- well that..."

Lydia doesn't let the boy ramble on for long before intervening, "What Stiles? It's worth noting that I drugged a birthday party full of werewolves?"

Allison's screams are a distant memory, replaced by the urgent need to figure out what the hell was going on. "Wait, what?" I ask, hoping for a decent explanation. I don't seem to get one, much less a look in my direction.

Too indulged in the argument to even acknowledge my presence, Stiles continues, "I didn't mean it like that. I know you had no control over your actions that night," the boy tries to sympathize with her.

"But you're still blaming me?"

"No," Stiles shakes his head, frustration and exhaustion beginning to cost him the edge in his voice. "I just think it would be stupid for us to ignore the warning signs. With werewolves hallucinating and no spiked punch bowl in sight, we have to ask ourselves how." He explains with a stability in his tone that almost makes a sentence involving the words werewolves hallucinating and spiked punch bowl sound normal.

Lydia seems more resistant now in chewing the boy out for speaking against her. She nods as if considering his not entirely sane words. "The Darach."

They share a sharp nod. The word is foreign to me but to them it seems to be the key to breaking the code. Glancing in between Stiles and Lydia, their interlocked glares communicating in a language I can't understand, I finally get it. Why my father wanted my help so badly. It wasn't because I was his daughter; it wasn't because I was a strong addition to his pack. No, it was because with me on his side I was cut off. I no longer had the knowledge Stiles and Lydia currently shared. With them out of reach and Deucalion unwilling to tell me anything, I wasn't just cut off, I was clueless. He had weakened me in the greatest way possible. I recall the famous saying knowledge is power and suddenly it all makes sense. My father had rendered me powerless and I hadn't even noticed.

"Stiles, we need to talk." I finally speak, breaking their trance.

The boy cocks his head at an odd angle as if he hadn't quite heard me right. "Why would we need to-" Lydia's gasp sends him twirling in her direction, leaving our discussion unfinished. "What is it?" Stiles asks her, his hand lifting to rest on the girl's shoulder.

Lydia extends her hand, pointing her index figure towards the parking lot. At first sight not much stands out. The yellow bus sits idle, the windows lit up by a mysterious light. A light that looks an awful lot like the burning ember of a flame. Following the line of Lydia's dainty finger I spot a shadowed figure standing amongst the empty parking lot. I don't remember rain coming at any time in the night, but the old, cracked pavement around the man is drenched in a puddle of thick liquid. Not a man, but a young boy. A glowing flare in his right hand lights up Scott's unusually pale completion. Even from this far away I can make out the way his whole body shakes, racked with a unbearable cold.