CHAPTER 53
“Oh, uh, we can't be in detention together. I have a restraining order against these tools,” Jackson explains once he enters the library, seeing us sit there all ready for detention.
“All of these tools?” Mr. Harris asks, pointing vaguely at all the students here.
“No, just us tools,” Stiles clarifies, wrapping an arm around both Scott and I, forming the magical idiot trio that we are.
“Fine,” Mr. Harris says, gesturing to the table at the other end of the room, far removed from the others – including Matt, Allison and Jackson. “You three, over there.”
“I'm gonna kill him,” Scott says once we’re sat down in our little corner.
“No, you're not. You're going to find out who's controlling him and then you're gonna help save him,” Stiles says.
“No. You were right, let's kill him,” Scott says.
“What is it with you two and feeling the need to murder this innocent, albeit douchey guy?” I ask.
“How do you live without feeling it?” Stiles asks.
“I have morals,” I retort, showing a smug smile as he rolls his eyes playfully.
“Yeah - I also have an strong intolerance for assholes,” he says.
“Oh, that’s sad. You can’t tolerate yourself,” I smile, watching him get offended and widen his eyes.
“You little- I can’t tolerate you, you giant asshole!”
“Oh, I think you can,” I say, smirking, leaving a subtle blush on his face.
“Hey,” Scott says. “What if it's Matt? I mean, this whole thing comes back to the video, right? They used his camera. And Danny said that Matt was the one who found the two hours of footage missing.”
“Exactly! He's trying to throw suspicion off himself,” Stiles says.
“So he makes Jackson kill Isaac's dad and the mechanic working on your jeep?” I ask him.
“Yes!” he nods vigorously.
“Why?”
“Because,” Stiles says, taking another glance at the guy in question, struggling not to glare. “He's evil.”
“You just don't like him,” Scott says.
“The guy just... bugs me,” Stiles says, glancing at me before looking back at his best friend. “I don't know what it is. Just look at his face.”
“Uh, Grace,” Scott begins awkwardly. “Do you remember what Matt was like, when, you know, you first met him?”
I take a moment to quietly curse my existence.
“What- what he was like?”
“Yeah, you know, if he was acting different than he is now, or anything,” Scott clarifies, seemingly already regretting asking the question in the first place.
“He was drunk,” I just say. Stiles is staring pointedly at the table. “I didn’t know what he was like. I didn’t know him. I thought that was obvious.”
“Okay,” Scott says. “Then- never mind. Any other theories?”
Jackson takes this uncomfortable silence and uses it to get up and run out of the room. Mr. Harris, panicking a little, follows after him, and, before slamming the door shut behind them, shouts a “No one leaves their seats!” at us.
Of course, we all listen and stay in place.
Oh, who am I kidding.
The three of us make our way to where Erica’s sitting, watching us approach with a smirk, and also a hint of curiosity. Stiles grabs my hand and I lace our fingers together when we get there, keeping our bodies as close as possible to hide our connected hands - and because it’s so so nice to have him close.
“You know how Jackson's parents died,” Scott tells Erica.
“Maybe,” she says.
“Talk,” Scott demands.
“It was a car accident,” she explains. “My dad was the insurance investigator, and every time he sees Jackson drive by in his Porsche, he makes some comment about the huge settlement he'll be getting when he's 18.”
“So not only is Jackson rich now, but he's getting even richer at 18?” I ask, slightly disgusted.
“Yep,” Erica nods.
“There's something so deeply wrong with that,” Stiles shakes his head.
“You know what? I could try to find the insurance report on my dad's inbox. He keeps everything,” she says, opening up her laptop and beginning to type quickly.
As she searches, the three of us try to sit down near her, which is a challenge considering there are only two empty chairs – one on either side of her. Scott sits down on one of them, and Stiles immediately takes the other one. I’m about to complain about it when he turns back to me and takes my hand again, pulling it towards him.
“Come here,” he mumbles, and it takes a second for me to get my muscles moving again and gently sit down on his lap, feeling his hand hold my hip to keep me steady. The tension between us is almost tangible, maybe even visible, considering the way Scott is looking at us.
“Got it,” Erica says, showing us the laptop screen. It’s a document full of dry facts – a goldmine.
“Whoa, look the dates,” Stiles says.
"Passengers arrived at the hospital DOA. The estimated time of death - 9:26 PM, June 14, 1995,” Erica reads.
“Jackson's birthday is June 15th,” Stiles says.
Mr. Harris walks back in, thankfully not noticing us, and Jackson enters after, a little pale, sitting down at his usual spot. As the teacher starts collecting his things and shoving them into his bag, we start slowly doing the same, hoping to be let out of detention soon.
“Oh, no, I'm sorry,” Mr. Harris says. “Uh, yes, I'm leaving. But none of you are. You may go when you're done with the re-shelving. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
We look at the pile of books laying there in front of the room, and the four of us wisely ignore it.
Allison stealthily walks up to us without anyone else noticing.
“Hey guys,” she says quietly. “This about Jackson? What does it all mean?”
“It means he was born after his mom died - by C-section. They had to pull him out of her dead body,” Stiles says.
“They crashed,” Allison reads. “So was it an accident or not?”
“The word all over the report is ‘inconclusive,’” he says.
“Then his parents could have been murdered?” Scott asks.
“If they were, then it falls in line with the kanima myth, you know?” I say. “It seeks out and kills murderers.”
“But for Jackson? Or the person controlling him?” Allison asks.
“We have to talk to him. We have to tell him,” Scott says.
“He's not gonna-“ I begin, stopping when I hear the thump of someone falling down, followed by the lights flickering, short-circuiting, sparks flying out as chaos rises. “What the f-?!”
Stiles pulls me down as we desperately search for cover, holding me close once we find a hiding spot underneath the table, watching both Scott and Allison run away and risk their lives.
“No, Allison!” I yell, Stiles holding me back as I reach out to save her. She gets taken and thrown away by the kanima, helpless but safe once she’s down.
“She’s okay- she’s okay, stay here,” he says softly, resisting against my struggling – until the silence hits, and we both stop moving.
Jackson- the kanima- a weird mixture of the boy and the monster stands near the blackboard. He holds a piece of chalk, emotionlessly staring at the floor while his hand makes the motions and writes.
‘STAY AWAY OR I’LL KILL ALL OF YOU’
Once the message is clear, he runs.
Or, crawls.
Climbs the walls too.
Regardless, he makes a quick escape.
I grab Stiles’ hand and pull him out from under the table as I get out as well, observing the damage. Books and random rubble are scattered around the library, complete with a bit of blood here and there, and the occasional broken desk or chair.
It’s times like these I’m glad the principal knows about the supernatural. Because this would’ve been a bit hard to explain.
“Matt’s down,” Allison says, kneeling down next to his limp body. “Cut on his neck. But he’s alive.”
“Erica!” Scott lets out when he sees her, shaking and whimpering uncontrollably on the floor. “I think she's having a seizure.”
“We need to get her to a hospital,” I say, squeezing Stiles’ hand hard because of the stress.
“Derek- only to Derek,” Erica stutters.
“When we get her to the hospital-“
“To Derek, to Derek,” she repeats, almost begging.
I look at Stiles and Scott, seeing my own doubt clearly reflected in their eyes.
“Go,” Allison says, looking determined instead.
“I'm staying here with you,” Scott says.
“You can't take Erica alone. Not like this. And Matt- I've got to call an ambulance for him, just go.”
“What about me?” I ask Allison. She looks at me and smiles a little.
“I know you want to go. Don’t worry, I can take care of this on my own. She’s a different story,” Allison answers.
***
After Derek takes care of Erica, leaving her to rest and heal, Scott confronts him.
“You know who it is,” he tells Derek.
“Jackson,” he replies.
“You just wanted Erica to confirm it, didn't you?” I ask, getting no answer.
“I'm gonna help you stop him,” Scott says. “As part of your pack. If you want me in, fine. But we'll do it on one condition. We're gonna catch him, not kill him.”
“And?” Derek asks.
“And we do it my way.”
***
“Mmh, shit, Grace-“ he shuts up as soon as my lips are on his again, rough and hurried along with my hands trailing down his chest, pulling him closer. The poor boy can barely keep up, trapped between the wall and my body, but he doesn’t seem too bothered.
“Baby,” I whisper against his lips, smiling, high on the feeling of this, kissing down his neck. He gasps audibly and holds me closer.
“Sorry- fu- as much as I want this...”
I stop abruptly, bringing my face away from his skin, staring at the scattering of moles there.
“You don’t want this?” I ask.
“Of course I fucking do,” he says, pecking me on the lips, making me meet his eyes. “But uh, dad texted me to get him some food, and I thought we could go get it – and kind of apologise to him.”
“So you didn’t invite me over to...” I say awkwardly, stepping back.
“Well, I mean, I mostly invited you so we could make it up to my dad, but – I’m not gonna complain about a little kissing,” he smiles. “Or a lot. Definitely not gonna complain.”
“So... let’s go buy his food?” I suggest, yelping when he turns us around and pins me to the wall instead.
“When I’m done here,” he says, nuzzling his face in my neck, sort of melting me down when I feel his nose against my skin. I’m helpless when I feel his lips too, roaming and picking a spot before biting down and sucking and- jesus.
“Oh- asshole, I didn’t leave a mark on you,” I mutter, eyes fluttering shut when I feel him run his tongue across the future bruise.
“Can’t help it,” he chuckles into my neck.
“You’re gonna pay for that one day, Stilinski.”
***
“Stiles. Finally,” the sheriff sighs, turning his office chair to face us. He’s practically drooling now.
“Hello, Grace. Now give me that,” he says, and Stiles throws him his burger, awkwardly watching as his dad takes off the packaging.
“Oh, what the hell is this?” he asks.
“Veggie burger,” Stiles says.
“Stiles, I asked for a hamburger,” the sheriff says, not amused.
“Well, veggie is healthier. We're being healthy,” Stiles retorts.
“Oh, hell, why are you trying to ruin my life?” Mr. Stilinski asks, frowning at his burger, which he’s probably gonna eat anyway, let’s be real.
“I'm trying to apologise, with Grace, you know, by trying to extend your life, okay? Could you just eat it, please?” Stiles asks, glancing at the piles of files and binders on the desk. “And tell me what you found.”
Oh. So that’s what this is about.
“No, I'm not sharing confidential police work with two teenagers,” his dad says.
“Is-is that it on the board behind you?” I ask hesitantly.
“No- don't look at that,” Mr. Stilinski says hurriedly, getting up to try and cover the board with his body.
“But-“ Stiles tries.
“Avert your eyes!” the sheriff orders. We are still looking.
“It's just- I see arrows pointing at pictures,” Stiles says, unable to tear his eyes off the board.
“Yeah, just catches my eyes,” I play along.
“Okay, okay, stop. Fine,” the sheriff snaps. “I found something. Mechanic and the couple who were murdered. They all had something in common.”
Oh, yeah, there was a couple murdered as well. Things like that tend to slip your mind when murder is such a usual occurrence.
“All three had something in common?” I ask.
“Yeah. You know what I always say. One's an incident. Two's coincidence...”
“Three's a pattern,” Stiles finishes.
“The mechanic, the husband, the wife - all the same age. All 24,” Mr. Stilinski explains.
“But what about Mr. Lahey? I mean, he’s not 24,” I say.
“Which made me think that either A: Lahey's murder wasn't connected or B: the ages were a coincidence, until I found this, which would be C. Did you guys know that Isaac Lahey had an older brother named Camden?”
The sheriff pulls out a file and lays it out on the desk in front of us, pointing to what must be the report on this Camden.
"Died in combat?” Stiles reads.
“But if he were alive today, take one guess as to how old he'd be,” his dad says.
“24,” I nod.
“Now, how- same age, how are these connected?” Stiles asks.
“I- I don’t know yet, that’s what I’m figuring out. It must make sense somehow, but I just can’t think of it,” the sheriff says.
“I mean-“ both Stilinski’s turn their head to look at me, making me hesitate. “It could be same class, right? If they’re the same age, maybe-“
“Oh my god, that’s it! That’s genius, my g- she’s a genius! Dad, did you think of that?” Stiles rambles.
“Yeah, yeah. Well, I would've. I mean, I- look, I just got Lahey's file two hours ago,” Mr. Stilinski says.
“Two hours? Dad, people could be dying!” Stiles says, seemingly overdosing on adrenaline.
“Yeah, I'm aware of that. Thank you,” the sheriff says.
“Same class,” Stiles says, walking to a cabinet to grab a huge pile of books – Beacon Hills high school yearbooks. I watch as he sorts through all of them until he comes across the one he needs.
“Okay, this is it. Class of 2006. Probably, uh- shit,” he says, his quick page flipping resulting in a paper cut.
“Calm down,” I laugh a little, taking the book and paging through until I find the group picture.
“They all went to Beacon Hills,” I nod.
“Including Isaac's brother,” the sheriff remarks.
“Damn, this hurts,” Stiles mutters, looking at the miniscule cut on his index finger. “I’m bleeding.”
“Poor you,” I mock him. “You want me to kiss it better?”
“I-“ his cheeks flush as he tries to find an answer. “No?”
“Okay,” I smile.
“Get a room,” the sheriff mutters under his breath.
I think both Stiles and I pretend not to hear.
“Uh, but so what if they all knew each other, you know? I mean, two of them were married, so maybe they all just hung out,” Stiles says.
“Well, they could have had the same classes together. They could've-“ Mr. Stilinski pauses, his eyes widening slightly.
“What?” I ask.
“Same teacher,” he says.
“Harris,” Stiles says, spotting his face on one of the pictures. “They were all in his class?”
“All four. And I don't know how Mr. Lahey fits in, but this- guy, this is definitely a pattern,” the sheriff says. “All right, give me the 2006 yearbook. These names, we need faces.”
“Which ones?” Stiles asks.
“Everyone in that chemistry class. If the killer's not done killing...”
“One of them's next,” I say.