Chapter Text
Stiles Stilinski is not having a good day.
This, of course, is not an unheard-of thing. He's had a lot of bad days. In fact, if there were a competition for who in Beacon Hills has had the most bad days, he's pretty sure he'd be in the top one percentile. He wouldn't be the victor, because God knows weird shit happens in this town all the time, and he's pretty sure the victims of unsolved murder mysteries take automatic precedence over him—but y'know what? If you removed the homicides and the cold cases, then maybe he'd have a shot at the crown.
First of all, it's raining outside—which wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, because Stiles is certainly not made of sugar and won't dissolve upon contact with water—but his Jeep broke down, and now good old-fashioned walking is the only way he's going to get to class on time. His dad has already left for work for the day, and Scott drives that damn motorbike now which would arguably be worse than walking. Not to mention, Stiles really doesn't want to die this young. Scott might be his best friend, but that does not mean Stiles wholeheartedly trusts his driving, especially when the roads are slick.
So he walks the two-mile walk to school, wondering the entire way why the world hates his guts. California rarely gets storms. It gets wildfires that burn down entire neighborhoods, but not rain. Their infrastructure can't handle the flooding. To prove that point, Stiles kicks a large puddle out of frustration, because he's already soaked, his socks are mushy, and there's a decent chance he'll go home with pneumonia.
He arrives at school with five minutes to spare. Scott is waiting for him just inside the doors, also dripping from head to toe. The entire floor is wet from the footsteps of hundreds of waterlogged students, and Stiles makes a mental note to watch his step.
Scott lags behind him as they head to their lockers. Stiles gives him a cursory glance, not blind to his friend's shivering, and asks, "You're not going to have an asthma attack and die on me today, right? That's the last thing I need."
"That's the last thing you need?" Scott questions.
"I mean, if you die, then you don't have to stick around and deal with the consequences. I will have to attend your funeral and face your mother, who will probably blame me for not controlling the weather or something."
Scott takes Stiles' textbooks out of his locker for him, then shoves them into Stiles' chest. He likes to act annoyed when Stiles gets ridiculous like this, but the twitch of his lips betrays him. He's secretly amused. Stiles tends to toe that fine line between being so irritating that it makes people want to strangle him, and so entertaining—sometimes in spite of himself—that it has everybody in stitches. His dad says it's a talent of his, but Stiles isn't sure how "being irritating" and "being entertaining" is a talent. Being able to play the trombone is a talent. Drawing and acting is a talent. This is just…two opposite character traits that happen to complement each other. Besides, it's not like he coined the ability to be a witty asshole.
"Why is it raining anyway?" Stiles says, entirely aware of how petulant he sounds.
Scott raises an eyebrow. He shuts his locker, then shuts Stiles' locker, because Stiles is still too busy moping to get ready for class. "Do I look like a, uh—what's the word for someone who studies the weather?"
"Meteorologist," Stiles supplies.
"Do I look like a meteorologist to you?"
"No. You're too—"
Scott places one hand over his mouth. With the other, he grabs Stiles' shoulder and begins manhandling him in the direction of trigonometry. "Do not finish that sentence," he orders.
Stiles licks his hand. As Scott yanks it away, disgusted, he states indignantly, "I was going to say you're too cool."
"That is not what you were going to say!" Scott accuses.
"Yeah? Well, now you'll never know."
They slide into Ms. Ferrario's class seconds before the first bell rings. Like usual, trigonometry is boring. At least to Stiles, because it's a lot like solving a puzzle to him. Got two sides and a matching angle? Perfect. Just slot the values into a convenient Law of Sines formula. There's never any ambiguity in the answer, which is probably why he takes to math like fresh paint on a smooth surface. It's boring because it's easy, and it doesn't help that Scott makes Stiles tutor him for a few hours before every chapter test. Scott somehow still confuses sohcahtoa, and Stiles cannot for the life of him understand how that's possible when the acronym tells you exactly what to do.
The day drones on. Spanish and history pass slowly, and Stiles goes back and forth between staring out the window, wishing he was somewhere else, and chucking small paper balls at the back of Scott's head. When it's lunchtime, Jackson decides to hip-check him into a table and send the food in his hands clattering to the ground. He laughs with his jocks like he just pulled the funniest prank, as if he hasn't been doing this since elementary school, and Stiles, ever the optimist, thinks to himself that it's probably a good thing he didn't eat the school's baked chicken.
Scott offers him half his packed lunch. Stiles happily demolishes an apple, which does not pose any risk of giving him salmonella, and then the second half of the day proceeds just as uneventfully as the first. When he's finally free, he breaks through the school doors, ready to bound home, only to run into a horde of students huddling under the breezeway waiting for their ride. He sags upon realizing it's still downpouring.
"Just ride with me," Scott encourages, leading them to his bike. "It might suck, but it will only suck for a few minutes instead of an hour."
"No, you know what will suck? Crashing and getting my skin torn off by the asphalt."
"I'll drive slow."
"And I'm the Queen of England," Stiles says, pulling up his hoodie and preparing for the trek home. He did it once, he can do it again. If this day is going to be bad, then he might as well go all out. No shortcuts, no cheating. Just pure, unabridged misery.
Scott's nose wrinkles, and he says, "You're weird. Are we still hanging out at your place tomorrow?"
"Supposedly."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Stiles says over the roar of the rain, having backed away about ten paces now, "I'll see you tomorrow. If I don't die from pneumonia, and you don't eat shit on your bike."
Scott replies by revving the engine. Stiles remembers when he begged Melissa for it last Christmas, hoping it might upgrade their loser status. Turns out, even though Jackson's Porsche seems to have everyone fawning over him, nobody cares about what kind of vehicle you drive. It's the money and confidence that makes friends, and while Stiles might be confident—too much so at times, honestly—he's broke as shit.
At least Scott is a loser with a motorbike. The only thing Stiles has going for him is his GPA and the uncanny ability to pull the most useless, random fact out of his ass when nobody cares.
A third of the way home, his bad day gets worse. He's taking the back path that winds through the forest, mostly because the canopy of trees eats the worst of the pelting rain, when there's the snap of a twig to his right. He almost misses his next step with how fast he turns to look. Something about the woods makes him jumpy, and he isn't a fan of becoming bear chow. He once saw a bear when he went camping with his dad. Never again, he vowed, to both camping and seeing bears.
After a few seconds of peering into the brush, he gives up looking for the bear and picks up his pace. The stupid part of his brain is hissing at him that he's doing exactly what people in horror movies do. Walking alone through the woods? Check. Continuing unsuspectingly after hearing freaky sounds? Check. Maybe he should take his phone out of his pocket just in case he needs to call 9-1-1. That's something people in horror movies never do.
Another crackle of brush makes him freeze again. This time, though, he sees the leaves in front of him move, so he definitely knows this isn't a figment of his imagination. He considers his options. The way he sees it, he's got two of them: run like a baby, or poke his nose where it doesn't belong and go out a brave hero.
Stiles is just about to decide on the former, because it doesn't matter that you're a hero if nobody can tell the tales of your heroism, when a rabbit comes flying out of the bushes. He lets out a pathetic yelp and stumbles backward, falling flat on his ass as the furry little creature darts away.
He sits there for a long second, hand over his heart, breathing heavily. On second thought, maybe he deserves to be a loser with Scott for the rest of his life. He actually just panicked over a rabbit. A rabbit. Then again, he's seen this misdirection in horror movies, too. It's supposed to lure you into a false sense of security while the real jumpscare lingers just around the corner. What if the rabbit was running from a bear? What if—?
"Hey."
"Jesus!" Stiles fumbles at the pavement beneath him, barely managing to stop himself from screaming like a girl. He clambers to his feet and spins around, turning to face the source of the voice.
A woman stands a couple of feet behind him. She's extremely out of place against the backdrop of the forest. Her long brown hair is soaked through from the rain, sticking to the sides of her face. She's wearing a tank top with a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and combat boots. A modest necklace dangles from her neck, thin wired and silver. Her presence wouldn't be completely suspicious, if not for the fact that they're currently standing in the middle of the woods. In the pouring rain. And she's extremely pretty. Talking to Stiles.
"Uh—" Stiles says. "Hi?"
"I didn't mean to scare you," the woman says, not sounding apologetic at all. The glint in her eye looks more predatory than anything, and Stiles wonders if she's a bear in disguise.
He shifts on his feet, glancing behind himself to make sure he still has a clear escape route. "Mission not accomplished," he informs her. "Is there something you need? Because I was just trying to get home—"
"Yes, actually," the woman cuts in, but she doesn't elaborate.
Awesome. This is exactly what Stiles needed today, of all days. To be stuck in the woods with a crazy woman. Out of precaution, he does actually take out his phone in case he needs to call his dad.
"Alright, well. Good luck with that," he says neutrally. "I'm gonna…go home now. To the same home the sheriff lives in. Because, y'know, I'm his son. I hope you find what you're looking for. I think?"
Stiles slowly turns around, not liking the way he puts his back to her, but he doesn't really have any choice. It ends up not mattering anyway, because he only gets one step in before the woman calls, "No. Wait."
Against his better judgment, Stiles faces her again. He finds she's a lot closer than she was previously. For a moment, he thinks maybe she teleported, before dismissing that notion on the basis of it being—well, impossible.
"Listen, lady," he says, slightly exasperated, "I've had a long day today. Alright? So can we just—"
"Hush," she says softly.
And Stiles, to his amazement, does. Even though he certainly does not want to, and is most definitely incapable of doing so. Asking him not to talk is like trying to put a lid on a volcano.
A million thoughts run through his head. He tries to put just one of them into words, but his mouth stubbornly remains closed. What the fuck?
The woman tilts her head at him and takes another few steps, coming to a stand only a few inches away from Stiles' face. With an air of amusement, she says, "I'm surprised that worked. What are you doing out here all alone—and so unprotected?"
If he were allowed to talk, Stiles would've already devised seven different comebacks to that. He remains frustratingly silent, though, and a bitter part of him wonders what the point of her asking questions is. Clearly, she knows he can't speak, since she's the one who did this to him in the first place.
As for how she did this? Stiles has no fucking clue. If this is how he learns that mind control exists, that's pretty stupid—although, admittedly, extremely effective. Because he keeps trying to think of any logical explanation for how this has happened, and mind control is the only answer his brain keeps looping back to. There's nothing logical about the fact that a stranger just made Stiles Stilinski shut up simply by telling him to.
You know what? Sure. Mind control exists. What's so hard to believe about that? This is Beacon Hills. Strange is the status quo.
The woman pulls him out of his thoughts by latching a hand through his. He starts to yank his fingers away, but then she says, "None of that. C'mon. We've got lots to do," and suddenly, he's completely compliant.
Yeah, so mind control definitely exists.
It feels like an out of body experience as he puts one foot in front of the other. His mind is clear; there's no thick haze that disorients him, puts him in a state of confusion, makes him more pliable. He's aware of every movement that isn't of his own volition. Everything in his brain is screaming at him to run, but whenever he tries to break free from the woman's hold, a burning discomfort spreads throughout his limbs. It's not necessarily painful, but it's not pleasant either. It's like his mind and body are only allowed to bend—not break.
The woman leads him through the rest of the woods. They pass right by his house, as well as a few people walking their dogs or going for a run. Stiles tries to plead for help through his eyes alone, but the woman is holding his hand and he can't say a word. It looks like they're a slightly mismatched, but amicable couple. There are a few street cameras nearby that Stiles hopes they walk past, but she leads him from blindspot to blindspot like she has them memorized.
Dizzy, he realizes that she probably does. This meeting wasn't born of happenstance. The woman was probably following him for a while, waiting for him to be alone so that she could sink her teeth into him. Stiles just wishes he knew why he was being kidnapped. Is it to get back at his dad for something? Hopefully she doesn't want ransom money, because as it stands, they can barely afford their mortgage payment every month.
Shit. His dad. Stiles looks down at the hand not attached to hers and sees that he's still holding his phone. He glances up again, not wanting to seem suspicious, and presses the home button, but just as he's managed to get his father's contact open, the woman foils his secret plan.
"I was wondering when you would try that," she says, not missing a step. "Give it here."
Stiles begrudgingly hands her the phone. She crushes it with one hand and tosses it into a bush, and all Stiles can do is watch in horror. He spent months saving up to buy that! And she just—smooshed it, like it was made of paper! A fact which he tries to process, but he gives up when no logical explanation presents itself.
Stiles is a logical guy. He knows how to make deductions pretty easily, see the bigger picture, pick out small details that might be extremely helpful later. Before today, he would argue that everything, even the most asinine cases, have a logical solution.
Literally none of this is fucking logical.
They finally reach a black car parked on the side of the road. The woman tells Stiles to get in the passenger seat, and he silently obliges, a little thankful to escape the rain. Then he realizes she never said anything about not being allowed to turn on the radio, so he lifts a hand to the dial and switches to the most annoying channel he can find.
She buckles her seatbelt and gives him a side eye. "Really?"
Stiles can't insult her, so he settles for a melodramatic shrug. Her response to this is to crank the air conditioning, which Stiles does not appreciate in the slightest, especially since he was already so cold from the rain. It isn't long before he's shivering violently, and if he wasn't going to get pneumonia before, he's definitely going to get it now.
The woman peels out onto the road. Stiles tests his range of motion, wondering if he can open the car door and jump out. It would suck, and he would probably break a few bones, maybe even die, but at least he'd be free. The mind control doesn't seem to allow this, though, nor can he grab the steering wheel and tug it to one side. In fact, anything that has to do with harming the woman seems to be a no-go.
He sighs ostentatiously and looks out the window. Might as well pay attention to where they're going, he supposes. If he somehow manages to escape, then it'll be important information to relay to the police. Granted, he'll also have to explain why he randomly walked off with this woman and got into her car, but lying is not something Stiles usually has trouble with. It may say something about how questionable his morals are, but it comes in handy. Like now. Because there is no way his father will believe any of this. Stiles is still having a hard time wrapping his head around it, and he's the one being magically whammied!
They aren't driving for very long. Stiles' surroundings remain familiar throughout the entire journey, and he wonders why they aren't leaving Beacon Hills. It would make it easier to get away with a kidnapping. Or murder. But the woman just turns onto a dirt road that leads into the expansive preserve, and Stiles figures he should just stop trying to rationalize magic and mind control.
She pulls the car in between a cluster of trees. It's a decent temporary hiding place for a vehicle of this size. The woman hops out and walks in front of the car to Stiles' side. "Let's go," she commands as soon as she opens his door. "Follow me. And don't even think about trying to run."
Stiles finds it intriguing that mind control doesn't extend to his literal thoughts. He's still more than capable of thinking about running; he just can't do it. If he manages to survive whatever this is, he's going to research the shit out of magic. It's a lot more interesting than high school.
They stumble through the woods. It's still raining, the ground is muddy and gross, and Stiles' feet sink about two inches with every step he takes. The woman grips his elbow tightly, guiding him in the correct direction and keeping him from tripping whenever his sneakers catch on a hidden root. She seems to have no problem with the punishing terrain.
After a couple of minutes, they break into a clearing. Stiles takes another few steps, and then he just—freezes. Eyes trained on the sight before him, an odd feeling settles in his gut. It's not quite trepidation, nor is it fear. The sensation is familiar, mind-numbingly so, but he can't put a name to it.
It feels like home.
But it's not. Stiles has never been here in his entire life.
The woman stops with him, and she seems baffled, if not a little nervous. "How did you do that?" she asks. If Stiles could reply, he would, but he can't, so he doesn't. The woman shakes her head. "Just—come on. Follow me and don't stop."
She starts again, and Stiles does, too, a few paces behind her. In the middle of the clearing is a gigantic tree, felled so that only the stump remains. The wood has to be at least eight feet in diameter. He could lie spread-eagle atop it and still have room to spare.
Beneath the tree stump is a root cellar. They descend a rickety wooden staircase, and for the first time Stiles truly begins to worry, because nobody is going to think to look for him here. Fear crawls up his throat, and his skin itches with anxiety. He wants to talk, wants to ask questions, but he's fucking helpless.
The woman must notice his rising panic, although it would be hard not to, given the way his breathing has audibly kicked up a few notches. She offers him a soft smile, faintly serrated around the edges. "Don't worry, darling. I won't be doing anything to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I need to keep you very safe."
Stiles' lip curls in a snarl. "Safe? From what?" he says crisply. Then, like a dog that startled itself with its own fart, he jumps in surprise at the fact he's speaking. "Okay, listen—that? Whatever you did to make me quiet? Kudos. Very impressive. But also? Fuck you. Mind control or not, my dad—the sheriff—is going to find me and lock your ass up. Kidnapping charges are a nasty rap, and in case you missed it the first three times I said it, I'm his son. And while he's a great sheriff, don't get me wrong, I don't think anyone would blame him if he's a little rougher in how he treats you since—"
"Jesus, I liked you better muzzled," the woman says tiredly. "But I suppose I was right. You're breaking spells without even realizing. Means you're powerful. Good." She walks over to a stack of crates pushed against one of the dirt walls and retrieves a lengthy coil of rope. "Now get over here."
"I'd rather not," Stiles protests, but even as he does, his feet begin to move. The rope is thick and strong, but strangely, there are weird plants with white flowers that are threaded in the twine. As she begins wrapping it around his wrists, he says, "Man, you really take this whole witch thing seriously, huh?"
"Druid," she snaps, as if offended.
Stiles winces when she knots the rope tighter than she needs to. "Sure," he says, somewhat delirious with confusion. "Druid. Gotcha. Makes…sense."
The rope is looped through one of the beams in the ceiling. The woman pulls it taut, dragging Stiles into the center of the room and forcing him to stand on his tippy toes just to support himself. The position is hard on his shoulders, and he bites back a grimace. "You couldn't tie me to a chair like a normal kidnapper?" he whines.
"You are not a normal kidnappee," she responds in kind.
Stiles twists around to look at her when she walks behind him, tying the other end of the rope to a hook on the floor. "Yes, exactly. I'm a disgrace to other kidnappees. Pretty sure you've got the wrong person, because you were talking about me being—what, powerful? Nope. Nuh uh. It's a nice compliment—believe me, I don't get those very often—but I can barely help my dad lift a couch without pulling a muscle."
The woman arches an eyebrow, places a hand on her hips, and scoffs. "You have no idea what you are, do you?"
"Scrawny and helpless?" Stiles tries.
She makes an amused sound. "Well, in this case, your ignorance is my strength."
"I'm not ignorant. I'm just…uninformed," Stiles says, because there's a difference. "I learned that mind control exists thirty minutes ago. Give me some time to catch up."
"Oh, I wouldn't stress. You'll have plenty of time."
Stiles frowns. "Aw, man. That's not what I meant."
The woman circles him once, surveying her work. "You know, when I got here, I had a whole plan about how this was going to go. It was quite messy, including sacrifices and rituals and too many bodies to count, but then I felt this energy. It led me straight to you, and I figured: why go through all that trouble to cultivate power, when I could just harvest it from someone else?"
Stiles stiffens. He's not a fan of the word harvest being used in any capacity that doesn't involve crops. "And you think you'll get that from me?" he asks seriously.
"I know I will." She lifts a hand, brushing the side of his face. He turns away as much as the ropes allow him, but it's not very effective. "I imagine this won't be pleasant for you. Try to relax."
"Me? Relax? Have you met me?"
The woman does not answer. Instead, her long fingernails dig into his skin, clenching his face and keeping it still. She utters a few words that are incomprehensible to Stiles. If he didn't know any better, he would think it's complete gibberish—but it's not. The effects of the spell are immediate.
Stiles' breath hitches, and suddenly he's no longer cold. He's burning hot. A foreign, blistering heat spreads throughout his body, from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet. The worst of it comes from his wrists, where the green plants embedded in the rope touch his skin. He lets out a choked cry.
To the woman's credit, if Stiles was powerful—which he's not, but if he was—this is what he would imagine it feels like to have your power torn away from you. Exhaustion slams into him like a brick wall. After a few seconds, he can no longer keep his head up, and his chin drops to rest on his chest. He's never wanted to sleep more in his entire life.
The room fades in and out like a camera that can't find its focus. He blinks, and the woman is turning away from him, heading for the staircase. Her posture is rigid, her hair curled and clothes dry. She looks alluring and strong.
He doesn't want to pass out, not when his surroundings are so foreign and he can't be sure he'll ever wake up again, but everything is numb and dimensionless and wrong; this struggle, he decides, is one he'll have to forfeit.
His eyes slip shut before the terror can even register.
There's a brief moment when consciousness returns. The root cellar is pitch-dark, the sun having vacated and taken all the light with it. Stiles' mouth is dry, his mind clouded. He wonders where his father is and if he's realized Stiles is missing yet.
He glances around, and that's when his gaze catches on something in the far corner. His heart skips a beat when he processes what he's looking at.
Eyes.
Eyes staring back at him.
They're bright gold. Just barely, they illuminate a snout, and white teeth gleam against the backdrop of the shadows.
It's a wolf.
A motherfucking wolf.
Stiles lets out a shaky breath and allows the darkness to claim him again, wondering what his dreams are trying to tell him by showing him such a beautiful creature.