Three dollars and some change

At AO3

Summary: Caught between hunters and werewolves and wendigos, Stiles almost doesn’t have time to wonder much about the hot new redheaded Deputy Sherriff or the bow-wielding sarcastic gym teacher. Almost.
Rating: PG
Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Sheriff Stilinski, etc.
Warnings: Secret identities, secrets upon secrets, the usual
Disclaimer: This is fanfic, I own nothing of the characters/worlds/franchises etc. All recognizable characters belong to their creators etc.

Chapter Warning: We start to delve into the mystery. Plus, Lydia and Stiles both share a little PTSD. NBD.

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Stiles woke at noon, returning to consciousness with an adrenaline hangover and a dry mouth. Slamming back two cans of Red Bull fixed both problems in short order, thankfully. Stumbling around the house, Stiles discovered a note from Dad on the fridge, which could be summarized as if you go to the forest preserve by yourself, you're dead.

Whatever. And it wasn't like Stiles could get up there by himself; what was he going to do, walk?

His phone had two sad texts from Scott, one youtube link of kittens from Isaac (seriously, what?) and a CALL ME from Lydia.

That last was strange enough to make Stiles squint at his phone. Why would Lydia want to talk to him? It wasn't like anything had happened to Jackson the previous night in the woods.

Stiles might hate himself because of the Pavlovian conditioning at play, but he'd never be able to ignore a direct order from Lydia Martin.

She answered on the third ring. "Oh my god, you're finally awake."

"Uh," Stiles said intelligently.

"How much is it worth to you if I found out more about Clara Vasquez' death?" Lydia asked sweetly.

Stiles nearly tripped as he hopped around his room, pulling on his pants. "Really? You found out stuff?"

"How much?"

Stiles stepped wrong in a pile of laundry and fell onto his bed. "Lattes for a week!" he promised, trying to button his jeans while keeping the phone to his ear.

"Two weeks, and there had better be sprinkles," Lydia said, smug. "Get downstairs, loser, we're going to get your jeep."

What? Stiles looked out the window, and sure enough, Lydia's car was sitting in his driveway.

"Jesus! Stalker much?" Stiles exclaimed. He grabbed his hoodie and ran out of his room. "You couldn't just email me?"

"Nice try," Lydia said. "I email you, then you and McCall go off and have all the fun."

"You call what we go through fun?" Stiles paused in the kitchen long enough to grabs some Slim Jims from the pantry, then picked up a power bar in case this day went longer than expected. "You can have all the fun you want, sister."

"Why aren't you down here yet?"

Stiles grabbed his keys, locked the front door without dropping anything, and nearly dove into Lydia's car. "Say what now?"

Lydia rolled her eyes at him. "Jackson told me what happened last night," she informed Stiles as she started the car and drove down the street. "Since when are you and Allison such good monster hunting buddies again?"

"I had no idea she was going to be there!" Stiles objected. "Where's Jackson?"

"His father mandated a family togetherness day," Lydia said derisively, eyes on the road. "He even made the whole family go to church this morning."

Stiles shuddered in sympathy. "And Jackson wasn't struck by lightening on the way in?"

Lydia punched Stiles in the shoulder. "Shut up, troglodyte. Do you want to know what I found out or not?"

"Lattes for two weeks, remember?"

Lydia stopped at a red light. "I had to go into the Spanish-language papers, but turns out there was a series of killings in the year leading up to Clara's death," she said. "Like, only a handful, but it was the same method of killing. The police ignored the connections, because they were scattered all over the San Fernando valley, but the community knew something was up."

"What kind of killings?" Stiles asked around a mouthful of Slim Jim.

"The victims had their throats slashed with something sharp," Lydia told him.

"Claws?" Stiles hazarded.

"The reports said maybe a knife," Lydia said. "No one thought it was animals."

"So how is this connected to Clara Vasquez?" Stiles demanded. "They said she was killed by wild animals."

Lydia smiled widely. "Because the last victim, Hugo Garcia, was stable master for Victor Vasquez, Clara's father."

It was probably a good thing that Stiles wasn't driving, because he jerked around to stare at Lydia. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious," Lydia said with a toss of her head. "Go on, tell me you love me."

"Lydia Martin, you're a goddess amongst peasants," Stiles breathed. "You're brilliant!"

Lydia smiled again. "I should have asked for lattes for a month," she mused.

"For that, you need to figure out the connection between who killed Clara and who killed the others," Stiles said. "Wait, where are we going?"

"The train station," Lydia said, turning into the industrial district. "You're not the only one who want to talk to Derek about this."

The abandoned train station where Derek kept his low-budget version of the bat cave was quiet for this time of day, but Stiles knew how to get in, at the third door near the broken-down pay phone. He stepped into the building, holding the door for Lydia to enter, then closing it behind him with a clang.

The building was in its eternal mid-day twilight, but they could see enough to make their way across the floor towards the train car. Derek sat slumped on the disreputable-looking couch, frowning at a book. "What do you want?" he asked without looking up as Stiles and Lydia approached.

"World peace. Or maybe cupcakes," Stiles said, jumping onto the couch beside Derek. "You're welcome, by the way. For saving your ass last night with the wendigo."

With a sigh, Derek closed his book. "Is that what you were doing?" Derek asked. "It looked a hell of a lot like running for your life."

"Which in turn saved your ass," Stiles told him. "See?"

Derek looked over at Lydia, who perched gingerly on the cleanest surface she could find, an overturned milk crate. "You never come down here, what do you want?"

Lydia folded her hands in her lap, one of her nervous gestures. "Stiles was doing research on a cold case that the new deputy is looking into--"

The look Derek threw in Stiles' direction was pointed, as he mouthed Deputy?

"--and since I wasn't invited last night, I did some more digging and thought maybe you could help us."

"All right," Derek said, sounding highly amused by the whole situation. "What do you want to know?"

"There were a series of murders in 1993, in southern California," Lydia said, pulling a piece of paper out of her pocket and handing it to Derek. "The last victim was Hugo Garcia, who ran the stables for Victor Vasquez. His daughter Clara Vasquez was killed when she was eight months pregnant."

Stiles had been watching Derek during Lydia's explanation, so he saw how Derek went completely still when she said the name Vasquez.

"What?" Stiles demanded. "You know who Clara is? Was she killed by werewolves? What about the others? What happened?"

Derek let out a slow breath, looking into the shadows of the station. "I can't talk about it," he said.

Stiles shot to his feet. "Why the hell not? It was nearly eighteen years ago!"

"Because," came a horribly familiar voice from the darkness, "What happened to the Vasquez family is a cautionary tale we tell our children, Be careful or the Boogeyman will get you like they got the Vasquez pack."

Peter Hale walked out of the shadows, hands in his jacket pockets. Lydia went rigid, only her eyes moving to track Peter across the floor.

"Clara Vasquez was a werewolf?" Stiles demanded.

"Born that way," Peter said. His voice was jovial and kind and not a little insane. "All the people on that list of yours, also werewolves. No one ever knew if they were killed by other werewolves or by Hunters, but when the eldest daughter of the Vasquez Alpha was ripped to shreds in a ravine, do you know what happened?"

Everything about Peter's voice made Stiles sick to his stomach, but there was no way he could walk away now. He needed to know. "What?"

Peter smiled. "Civil war," he said. "The Vasquez pack had been dominant in Southern California for over two hundred years, and when Clara was killed, they went to war."

Stiles swallowed hard. "You mean, with...."

"Other werewolves," Peter supplied for him. "The first seven people who were killed that year? Other packs had been sniffing around Vasquez territory for years, no one thought much of it, just the usual boundary squabbles."

Stiles thought about objecting, because seven dead werewolves didn't sound like a squabble, but Peter didn't give any space to object.

"Then Hugo Garcia went down, and finally Clara and her baby." Peter stepped into Stiles' personal space, his blue eyes sparkling. "You know what happens when an Alpha loses a child like that, Stiles?"

Stiles couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except be reminded exactly how many Hales had died in the fire.

Then Derek was between him and Peter, pulling Stiles behind him. "Stop it," Derek growled at Peter. "He didn't do anything."

With the separation from Peter, Stiles could breathe again. He stepped around Derek and went to sit beside Lydia. She moved imperceptibly, slipping her shoulder behind Stiles' body.

"He asked," Peter objected, but the moment had passed. "Bad things happen in life, Stiles. Lots of bad things."

"But there were no more bodies," Lydia said faintly. "In the papers, it didn't say anything about any more murders."

"Because we know how to keep things to ourselves," Peter told her. "A lot of people died, on all sides." He smiled, teeth sharp in the dim light. "A father's grief can be a powerful force."

And Stiles had to swallow his words, because he had seen the police file on the fire, knew that while Peter might be insane, he'd lost his wife and their two small children in the fire Kate Argent started, years before.

And just look at what Peter Hale had done in retaliation.

"This..." Stiles' voice cracked. "So this doesn't have anything to do with Tony Stark?"

Peter frowned at him. "Who?"

"Tony Stark, Clara's boyfriend. The baby was his."

"He was human, right?" Peter shrugged. "If he's still alive, then Victor must have been sure he wasn't involved."

"The baby was a girl," Lydia blurted out. "I--I found some more stories. It would have been a girl."

Peter and Derek exchanged glances. "That would have pissed off Victor," Peter said.

"Why?" Stiles asked. Maybe some old-school patriarchal preference for sons among werewolves?

It was Derek who answered. "In families like ours and the Vasquezes, the wolf is genetic. But a girl born to a werewolf mother and a human father wouldn't turn. She'd carry the genes but wouldn't be a werewolf herself."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Stiles asked.

"To some people," Derek responded.

"Wouldn't matter to a Hunter," Peter said. "Born to a wolf, you're as bad as they are." A smile ghosted over his face. "Worse. Still need to be put down so they don't breed true."

He might have said more, but some sound for the far side of the open space pulled Derek around to alertness. Stiles looked around wildly, his heart racing with perceived danger. This week had had wendigos and succubae and seriously, what now?

Out of the shadows, moving impossibly quietly in standard law enforcement issue boots, stepped Deputy Natasha Rushman.

Stiles' eyes nearly popped out of his head. What was the woman doing here?

"Can I help you?" Derek asked, stepping into the light as Peter faded into the shadows. "This is private property."

"It is," Deputy Rushman agreed, stopping in the middle of the room. She hooked her thumbs into her service belt. "Not, however, yours."

Stiles jumped to his feet. "Deputy, what are you doing here?" he asked, rubbing his hands on his hoodie and trying to appear innocent of all wrong-doing.

The woman didn't spare Stiles a glance, keeping all her attention on Derek. "I'm looking for Vernon Boyd," she said. "He was in the woods last night with several trespassing minors up on the forest preserve, and I'd like to have a few words with him."

"I'm afraid I can't help you," Derek said, smiling blandly at the Deputy.

"And I'm not leaving until I see him," Deputy Rushman said. "He's not at his job and there's no one answering at his house."

"Why do you think he'd be here?" Derek asked.

The Deputy didn't answer for a long moment, silence filling the warehouse like a tangible thing. Then she drew breath and stepped out of the light, moving through shadows, closing in on Derek. When she was near enough for Derek to do some serious damage if he decided, she stopped again. "Mr. Hale," she said, oblivious to Stiles' heart attack, "I'm not interested in why you're here, or why these two juveniles are hanging out with you in an abandoned building. I'm only interested in verifying Mr. Boyd's wellbeing."

Her voice was low and solid, full of the richness of someone who was never disobeyed. She'd made Scott and the other werewolves nearly cower the night before with that voice, and now Stiles wanted to do was to jump to obey.

But Derek was an Alpha, albeit a somewhat unconventional one, and when Deputy Rushman spoke to him, all he did was smile.

Flashing just a hint of fang.

"What's in it for me?" Derek asked, still smiling rather, well, wolfishly.

Deputy Rushman tilted her head to the side, exposing the soft skin of her throat. "I see Mr. Boyd, I leave. Otherwise, I might get more interested in exactly what goes on in this place."

As threats went, it wasn't subtle. Stiles really wanted Derek to see reason, for while nothing incriminating was out in the open, Stiles knew the inside of the train car was still covered in human blood from the last full moon (one of the side effects of the inevitable Erica vs. Isaac bitch-fight), not to mention the wolf-proof bondage gear. Because Stiles was pretty sure that a) Derek didn't want to explain that to the cops and b) Stiles really, really didn't want to explain to his father.

Derek's smile widened. "You're Deputy Rushman, aren't you?"

The woman nodded.

Derek stepped away from the woman and went back over to the couch. It wasn't a retreat, more like the wolf had gotten bored. Stiles, who had been playing close attention to Derek's wolfy mannerisms for a long time now, knew that every single movement the man made had been calculated, and how it must have taken a great deal of effort to move so casually.

Flopping down onto the couch, Derek called up into the darkness of the warehouse, "Boyd, can you come down here for a minute?" He picked up his book. "You know, Stiles," Derek said conversationally, "Your description of Deputy Rushman really didn't do her justice."

Stiles' heart sank into his shoes. "I, uh," he blustered, unable to meet the Deputy's sudden death-glare. "Really, because I do remember saying she was very professional."

"He did," Derek told the Deputy. "I believe the word ‘efficient' also snuck into the description."

Stiles wondered if it was physically possible to melt into the floor in embarrassment. "My dad's the Sheriff, it's important for me to have opinions about Beacon Hills' law enforcement officers!"

Boyd interrupted this humiliating conversation by hurrying down the steps from the second-floor office. "Yeah?" he said to Derek.

Without looking up from his book, Derek tilted his head at Deputy Rushman. "The Sheriff's department wanted to check up on your ‘wellbeing'."

Boyd gave the Deputy a questioning glance. Next to Boyd, the woman was tiny; Stiles still wouldn't bet against her in a fight. "I'm fine."

The Deputy gave Boyd an appraising look. "Is everything all right, Mr. Boyd?" she asked. "You didn't show up for work today."

"Mr. Howard wanted me to switch shifts," Boyd said. "There's a late hockey game tonight and he needs the ice cleared and ready for tomorrow morning's open skate."

"Ah," said the Deputy. "I spoke with someone else in the office. They must have been mistaken."

Boyd shrugged. "It happens."

"As you can see," Derek interrupted. "Boyd's fine. I held up my end of the bargain, so if there's nothing else."

The deputy raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Have yourself a nice day, Mr. Hale." She turned on her heel and leveled a glare at Stiles. "Come on, Mr. Stilinski. Your friend too."

"Why?" Stiles demanded, more out of habit than of actually wanting to stay.

"Because this is the second time in two days that I've found you trespassing," Deputy Rushman pointed out. "Come on."

Making a face, Stiles turned to Lydia, only to find her staring at the shadows where Peter had disappeared. All his prepared snark dissolved on his tongue. "Lydia?"

The girl blinked and quickly flicked her attention to the people in the middle of the room. "Yes?" she said with hollow brightness.

"The Deputy's kicking us out," Stiles said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and not at all freaking out. Sure, Lydia had said she'd wanted to talk to Peter, but that was a whole different beast than actually seeing the man in the flesh. "Come on, I owe you like a dozen lattes."

With exquisite care, Lydia stood, brushing her skirt down with steady hands. "Derek, thanks again for your hospitality," she said. "Boyd."

Head held high, Lydia walked past Stiles and the Deputy, never looking at the shadows.

Stiles looked at Derek, got a scaled-down version of the Hale grumpy-face, and scampered after Lydia. From the unhurried pitter-patter of work boots, Stiles could tell the Deputy was on his heels.

In the fresh air, Stiles found Lydia beside her car, typing into her phone with fervor. "Hey, Lyds?" he tried.

"Don't call me ‘Lyds'," she bit out, nearly dropping her phone. "Fuck!"

"It's okay," Stiles said, wanting to freak out but holding it in. One of them needed to keep it together while the Deputy was around. "What at you doing?"

Lydia bit her lower lip. "It's nearly one, Jackson's family has Sunday dinner at two and he hasn't texted me yet and I just--"

"It's okay," Stiles said, using his talking to wounded werewolves voice. Dimly, he knew the Deputy was standing nearby, but that didn't matter, only Lydia mattered. "Do you want to go over to Jackson's house?"

"No, we have to get your jeep," Lydia said. Her hands were shaking now, and Stiles knew those signs, had lived those signs for weeks after Gerard tortured him.

In one of his darker periods, Stiles had spent over an hour designing a t-shirt that read PTSD's Bitch with a little cartoon wolf on the front, then had systematically ripped up every page in that notebook and burned every scrap of paper in the fireplace. So yeah, Stiles knew that the last thing Lydia needed was a drive up to the werewolf infested woods.

"Don't worry about my jeep, I'll get my dad to drive me up there later," Stiles said. Carefully, he took the keys out of Lydia's hand. "Let's go over to Jackson's house, if his dad's okay with that."

Lydia sniffled. "Please, Mr. Whitmore loves me," she said, her voice more solid than it had been a few minutes before.

"Come on, then." Stiles rounded the car and nearly smacked into Deputy Rushman. "Jesus, what?"

The woman's expression was inscrutable. "If you'd like to go get your jeep, I can take you up to the preserve."

Stiles was ninety percent sure he'd had this dream before, only Deputy Rushman may have been wearing far less clothing in the dream. Now, awake and in the middle of the sun-lit parking lot, it was more awkward than Stiles had thought possible. "Kinda busy at the moment," he said.

"Drive Miss Martin home and I'll follow," Deputy Rushman said, turning back to her vehicle.

Stiles didn't have time to parse what the Deputy's deal was; he had his hands full with Lydia. He waited until Lydia climbed into the passenger seat of her car before clambering into the driver's seat, moving the seat back a few inches and shoving the keys into the ignition. "You good?" he asked.

"Sure." Her phone pinged with a new text message. "Jackson says I can come over any time," she said, her voice shaking just the tiniest amount.

Stiles had to concentrate on backing the car out of the lot and onto the road, but when he got things moving in the right direction, he could spare a glance at Lydia. She was staring at her phone like it was a lifeline, tears on her cheeks.

Stiles took a few deep breaths, not sure what to do. He was fine at dealing with trauma with the other boys, Scott, Isaac, even Derek. But he had absolutely no clue how to help the girls, because with them it wasn't just blood and power struggles.

Allison had been manipulated by her family, been turned into a killer by her own parents. Lydia had been attacked and manipulated by a psychopathic werewolf from beyond the grave, which was a whole new level of fucked up. For days, she'd been saying she wanted to talk to Peter Hale and when she finally got that chance, she'd froze.

Stiles should never have let her anywhere near Peter.

Okay no, that wasn't his call to make, because Lydia was a big girl and probably the smartest person Stiles knew, but he should have done something to be more supportive, stood up to Peter, anything.

"Why did you want to talk to Peter?" Stiles asked, concentrating on driving.

Lydia let out a ragged breath. "When I was ten, we went to the planetarium in New York, and it was the best thing I'd ever seen," she said. "All sorts of things I'd never known, and I thought if I just learned enough, I'd be able to understand the whole universe."

Stiles knew about the planetarium visit; everyone in their class had known about Lydia Martin's year of outer space obsession. Planets and space travel and black holes, it was all Lydia talked about for months.

Then one of the older boys in middle school had called her a geek and a freak in front of everyone one day, that only losers with no friends cared anything about science, and after that, Lydia had... changed.

That was when she started to hide how smart she was, Stiles realized.

"And the thing was," Lydia went on, staring out the window, "I could. Anything I wanted to know, I could just look it up and understand it."

"Yeah," Stiles said, making a left turn, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure the Deputy was still behind them. "But, um, Peter."

"Did you ever wonder how this werewolf stuff works?" Lydia asked scathingly. "Like, there has to be an explanation to why a werewolf bite will infect some people and not others, like in science."

"Yeah, but--"

"But what the hell can bring someone back from the dead?" Lydia demanded. "Peter knows, he has to know!"

"Lyd--"

"I need to know how he did what he did to me," Lydia went on, her hair falling in front of her face. "I need to know so it can't happen again."

Stiles' throat closed. He'd known Lydia was hurting, but he didn't realize that this was what had been obsessing her. But it made sense, it made so much sense. Peter had manipulated her into bringing him back from the dead; and then Jackson had died on her and then she'd brought him back from the brink of hell.

For someone like Lydia Martin, there had to be a reason and rational on how such things could happen.

Stiles wanted to say he understood, that he got where she was coming from, that it would get better, but they were pulling up in front of Jackson's house and Jackson was standing on the sidewalk, watching.

Lydia barely waited until the car came to a stop before undoing her seatbelt, flinging open the car door and diving right into Jackson's arms.

Stiles slid out of the driver's seat and slammed the door. On the sidewalk, Lydia clung to Jackson, her face buried in his chest.

Jackson looked at Stiles, confused and more than a little angry. "What the hell?" Jackson asked. He held Lydia carefully, like she was precious, and Stiles would never ever admit how jealous that made him.

So he just handed Jackson the car keys and said, "Peter was at Derek's this morning."

Jackson's eyes flashed electric blue at Peter's name. He gave Stiles a nod. To Lydia, he said, "Come on inside, my mom wants some help with dessert."

After a moment, Lydia let Jackson guide her into the house. Stiles watched them go, Jackson's arm around Lydia's shoulders.

With a sigh, Stiles kicked at the curb as Deputy Rushman's car rolled up. With one last look at the Whitmore house, Stiles climbed into the familiar patrol car and let the Deputy drive them away.

"You know what sucks most about this?" Stiles asked when the car slowed at a red light.

Deputy Rushman eyed him oddly. "What?"

"It's that they're so damn perfect for each other. Jackson's an asshole but he's less of a jerk now, and she's so stupidly into him."

Silence.

"And now I'm actively shipping it, you know?" Stiles slumped back in the seat. "Jackson and Lydia, OTP. Fuck."

The scenery passed as the car headed for the mountain. After a few minutes, the Deputy said, "Lydia Martin was the girl who was attacked last year on the lacrosse field, wasn't she?"

"What?" Stiles had to think for a moment to pull his head out of his funk. "Yeah, that's her."

"It must have been difficult for her."

"She's all better now," Stiles said defensively. It wasn't true, but the Deputy didn't need to know the details.

"She wasn't out with you last night."

Stiles frowned. "Lydia? She's research girl, not so much with the running and the screaming."

"What about you?"

Stiles turned in his seat to look directly at Deputy Rushman. She was paying more attention to him than to the road. "I play lacrosse, running and screaming is my specialty," he said.

The woman smiled at his answer. "What about your friend, Allison Argent?"

"Not a screamer," Stiles blurted out before he thought better of it. While technically true, as Scott had accidentally let slip the year before (and there was no amount of brain bleach that would get that visual out of Stiles' head), he wasn't sure he wanted to engage with Deputy Rushman on Allison. To deflect, he said, "So, like, seeing as how you keep showing up in my living room and in my friends' houses, do I have to keep calling you ‘Deputy', or can I call you Natasha?"

The woman didn't react as other adults might have, with annoyance or disdain. "You can call me whatever you like, Mr. Stilinski, as long as you answer my questions."

"Fine, Natasha," Stiles said. "Why do you want to know about Allison?"

Deputy Rushman, Natasha, whatever Stiles was allowed to call her now, was silent for a long moment before answering. "I've seen people in situations similar to Allison's, in the past," she finally said. "Losing so many people close to her, at this age, can be... difficult."

That was the understatement of the century. Stiles rubbed at his chin, wishing he'd taken the time to shave. "Happens to a lot of people," he said, which wasn't really a lie. Derek had been only slightly older than Allison when the Argents burned his family to the ground; Isaac had his brother die in combat and his father executed by the kanima. Bad stuff happened all the time to the people around Stiles.

No big deal. They dealt.

"How is Allison's father handling all this?"

"What do you mean?" Natasha went quiet again, navigating the hairpin turns on the way up the mountain, and Stiles couldn't stand the silence. "What, so, like, his sister gets chomped and Allison's mom gets all stabby with herself and his dad goes missing in under a year, so what?"

"According to files, the only family Chris Argent has left is his daughter," Natasha said. "Given what I saw last night, I'm not exactly sure how he's taking that."

Stiles clamped his jaw shut, because how Allison's dad was taking it was by bringing new hunters to town, keeping Allison under lock-down, and generally being a danger to everyone Stiles cared about. And yes, he got that Chris Argent lived by some archaic Hunter code and had helped the werewolves stop Gerard the previous summer, but that Code only kept Stiles' friends alive as long as Chris Argent decided it did.

Stiles would be forgiven for not putting an overabundance of trust on Chris Argent's moral fiber.

And considering he still didn't know if Natasha was on the side of the angels, or if she was one of the Hunters come to town, Stiles was going to keep his goddamn mouth shut about Chris Argent.

Natasha pulled the car off the paved road, down the service road to where Stiles had left his jeep. "If you're worried about your friend, you can tell your father."

"Why him?" Stiles asked, biting his lower lip so hard he winced.

"Because he's the sheriff," Natasha reminded Stiles. The corner of her mouth twisted up into a wry smile. "And it's somewhat apparent that you don't trust me."

"Trust?" Stiles feigned disbelief. "Of course I trust you, you're a highly trained member of law enforcement."

Natasha's arched eyebrow told Stiles that she didn't believe his protestations.

"Would I have come up into the forest with you, all alone, without telling anyone where we were going, if I didn't trust you?"

Natasha pulled the patrol car up beside the jeep and turned off the engine. She turned to face Stiles, and the steadiness of her gaze made him review exactly what he'd just said.

Alone. In the woods with no one around. No one knowing where they'd gone.

The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck stood up in sudden irrational fear. He was being silly, Lydia knew where they'd gone.

Only did she? She's been staring at her phone, on the other side of the cars when Natasha had made the quiet offer to drive Stiles to get his jeep; she'd already gone into Jackson's house by the time the patrol call pulled up at the curb.

And now Stiles was alone in the woods with a woman who made no sense, a woman who suddenly appeared in the sheriff's department, a woman who'd verbally cowed four werewolves the night before, who had gone after a wendigo the previous night with mysterious flaming arrows appearing out of nowhere.

A woman who was now staring at him with eyes so green they were almost otherworldly.

Stiles couldn't move. His brain was stuck on a stutter of trust and alone and if Natasha had gone for his throat in that very instant, he wouldn't have been able to stop her.

Then she jerked her head around, all her attention on something outside the car, and Stiles could breathe again.

"Stay here," Natasha ordered, flinging open the car door and getting out in one smooth motion, more like a dancer than a sheriff's deputy. Stiles took in another deep gulp of air and stumbled out of the car, looking wildly around the forest to see what might have attracted Natasha's attention.

The woods were quiet, too quiet. Even when the wolves were out hunting, there were still some animal noises, like birds and stuff. But now, the forest around them was deathly silent.

Natasha's hand rested on her holster, her breath coming slow and steady as she stepped into the clearing. Stiles followed, alert to any danger. Damn it, what he'd give for just one werewolf right now, even Erica.

Then a man stepped out from behind a tree.

Stiles jumped, stumbling over a dip in the ground, but Natasha didn't appear surprised. "Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department," she announced. "You're on private land."

The man affected surprise. "We must have gotten lost," he said.

We? Nothing good ever came of the phrase we in Stiles' experience. Stiles did a three-sixty degree turn, skin crawling as he spotted at least four other people nearly concealed behind trees deeper in the woods. Strangers, each and every one, and Stiles no longer needed to wonder about the Hunters who might come to town. These had to be them.

Natasha didn't look happy. "You'll need to leave," she said. "If you're interested in the boundaries of publicly available park land, you can contact the Sheriff's office."

The man inclined his head. "And who should I say sent me, Deputy..." He let his voice trail off into a question.

"Deputy Rushman," Natasha said. Her hand was still on her holster. "Stiles, get your jeep."

With a duck and a nod, Stiles hurried across the clearing to his car. The thing had survived the wendigo's attack with only a dented hood to show for it. When Stiles turned the key in the ignition, the engine started without any problems.

Inside the jeep, Stiles couldn't hear what the man said to Natasha before he turned back into the woods. Stiles watched as Natasha got back into her patrol car and waved at Stiles to go first down the dirt road.

Heart in his mouth, Stiles drove away, glancing into his rearview mirror with increasing nervousness until he saw the patrol car start to follow him. Then he could concentrate on getting his heart rate under control again.

Hunters.

There were Hunters in town.

He had to call.... who? Scott? Derek? Everyone?

When he got back to town, Stiles promised himself, he'd drive straight to Derek's, give him a full description of the Hunters (four men and one woman, he was sure of that much at least) and they'd figure out what to do next. Maybe Scott could convince Allison to give them some information about the Hunters.

Stiles pulled his jeep out onto the paved road, glancing in the mirror to make sure Natasha was still behind him, and accelerated. Just drive, Stiles told himself. Derek needs to know about the Hunters, and the pack would decide what to do. That was what they did.

Halfway down the mountain, Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin when the patrol car's siren went off. Out of sheer force of habit, he braked, veering onto the shoulder of the road.

The patrol car stopped beside him, and Natasha got out. "Turn it off," she said through the open window. "And out."

"What, am I leaking?" Stiles asked, his voice pitching up. Had something happened to his jeep? Maybe it was the wendigo, jumping all over his baby and denting various surfaces. Jerking the keys from the ignition, Stiles slid out of the car, picking his way around to the jeep's hood and wrenching it open. Nothing seemed out of place, as far as his inexperienced eye could tell.

Maybe he'd ask Dad for car engine repair lessons for Christmas this year.

Natasha was walking around his jeep, holding a small black box in her hands. When she got to the back passenger-side wheel well, the box let out a squeal.

"What was that?" Stiles demanded. "What happened?

Natasha pocketed the black box. "Parking brake?" she asked.

"It's on. What was that thing?"

Natasha went down on one knee, reaching into the wheel well. With a quick jerk, she yanked free a small metal square. She held it up for Stiles' inspection. "It's a GPS tracker," she said, standing. "Someone really wanted to know where you were going."

Stiles' insides went wobbly. "Why?" was all he could get out.

He'd been going to see Derek. He'd been going to see the werewolves in their somewhat secret den. And he drove the werewolves around sometimes, whenever they were hanging out. He had to, he was the only one who couldn't run through the forest like they could.

Natasha was watching him closely. "Are you going to be okay?" she demanded.

The solidity of her voice pulled Stiles back from an impending panic attack. Okay, someone had tried to lojack his ride. Someone probably Hunter-shaped. He shook his head hard to clear away the hysteria. "How long has that thing been on my car?" he asked.

Natasha gave it a once-over. "Not very long. There's only a tiny bit of dust, as what you'd expect from the ride down the mountain." She pulled an evidence glove out of her pocket and use it to hold the edges of the device while she rubbed away fingerprints. "Let them think it fell off over the bumps."

With that, she dropped the device onto the road, then kicked it around a few times until it was covered in dust.

"You're just going to leave it there?" Stiles asked.

"What else would I do with it?" Natasha replied.

Stiles waved his hands. "What about evidence? Didn't they teach you about evidence in Deputy School?"

"What would that prove?" Natasha asked. "It was a generic GPS tracker, no serial number. There's no way to trace it back to the buyer."

Stiles gaped at the woman. "Doesn't it matter to you that I'm being tracked by a bunch of--" He snapped his mouth shut before the word Hunter could complicate his life. "By a bunch of people who track other people's driving?"

Natasha put her thumbs in her service belt and shifted her stance; it was classic alpha interrogation behavior, Stiles knew from his time with the werewolves, and any other time that might have confused him that this woman was acting so much like Derek, but now he was just upset. "Is there something you want to tell me about the people you think are tracking you?" Natasha asked pointedly. "An official complaint?"

Stiles glared at the woman, breathing hard. He couldn't speak, he couldn't, not to tell her about the Hunters, because that would lead back to the werewolves.

It wasn't that Stiles minded giving up Peter Hale. But Derek was just a guy who happened to be a werewolf, and the rest of the pack wasn't that bad.

But above all, Stiles would do whatever he had to do to protect Scott. Scott was one of the good guys, was Stiles' best friend even if he was sort of stupid where Allison was concerned. If Stiles gave up the Hunters, he'd be delivering up Scott right along with them, and he couldn't ever do that.

So Stiles swallowed his outrage, his panic, and tried to smile reassuringly. From Natasha's expression, he could tell he didn't succeed. "Must have just been a school prank," he said. "You know how it goes."

Natasha looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. "I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth."

Stiles rubbed at his eyes. "It's fine," he said, and he didn't know if it was the truth; caught up amongst the lies he had to keep telling.

Natasha let out a long breath. "If that's the way you want it, fine," she said. "Get back to town, I have rounds to make."

She stalked back to her vehicle. But she didn't drive off, not until Stiles was safely in his jeep and on his way into town. He watched the patrol car turn off onto the freeway as he coasted along towards the center of town, leaving him in its dust.

Maybe he'd hide out with Scott until the end of his shift. Dr. Deaton's clinic had always been safe in the past, through some combination of magic and sheer force of will. That might be as good as it got, today.

Stiles whole body hurt. The day's adrenaline, combined with the aches and bruises from the previous night's wendigo attack, were dulling his concentration, and it wasn't until Stiles had parked his jeep in the clinic parking lot that he came to a complete stop as something hit him.

How the hell had Natasha know in the first place that the Hunters put a tracker on his car?

To be continued

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