Wednesday, Jan. 19th

Wolf Moon

No one thought the night of the Sheriff's 51st birthday would be all that special, least of all his teenage son. First of all, the man had been working everyday that week and between his work schedule and Stiles' best friend, Scott, dragging him out for anxiety driven lacrosse practices they barely had anything edible in the fridge. Stiles had been careful to pull out all the stops for his dad's big five-oh last year, but he's well aware the Sheriff has been hoping his birthday would be forgotten for oh… The last decade or so.

Except, the teenager only had the one parent left so that wasn't going to happen. He sure as Hell was going to celebrate another year with his father and another year without a warning from the doctor on the older man's cholesterol. Maybe the reason the Sheriff wished to skip his birthday was because he never got to eat all that red meat anymore. Stiles wasn't going to deal with a heart attack on this of all days.

But… There's nothing in the fridge. Amber brown eyes squint into their yawning fridge with little hope. No, there's really nothing he can do with half an onion, carrots, various jellies, a block of cheddar, coffee creamer and a half empty pint of milk. The last meal he'd put together was Sunday earlier that week: a beautiful chicken salad with a mix of greenery even the Sheriff had been surprised to like. And now: empty.

With a half-hearted sigh, the lanky teen yanked the fridge door closed and looked at the takeout menus magnetized to its front. Now he would have to figure out the tastiest low cholesterol meals from a possibility of diner food, pizza delivery, or something Asian. Oh, joy.

Giving it up for a lost cause within minutes, Stiles called their favorite diner and asked for the usual to be delivered at the usual hour. They knew all about the Sheriff's heart and the Sheriff's nagging son; at least it'd be hassle free on his end. He still had a couple hours of homework to do depending on how much he could actually focus, and while the teen would make the most of the birthday when his father finally got home, he really had to use his free time judiciously tonight.

By the time 5 o'clock rolled around the younger Stilinski felt a persistent twitch in his limbs and gnawing hunger in his belly. His Adderall was wearing off; his homework for tomorrow was complete, mostly, although all future assignments had been flicked through alongside twitter feeds so he'd probably have to re-do half of those. The ring of the doorbell burst through his chest and startled him into flying off his computer chair with a yelp. Recognition coursed through in him in the next second and he flung himself haphazardly up and out of his room before he'd even gotten his feet under him. Bouncing off the wall and leaping down the stairs, Stiles slid on socked feet and caught the kitchen doorframe before he totally passed it by. He fully extended himself to yank a small drawer open rather than take those few stabilizing steps closer, and stole the roll of bills set aside for take-out for the month.

He opened the door to disappointment. Not that it wasn't the food! It was. It was just being delivered by an ass. Stiles threw out a desultory, "Hi," and restrained himself as a relatively unknown senior of Beacon Hills High gave him the total with a look of disdain. Seriously, how could people who don't even know him dislike him?

Stiles had never even had an encounter with the average looking senior at school, didn't know his name or anything about him other than 'senior on the lacrosse team'. Scott probably knew his name. They'd both made the bench sophomore year, but Stiles still wasn't as taken with the sport as Scott. And sure, he was a complete clutz, but it's not like he was taking a spot on the field and slowing the team down. They made the Championships the last two years running.

Being the soul of generosity, Stiles still gave him a tip in return for the food. A small one. The guy was punctual, but could use an attitude adjustment. The kid didn't say a word as he took the cash and bolted for his still running car.

"Yeah, thanks!" Stiles shouted sarcastically at his back, then muttered, "Jerk," as he closed the door. Honestly, he knew he was annoying to a lot of people because of his mouth, but he wasn't a real troubled kid or anything. He was the son of the goddamn Sheriff! Just because he knew how to pick a lock didn't mean… Well, okay, he did get in trouble a bit, but it wasn't anything that got around at school! The teenage populace really had no reason to disparage him. Assholes.

Hauling the plastic bags in, the teen boy set about plating up their individual meals. It was his dad's birthday, they could stand to eat with utensils. Not even a minute after he'd finished tossing the last bag in recycling and styrofoam in the trash, the Sheriff got home. Pleased with the perfect timing, Stiles called out a merry, "Happy birthday, father-mine!"

The usual silence and sigh accompanied before the tired man answered, "Thanks, son," and finished unbuckling his regulation belt. His father entered the dining room, carefully unarmed, and took in their diner fare. Flicking a glance up, the man asked hopefully, "Real burgers?"

With a derisive snort, Stiles retorted, "You're lucky it's not tofu." The tired man grimaced and sighed again, muttering under his breath about how he was the parent in this house, not the aggravating seventeen year old. Eyes rolled and Stiles gave his voice a sarcastic pep, "But there's curly fries!"

The oddly shaped potatoes didn't actually make up for the lack of red meat. They both knew that. But it made the old man smile, so that's why he said it. Stiles usually hoarded the curly fries and the Sheriff could never be bothered to order his own when they were a few cents more. And he could sneak a couple of his son's.

Sitting down to dinner together at the table wasn't a rare occasion, but neither was it common. It happened about as much as eating in his father's squad car since Stiles tried to go out of his way to eat with his dad, even when he had the night shift and would be going to sleep as Stiles left for school. The Sheriff dug in with nary a grimace although he made a half-hearted comment when he noticed his son's true beef burger, "So I'm still the only one on this diet, huh? What happens when you hit forty and your cholesterol's through the roof?"

"Not gonna happen, we both know I'm too twitchy to sit still long. And the lacrosse." He was lucky his father was well versed in Stiles-food-in-mouth speak, otherwise he would've missed half the words. Still, the Sheriff had a good rejoinder, spoken with a sly glance and the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, are you playing now?" The boy paused to swallow thickly and scowled at his parent.

"Hardy har har. Har," Stiles intoned, animating his face drastically for the returned grin. He took a savage bite in response and chewed enthusiastically. The Sheriff shook his head and tried to make way through the turkey burger he'd been saddled with. A burst of thought froze Stiles' limbs for a second and he dropped everything to dash to the living room, "One sec!"

As he dived into the entertainment center for the couple DVDs he'd stashed when he got home, Stiles completely missed his father snatching a palmful of curly fries from his plate and immediately snarfing them down. Sliding back to his seat, he started to speak and froze open-mouthed as his eyes noticed a discrepancy his mind didn't fully recognize. Looking at his plate in confusion then over to his father, Stiles realized the man's theft based on the huge pouch of a cheek he was sporting. Huffing quietly and giving him an unimpressed look, the boy slammed a DVD rental case on the table between them, withholding the second for a moment.

The Sheriff struggled to swallow then asked with an arched brow, "True Grit? I thought we agreed remakes were never as good as the originals?" His lips twitched to restrain a smile as Stiles openly stole the deli pickle from his plate with no show of remorse.

With a crisp bite, the boy chewed happily and spoke around his food, "Not according to the reviews. Thought it was worth a look. Besides, I did get this one too." He offered the second case he'd kept under the table and dropped it on top of the first. A classic black and white picture was inscribed with High Noon across the bottom corner. If it had been up to him, Stiles would've just illegally buffered the westerns for viewing, but his dad was the Sheriff after all.

The classic movie did get a sincere smile out of the man, "Thanks, son." Ah, if only all his problems could be solved with a bribe of Old West films. But no, the Sheriff was a good parent and made sure his punishments were creative enough to fit the crime. Stiles had never gotten away with anything he'd been caught at, always having to show remorse in some, usually humiliating way. Beacon Hills may joke that their Sheriff was incorruptible, but it really was the God's honest truth.

Small talk resumed and they each learned a bit about the other's days. Several teens had been caught speeding after school let out in the usual traps, making Stiles roll his eyes. It was a small town and since he started driving on his own, the Sheriff had taken to rotating the speed traps at irregular intervals. It still didn't take much for Stiles to recognize the danger zones and either take back roads or just plain slow down to proper speed limits. God forbid he drive a few miles above it in his highly recognizable blue Jeep; the Deputies would pull him over just to fuck with him.

Stiles had had an uneventful school day. Mr. Harris was an ass as per usual, but Stiles had lucked out by not getting a detention. Lydia was beautiful, like usual. Jackson was a suck-up, not usual but gratifying as it meant he'd misstepped around Lydia somewhere and Stiles could watch the ensuing snark with pleasure. Oh, and Scott was freaking out about making first line. The kid had some really unrealistic goals for his high school career. Besides, if he got off the bench then where would that leave Stiles?

The Sheriff was not impressed. "You know, you ought to be supporting him. Or maybe even trying alongside him," he added, picking up their empty dishes. Stiles just sighed at him. There was only so much enthusiasm he could muster for a game played with nets on sticks. At Beacon Hills High the most celebrated sport was not the all-American football, baseball, or even soccer, but an East Coast private school yuppie sport. He'd only tried out for the past two years because Scott had his sights set on being the star player one day. Not that that would happen with Jackson around and Scott's asthma, but the dream was apparently holding strong.

"I do support him. By reminding him of his limitations I make sure he's never unduly disappointed," Stiles answered, gently sliding between his father and the sink. It was routine for Stiles to provide dinner and his father to wash the dishes, but it wasn't like he had cooked, and it was the man's birthday. Giving the plates and forks a quick scrub before being placed on the drying rack, Stiles answered the judging silence without care, "And, you know, I keep playing a freaking contact sport I absolutely suck at. No big deal."

He saw the Sheriff shake his head out of the corner of his eye. But the man was smiling crookedly too, "I'll just set up the movie, shall I?"

"Do True Grit first!" Stiles called over his shoulder as his dad left the room. They both knew his father would belittle the remake even if it was fantastic, just so he could outrageously compliment the black and white feature afterwards. Then Stiles would yawn exaggeratedly and nonchalantly call all Westerns boring, starting a short familiar argument before he headed up to his room for the night.

The teen finished cleaning up the kitchen and entered the living room just as his father hit play on the main menu. The opening credits started quietly as Stiles sprawled on the couch, only to be interrupted by a muffled ring. Both men froze in their seats, acknowledging the meaning behind the distant, annoying electric bell. The office landline was where the Sheriff took emergency house calls for work. Looking at Stiles apologetically, the Sheriff sighed when his son wouldn't meet his gaze, staring at the living room curtains intensely.

Unknown to him, the second he was out of the room Stiles became a blur of near silent motion. The TV and DVD player were shut off, the boy's usually elephantine steps up the stairs became soft thuds indistinct from a walking step, and the master bedroom's receiver was masterfully lifted to give no indication that his father was now in a three-person call. That makes it… What, the couple hundredth call he'd successfully eavesdropped on? Stiles listened in with a smug grin.

"-tell if this was an animal attack, sir. There's been no sign of scavenging."

"And the cadaver dogs?"

"No luck yet, and they're acting oddly, scared almost. If the other half is out there, we'll probably need a search team."

"Alright. Call the State Police, ask them for a K-9 unit and whoever they can get over here within a couple hours. We gotta find the other half of that girl before morning if we can. The less nature destroys the evidence the better, and try to close off the Preserve so no more joggers stumble in."

"That last one is easier said than done, Sheriff."

"I know. I know. I'll talk with the Mayor, get an announcement out by early morning. Until then, have some rookies taping off Preserve entrances. That's the most we can do for now."

"Understood. See you soon, Sheriff."

"Meet you at the Preserve."

When Stiles heard dial tone, he quickly replaced the handheld and ran as lightly as possible to his room down the hall. His heart had quickened at the conversation, eyes wide in excitement. A body? No, half a body! A woman killed in the Preserve, found by joggers, and they couldn't even tell if it was an animal attack!

Taking a deep breath, the boy shook his arms vigorously before stretching them over his head trying to physically relax for a moment. Flinging himself across his bed, Stiles let one leg sprawl half off the mattress and reached for a comic kept under his nightstand. His heart was still pounding like a drum, but he wasn't shaking anymore, just in time for footsteps to be heard coming up the stairs. They stopped just outside his doorway, and possibly carried an air of suspicion if Stiles was reading the mood right.

"Go, I'll be fine," he called, waving a hand negligently before turning a glossy page, careful to avoid looking at his father. The man could read his 'guilt' face a mile away, never mind that no one else in the world could get a read on him.

"You weren't listening in again, were you?" Oh yes, that was suspicion alright. Well deserved, and definitely well earned.

"No, dad. There's only so much I can listen to about paperwork and the filing errors of our fine Deputies," to be fair, only about three-quarters of those emergency calls had to do with cleaning up after incompetence and half of that was the filing, "You know, that's probably why I grew out of wanting to be a cop. Or a boss of any sort. I don't know what I'm going to do for a career, but I'm done with the idea of minions. Pesky workers rights…"

An exasperated, if fond, sigh was his answer. The Sheriff shook his head and lied that he'd be back in a couple hours so Stiles had better be asleep by then, before heading back downstairs to gather his equipment and leave the house. Stiles stayed frozen for a long few minutes, breathing shallowly and listening as hard as he could for the rumble of the squad car's engine to disappear down the street.

When everything was silent, he bounced off his bed, "Yes!" and ran for his desk. His hands tried to simultaneously work his cell phone and pull out his police scanner from the back of the drawer with mixed results. The machine landed with a crash and he had to erase several numbers before stabbing at Scott's name when it appeared on his phone. As his phone rang out, Stiles used his right hand to turn the dials on his scanner, seeking out his father's channel. Scott's voicemail answered him just as he found the right station. "-we got a bus coming in quiet for the vic when forensics finishes up. Let's move our units so these guys can get in close, copy?"

Groaning, the teen skipped leaving a message and redialed. The line continued to ring out as more information was passed along the Sheriff Department's channel, explaining that the State police were due to arrive in forty-five, the rest of the K-9 unit was woken up and would be joining them in ten, and could somebody please get a move on with locking up all the Preserve parking lots? Voicemail. Again. What the Hell was Scott doing, late night lacrosse?

Tapping a foot and hand impatiently, the boy redialed while listening hard. His father's voice came on the channel, reporting his ETA at ten minutes and that he would handle the State police from here on out so everyone else focus on their own tasks. The closest Preserve parking was literally ten minutes from the Stilinski house, so Stiles knew he would have to park a fair distance away when he got there, but at least that gave him an idea where the cops would be. And once he saw those bright lights of the crime scene and the fan formation the cops would begin the search in, he could chose another direction alongside them. It never even occurred to him to stay home tonight.

On the fourth redial, Stiles was grabbing his keys and squashing his feet into already tied sneakers, turning off the scanner and knocking it into the drawer once more. He almost dropped his phone storming downstairs when his best friend answered with a loud, annoyed, "What?!"

"Hey now, is that how you greet your bestest friend in the whole world who just found us an adventure this boring Wednesday night?" Stiles dramatically informed Scott as he ran around making sure all the doors and windows were locked before turning off lights to simulate a sleeping household. There was an inaudible 'huh?' from Scott's end and Stiles knew the puppy-eyed boy would be making his signature confused expression, complete with dog-like head tilt.

"Stiles, what are you talking about?"

"Some joggers found a body in the woods," he answered smugly, finishing up downstairs by grabbing a plastic water bottle from the fridge and putting it in his jean pocket. Always useful when going to the woods. His maglight was already in the back of his Jeep, tucked under a thick woven blanket alongside his travel-sized first aid kit. He may not have been a boy scout, but he was well prepared anyway.

"A body, like, a dead body?" Scott asked with a note of trepidation.

The spastic teen stilled in disbelief, beginning with a bit of flat sarcasm, "No, a body of water. Yes, dumbass, a dead body!" he ended with an indecent note of excitement, "Dispatch called, they're bringing in every officer and even the State Police."

"But wait, if they already found the body then what are they all doing?"

Oh, did he forget to mention? Stiles stormed upstairs with a grin, "That's the best part. They only found half." Ending the word on a sing-song note, the boy grabbed his jacket and finally turned off his bedroom light before swinging one leg out his window, "We're going."

"What, no!"

Well. That wasn't the response he expected. It was such an instinctive negation it even stopped Stiles' forward momentum. He restrained the whiny, 'what do you mean 'no'?' from escaping by force of will. Scott didn't refuse this sort of thing. Hell, when they were kids and Stiles wanted to try gliding off the roof with just a sheet buffeting him Scott had been right up on that roof with him without a single hesitation. His swift refusal now meant he was probably just in the middle of something.

"Scott, you're the one who's always bitchin' that nothing ever happens in this town." There's a slight pause over the phone as Stiles anxiously waits to start moving again.

"I-I was going to get a good night's sleep before try-outs tomorrow." Oh fuck. Not this again.

"Oh right, cause sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort." They weren't going to make first line. Stiles: because he couldn't be bothered to focus on lacrosse of all things, and Scott: because he had asthma and always pushed himself so hard he had an attack whenever he got on the field. But try telling him that, it was like telling a retriever puppy not to fetch. Sometimes, you just had to stop throwing the ball for the dog's own good.

"No, because I'm playing this year. In fact, I'm making first line."

"Hey, that's good. Everyone should have a dream. Even a pathetically unrealistic one," Stiles countered with happy pessimism and a bored expression. C'mon Scott, this would be way more fun than the suck-fest playing beside Jackson Whittemore and being yelled at by Coach Finstock was.

Scott huffed at him over the phone, choosing to ignore that response as he usually did with such casually hurtful things from his best friend, "Just out of curiosity, do you even know which half of the body you'd be looking for?"

You? What is this 'you' stuff, Stiles wondered before replying, "Huh, you know, I didn't think about that."

"And what if whatever killed the body is still out there?"

"Also something I didn't think about." And he didn't really care. There would be two squadrons of police out there; they'd have more trouble dodging the authorities than a chance of stumbling upon a murderer or predatory animal. With the search on, they probably wouldn't even find a deer with the way everything would duck and run, and there were an annoying amount of deer in the Preserve.

"Glad to know you've thought about this with your usual attention to detail."

Stiles' usual response of a sarcastic acknowledgement stuck in his throat. A cold prickling feeling spread from the center of his chest. Scott wasn't coming.

He heard a sigh over the phone, buzzing in his ear while he still straddled his windowsill. The silence carried interminably before Scott finally said, "Get some sleep, Stiles. I'll see you tomorrow at school. We'll both make first line this year, alright?"

No. No, they really wouldn't.

"Yeah. Later," he muttered. Looking at his smartphone screen a second later, he watched 'call disconnected' blink across it before the call app closed out. That was a first. A really disappointing first. It felt like all his prior enthusiasm had been drained into his hot to the touch cell, but Stiles stuck to his purpose with a deep breath and shoved the device in a free pocket.

Carefully, the teen slid both feet onto his roof almost half his body length below the window. He used both hands to quietly close his escape route and then made his way off the second floor by habit to the baby blue Jeep parked in the driveway. He put the car in neutral without the headlights, doing his best not to disturb any nosy neighbors and softly turned the car in the opposite direction his dad would have left in. When he had no more momentum left, he turned the noisy engine on, hoping no one would care or recognize it.

One block down he turned his headlights on and started to pick up speed. There was a Ranger service entrance on the edge of town twenty minutes away that he could park at and start his search from. Stiles concentrated on driving within every law, keeping an eye out for a black and white cruiser in every direction. Even the rookies tasked with police-taping the parking lots would recognize his vehicle and report his movements to the Sheriff. Stiles had a bit of a reputation.

Unseen for the time, the teen parked before the Preserve's chained entrance and collected his hefty flashlight before heading out. The full moon was bright overhead by now and while the trees were silhouetted in shadow, the ground was fairly visible without an artificial light. The natural blue tones gave the forest an otherworldly feel that Stiles ignored. He'd been in the woods plenty of times at night. The wilderness practically abutted people's backyards and businesses. The most trouble they gave people was the massive deer population and the few times bears passed through a bit too close. The cougars avoided town and none of the nature trails made good ambush spots, maintained so purposefully. Wolves hadn't been seen in California for sixty years and other smaller canids were even more likely to avoid people.

Stiles walked up a gradual incline, using his torch to scan his surroundings though he doubted the body would be so close to the road. A few minutes later he climbed a short hill and paused to assess the new sights. Hearing barking, the teen was surprised to find the search squad already coming hard on his right, the dogs leading the effort. If he continued on, they would cross paths. But to the far left was a dry streambed, he knew.

Thinking and moving fast, the lanky teen jogged down the short slope and followed it left until he hit the litter covered bank, skidding and windmilling his arms to keep from falling in at the last second. Heart pounding, Stiles couldn't judge the distance to the bottom in the dark but didn't want to risk it. What was the point of avoiding the cops just to sprain his ankle in the fall? His father would know he'd been out anyway then. The Sheriff always figured him out with such obvious injuries.

The police and their dogs were close, but not too close, he thought. Biting his lip, the boy decided to risk it and walked along the edge which seemed a bit too much like a straight cliff rather than a bank at times. Flashlight still scanning the ground around him, Stiles finally felt his energy returning for the task, the adventure. With his adrenaline pumping it was much easier to find joy in evading the coppers and seeking out a dead body even without his best friend along for the ride.

Relying on his hearing to warn him if a dog was nearby, Stiles investigated the ground by trying to think like a predator. If he was a bear would he have dragged it to a safe place to eat? If he was a murderer would he have buried the body at the bottom of the gully? With that thought he started looking for freshly turned ground, forcing his mind away from how he knew exactly what that looked like. Like a new cemetery grave…

The teen was so intent on his search he only noticed his distance from the authorities when the eerie silence quickened his heart. Hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, Stiles paused to look around and realized he must've progressed much further than the cadaver dogs as they covered the land in a grid square search. But it really was too quiet. He knew the woods well in light or dark and this was just… Strange. Spooky, even. Although it didn't occur to him why until he heard something like thunder in the distance.

It had been absolutely silent. No birds or crickets, or other night creatures had made a peep before this sudden rumble echoed in the air. Without a storm in sight, Stiles felt like he'd stepped on stage to a cheap horror flick. That was when he saw movement, the source of the thunder: a stampede!

Eyes wide in surprise, Stiles tried to scan the forest for a make-shift shelter before deciding on a tree just wider than his shoulders and sprinted for it just in time for the herd to reach him. Whips of air, hoof, and antler passed inches away from him and he didn't dare crouch down for fear of a stray hoof knocking him in the head. Dust followed in their wake, choking him into shallow breaths and watering his eyes. He coughed involuntarily and fought to pin himself as strongly as possible to the rough bark behind him. Finally, just as his eyes burned too strongly and his throat tickled something fierce it appeared the last of the frenzied animals sprinted past.

Relieved, Stiles muttered, "Oh thank God," breathlessly before sinking to the ground to cough his lungs out. Using his button down, the middle layer shirt, he carefully wiped at his reddened eyes and blinked rapidly to clear his blurry vision. Sick of the layer of dirt coating his throat, the teen forced himself to squeeze out a hacking cough that fully cleared his trachea and spat the result away from him in disgust.

Ribs, throat, and eyes aching, the boy collapsed back against his protective oak and took a few minutes to appreciate the clear air. He uncapped his water bottle, grateful for his own forethought, soothing his abused throat in slow sips. But already his mind was racing, wondering 'why, why, why' on every aspect of the event. Deer don't stampede, not unless they're being chased or were just plain scared out of their wits. The police officers were behind him so the cadaver dogs couldn't have scared them. In fact, Stiles desperately hoped the dogs didn't scare them back in his direction. That would just be rotten luck. As for being chased, there really wasn't any predator in the area that could've caused that. Bears didn't hunt deer at night and there were no wolves. He even doubted a mountain lion could've truly caused it. They were an ambush-style predator and wouldn't have chased anything for very long.

His brows tilted in confusion and curiosity started to thrum through him. It was dead silent again. He thought that was just something fictional media used to drum up tension. Bouncing back up, Stiles stared in the direction the herd came from, spying no further movement or sound. Then he returned the bottle to a pocket, aimed his flashlight and examined whatever fell into the beam as far as possible, rotating a full circle to check everywhere. There was nothing visible in the tree line. And still it was silent.

Heart rate finally slowing, the boy grimaced in frustration before he scratched his closely shaved skull with the metal torch. Perhaps a minor earthquake had happened? He hadn't felt the last one reported from the Bay area, but apparently their neighbor's dog had freaked. Wild animals were supposed to act oddly as well.

Shrugging it off, Stiles backtracked to where he estimated he'd been along the stream bank, letting his flashlight arc along the ground. In the back of his mind, resources to check for earthquakes online and maybe the effects of a full moon on animals continued to occupy him. His ADHD working for him rather than against in this moment, reviewing information while he scanned the ground then the stream bed itself briefly. Nothing yet.

With a thoughtful hum, the young man oriented himself back to following the stream only for something to make his heart pound. When he'd faced West again his torch had flashed along something starkly pale in the shadow of a young tree. Was it really that easy? He wondered as he edged closer.

Stiles swallowed down a bundle of nerves and carefully shown the light on the crime scene. He didn't step closer, not yet. From over five feet away, he could still make out a long bundle of dark hair, a deathly pale face, and a dark blue sweater covering the rest of her. What rest of her there was. There was nothing below a visible waist; nothing but intestines. His heart hammered at the gruesome scene, a first for him. Not the first dead body he'd ever seen, no that was-he ended the thought.

Grim faced, the teen stepped closer, examining every inch of ground he covered to make sure he wasn't affecting any visible evidence. If he couldn't see any moving careful and slow, he could bet a police officer and cadaver dog wouldn't have done a better job. Within a yard of her-the body-Stiles crouched on his heels and tried to take in any clinical details he could find. There were no visible footprints around the body, where it lay on its side, but the earth was disturbed around her waist, where she'd been…

He couldn't tell if a weapon was used to bisect the body, and he knew better than to dig around and disrespect the crime scene or the girl. It was odd that the organs weren't bothered. There were some pretty choice ones in the chest cavity, most animals knew. There were plenty of small carnivores around; coyotes should've at least found it by now, even if they fled with the stampede after. Perhaps the scent of the murderer lingered? A human scent could deter predators from scavenging for a short time, in theory, Stiles amended. Dispatch was right, this was a weird case.

Finally, Stiles let his eyes drift up to her face. Pity filled his chest, expanding outward and making his eyes warm. He couldn't touch her, not even to close her eyes, he knew. Coming this close at all was asking for trouble. The look of surprise, a hint of fear, was etched on her face in terrible stiffness. Amber eyes scanned her hands, her fingertips. She didn't fight back; no blood or torn fingernails. They were held slightly curved, but not towards the ground to catch her fall. Had she been standing, she might have just raised her palms in pleading, or surrender, and was struck dead before she even hit the ground.

Clenching his jaw, the investigating teen shined a light on all the ground around him before carefully stepping back. At a respectable distance, Stiles pulled his cell phone and brought up his father's number without hesitation. He'd get in trouble, yes. But it was important that the authorities have the other half of the body. This was likely the scene of the attack too. His father's contact information was just under his thumb when he heard a distinct crack.

His heart battered against his ribcage. A broken branch. And he'd heard it because it was absolutely silent around him otherwise. Carefully, the boy turned only his head to scan the treeline when he saw the glow out of the corner of his eye. Unable to stop the instinct, Stiles whipped around. A red glow? What the Hell? His breath came quicker, nostrils flaring, but his thoughts came faster with each scenario more impossible than the last. This didn't make sense.

They looked like a pair of… eyes?

A second snap, and he observed a dark outline, massive even from a distance. And even from that far… A growl echoed, making his limbs tremble.

Oh God. He was so fucked.

It was his last conscious thought before he whipped around to run. He knew you weren't supposed to run from a predator. It would trigger the instinct to chase. But that wasn't… That couldn't be a simple animal. He'd never seen a cat or dog's eyes refract like that. Even a bear's wouldn't. Instinct drove him to a younger oak tree not far from his point of sprinting. He wouldn't be able to outrun it, he knew that.

Having dropped the maglight for weighing him down, Stiles shoved his phone into a pant pocket before he jumped, hitting the ground with all his strength in the hopes of catching a low branch. His fingers barely caught it, scratching painfully against the bark. He didn't notice. The animal's snarl was audible behind him. He could hear the panting breaths of it coming closer, the thunder of it's paws.

Kicking desperately at the nearby trunk, his arms screamed as he lifted himself to reach for a higher branch and his mind celebrated a minor victory when he caught it on the first try. He hadn't climbed a tree since he was eleven. Right arm hooked securely on the higher limb, he swung his left leg up to the lower branch. Almost there-

A bank of heat registered in his hind brain, a being of flesh, blood, and teeth was just below him as his leg curled and his sneaker trod the branch. Claws sliced into the muscles of his right calf and the pain screamed through his body ripping a shout from his throat. It was the last thing he noticed before a rush of air tore around his entire body. He barely realized he was falling before he hit the ground.

He landed hard on his back, arms flung to catch the impact, but still he couldn't get his breath back. All the oxygen had been slammed out of his lungs, and his instinctive gasp shot pain through his back-along his lower ribs, unable to fully expand with the new injury. Oh God, he'd broken a rib.

And then it was on him. A massive beast of muscle and short, dark fur. It's face was oddly shaped, with a short muzzle and low ears, but the only thing that registered to Stiles was that it was furious. It was roaring as it leaned down, lips pulled back around a mouthful of fangs. Stiles' fist swung out. Self-preservation.

The thing barely felt it. His skin broke on it's teeth, blood glinting darkly in the moonlight. It hadn't even reared back at the incoming blow and his knuckles had glanced off its muzzle. The only thing he'd done was delay the inevitable by pushing it's deadly mouth off target. Bone sliced through the tendons of his shoulder and Stiles found the breath to scream.

Tears welled in his eyes and when he couldn't feel his left arm-he couldn't feel his fingers, fuckfuck, he couldn't feel-his right immediately wrenched for the beast's face. Heat radiated from his leg, his back and shoulder, so much pain altogether it barely registered when he caused himself more in his quick movement. Instinct and anger coursed through him for this-this, animal that had killed before and was trying to kill him. His fingers clawed down it's oddly shaped skull before digging into it's goal: an eye socket. He stabbed forward. A wet pop, audible around their heavy breathing, signaled the beast's own scream. Stiles could feel the bass of it vibrate through his chest and he didn't let go.

He curled his fingers, causing more pain, making his nails dig into nerve endings. It's jaw unlocked and it flung itself backwards with another scream. A rush of cool air greeted Stiles like a victory anthem. He didn't want to hope, but when a second later he heard the desperate scramble of a four-legged animal through leaf litter moving away from him he about sobbed in relief.

Tears coursed down into his ears as he lay flat, body trembling in adrenaline and pain… so much pain. Swallowing and breathing shallowly, the boy lifted his trembling right hand towards his jean pocket. His fingers were slick and skid before catching the edges. Memory of what he'd done made his stomach churn, but he wouldn't think about it. Shakingly holding the phone up and tapping the button to bring it to life, he noticed a liquid touch his left ear. It was thick, and warm.

The knowledge that he was bleeding out, forming a puddle of blood around his useless arm, made more more tears fall. His viscously covered finger tapped his father's number despite his blurring vision. The cell connected within a few seconds.

"Stiles? What's wrong?"

The concern in his father's voice made him sob. He could barely hear him as he held the swaying phone above his face. Warm blood was gathering behind his neck and all he could feel was the pounding of his heart. It felt like it was shaking his entire body with its efforts. "Stiles?!" The edges of vision didn't blur. They went dark.

"Dad, help."