Targets

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Monday, 6am

Stiles woke up to the sound of his cell phone ringing furiously. He swore, rolling himself out of bed and tripping over Derek’s nest. Derek didn’t wake—did werewolves sleep off being poisoned or something?—as Stiles staggered to the kitchen. His phone was on the table where he’d left it, buzzing angrily at him. “Hello?”

There was a sigh of relief from the other end of the line. “Stiles, I’ve been trying to call you all morning. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles assured his father. “What’s up? Was there another killing or something?”

“Turn on the TV,” Sheriff Stilinski said. Stiles obeyed, flipping on the news station.

“Police are baffled by the evidence of a shooting outside the popular night club, The Onyx,” said the reporter on the television. Stiles stared as a shot of the front of The Onyx popped up on the screen. Hanging from the X in the Onyx sign was a noose, and at the end hung Stiles’ hoodie with a stalk of wolfsbane peeking out of the pocket.

“Dad, I’m gonna’ have to call you back,” Stiles said as he stared at the screen. He ignored Sheriff Stilinski’s response and hit the END CALL button on his phone. The reporter continued to blather about what the scene could mean, but Stiles wasn’t listening anymore.

Stiles felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at Derek, who was watching the TV with a mixture of anger and fear. “What does it mean?”

Derek’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “It means that whoever tried to kill me yesterday if after you too.”

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