The Princess Without a Crown -- [COMPLETE]

"A dead man walking..."

Stiles

Stiles watched the wisps of clouds pass by just outside his window seat. His fingers drummed rhythmically against his knee while losing himself in their abstract swirls. They looked so calm, while he felt he had a raging storm inside himself. He couldn't stop his mind from wandering.

Conjuring scenarios in his mind he had no right to think about. What were they doing to Hope by now? Were they torturing her? Was she dead? With a drawn-out sigh, he leaned back in his chair and tried to focus on anything but his reality.

Hope was kidnapped by psychopaths. Derek was hunting them down. Scott was back home, taking over alpha command in Derek's absence.

And Stiles?

Well, he was on a plane headed toward New Orleans to find the original vampire family to tell them their daughter...niece...whatever, has been taken for WWE.

Werewolf Wrestling Entertainment.

Stiles ran his hands over his face, leaning forward as his stomach churned. He contemplated how he would break the news. What was he supposed to say? 'Hey, I'm Hope's friend, and she may or may not be dead because I couldn't help her in time.'

It wasn't his fault. Of course, he knew that, but just because you weren't responsible for something doesn't make the guilt feel any less sharp in your heart.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" the stewardess asked.

Stiles looked up at the tall brunette whose name tag read 'Susan' from his nearly crouched position in his seat and forced a smile, "Maybe a little vodka," he nodded, pursing his lips "Or a time machine."

Susan smiled softly. "Fresh out, I'm afraid, but maybe some peanuts to calm your nerves" she offered the bag to him, which he took.

"Thank you," he nodded, "Uhm, how much longer on this flight?"

"We will be landing in about fifteen minutes."

"Perfect." He swallowed hard, feeling another wave of uneasy fear washing over him.

He watched her walk away, then returned to the mental task of preparing himself for what lay ahead. He was meeting the Mikaelson family by himself, armed with nothing but bad news.

This should be fun.

By the time the plane had landed, Stiles had gathered his belongings (which wasn't much) and was out the door to meet a cab; it was safe to say he was absolutely terrified. That or he had terrible food poisoning.

He was shivering in 95-degree heat.

"The French Quarter," he told the driver as he slipped into the backseat. As far as he knew, that's where the Mikaelson's lived, but Hope was never specific about where in the French Quarter. He was sure he could just ask around, but Stiles was worried he might ask the wrong person.

My family has enemies. I have them too.

Hope said that one night to him during one of their talks. He knew she and her family had enemies, but he didn't know who. So he would just have to take a guess he was asking a safe person and hope for the best.

Stiles hated this. Putting so much faith into one little action could mean the difference between life and death. There was no net to fall in here. No one to back him up if things went south.

He really could die here.

Stiles had to force himself to swallow all of that fear. He tried to steel himself as they drove through the city, heading for the Quarter. It won't be long now until he's amid the lion's den. He could do this. He had to.