Blood Runs Cold

Chapter Three

The air was thick with tension as Stiles followed Peter into the shell of the Hale home. Part of that was from unpleasant memories for all three of them, the other (much larger) part was from the looks of pure loathing that Peter and Chris were sending each other. It was unpleasant, completely fucking awful.

Im pretty sure peter & chris are abt to murder each other in this wendys. Stiles texted Lydia. By wendys i mean the hale house. Pls write two more obituaries.

"Stiles," Peter said sharply as he stopped in front of the door to the basement. "Get the jars ready. Argent can keep watch up here." There was some muttering about not trusting an Argent to keep them safe but it was low enough that Stiles questioned whether or not he actually heard it.

Stiles shared a pained look with Chris but he wasn't going to fight Peter on this. He could pick his battles and there was absolutely going to be a more critical one at a later point. He just wanted to get the spell done and move forward with he tracking the caster.

"So why do we need to be in a basement that creeps me out at a starting point and has some probably crazy traumatic memories for you?" Stiles asked as he cautiously walked down the stairs. They seemed sturdy enough but after the fire, he didn't trust them not to collapse on him.

Peter looked unimpressed at the bottom of the stairs. "Traumatic is too light of a word for the memories I have of this basement but it suits my purpose," he said, tone deceptively light. "You're casting the spell but I'm the focus of it and for this to properly work, I need to be in a place of high emotional — as well as magical — energy."

It was... a surprisingly honest answer that Stiles hadn't been expecting. "Oh," was all he could say, too stunned to fully process the words. "So then how do I do this?"

Peter hummed and pulled a stick of chalk out of his jacket pocket. On the dusty concrete that still had traces of ash from the fire he expertly drew two perfect circles, a big one with a smaller one inside of it and several runes. He connected the runes and circles with lines and then looked up at Stiles. "Combine the jars and then trace these shapes with the spell."

Peter sat down on the inside of the smaller circle and closed his eyes. Stiles just blinked as he stared at the complicated patterns on the floor.

"What?" Peter cracked open an eye and looked unamused.

"When did you learn this sort of rune work?" Stiles asked, kneeling down to trace the shapes with a hand. They had the sort of intricacies that came only after years of practice and Peter had drawn them out almost casually.

"I've been studying the different types of supernaturals all of my life. There are many types of magic I can't do thanks to being a werewolf but with the role I had in the pack, I needed to know everything I could." The way Peter spoke made it sound as if he had felt humble about his knowledge and his old role, but his posture, the look on his face, they spoke to the arrogance hiding behind his easy tone. "If I was to protect the pack and my alpha, I needed to know more than most."

Stiles held his tongue, not wanting to say what he was thinking. It would have been easy, too easy to remind Peter of his failures as an enforcer, a guardian, sitting in the basement where his family died. But it hadn't been anything supernatural that killed them. It was a delusional hunter and a fuckton of gasoline.

So instead of speaking, Stiles poured the loose powder of one mason jar into the other and stirred them together. The loose powder mixed with the paste in a way that made it look and feel like wet sand. It didn't appear to be magical at all — it looked more like a wet, nasty mix of ash and sand — but Stiles could feel the power that thrummed in it.