High Infidelity [Midnights #2]

chapter 7

Derek hadn't stopped pacing in front of the mirror in the impossibly small vet clinic bathroom since Deaton had managed to convince him Isaac was going to recover. And every few seconds, he would stop and stare at himself, forcing an eye color change.

Blue. His eyes were always blue. Somewhere out there Peter was still alive. And if he was still alive, Derek had a duty to make sure he paid for his most recent indiscretion, and possibly for more. Like the death of their family. Though, even now, Derek felt that might be too far. Peter may have bitten Lydia, but killing their whole family was psychotic, and while his uncle was a lot of things, that wasn't one of them.

But he had promised Stiles, so at the very least, he had to provide some answers. And finding Peter was the first step. Too bad Derek had no fucking clue where to start.

Suddenly, Derek's phone began to vibrate in his pocket. And he could hear the radio on Sheriff Stilinski's shoulder crackle to life. He prayed they were unrelated, but when he saw Stiles' name on the caller ID and heard Lydia's echo in the other room, he knew it wasn't good news.

Derek hung his head, letting out a heavy sigh as he answered. "Stiles?"

"She's gone."

He had known it was possible, but he'd never actually witnessed anyone's body reject the bite. In fact, now that it was impacting them all so intimately, the new and totally unwelcome feeling made him a bit dizzy. He gripped the porcelain sink in front of him to remain upright.

"I'm so sorry, Stiles," he issued.

"No, Derek. Like she left," Stiles corrected. "Out the window."

Derek's eyebrows furrowed at the new information. "Wait, what?"

"She wanted to take a shower. I helped her get in and went to sit back down, but when I checked on her a few minutes later, she was gone. The window was open. And she's not in the hospital anywhere. We checked."

Stiles rambled, most of it barely discernible. If Derek hadn't been around him for the last few months pretty damn consistently, he doubted very much he would have caught it. But as luck would have it, he heard every damn word.

"She just left?"

"Derek, is she..."

"I have no idea," he interrupted. "But if she is, she's probably freaking out."

"Can you find her?"

"I can try."

Several voices interjected themselves into the steady throng of noises reaching a fever pitch in Stiles' background, and Derek found himself rather irritated. He wanted more. He wanted to help. And he really needed to find Lydia as soon as possible. Absolutely no good came from a teenage werewolf roaming around Beacon Hills with rogue hunters and other wolves whose motivations were still unknown.

"My dad with you?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. Bring him."

"Bring him where?"

"Someone says they saw her near the entrance to the Preserve."

"On our way."

Derek hung up, like he had a habit of doing, without issuing a proper goodbye. Stiles didn't mind, though. He'd said as much once. He'd even laughed about it, actually, calling it yet another endearing quality of Derek, his Sourwolf. And while he knew now was not the time, Derek couldn't help that it made him smile when that inconsequential little memory popped into his head.

As he reappeared in the lobby, Noah simply nodded and pointed toward the car as Derek held up a finger and started toward Deaton in the other room. He needed to check in with the man, let him know where they were headed, and make sure Isaac was really okay before he could deal with his next emergency properly.