The Hellhound's Mate

Angie's Return - Part 6

Stiles was pacing outside the vault door, his words tumbling over themselves, his hands flying as he spoke. "Dad, I'm telling you, you just have to see her—"

"Stiles," Sheriff Stilinski cut in sharply, his patience fraying. "I listened to whatever you had to say the other night, I let you drag me out of the station in the middle of the night, and now you bring me to a bank vault?!"

"This is the only way that this will work. And the only place where you'll believe me about everything. About Angie."

Noah pointed a stern finger at his son. "I am not discussing Angie. Especially when you were trying to tell me that she's a werewolf. Do you hear how insane that sounds?!"

"Yeah, well, insanity is kinda my brand!" Stiles exclaimed. "Look, believe me or not, but this is my sister on the line, and so help me, Dad, you are not going to jeopardise this. You are going to walk into that vault, and you're going to believe this. Now hurry up before she wakes up."

Noah actually faltered at his son's sternness as he watched him spin on his heel and march into the vault. And just like Angie, it took a minute, but he followed.

The moment he did, the Sheriff froze.

His entire body went still, every word caught in his throat as his eyes landed on the figure chained inside. The girl's head was bowed, her hair tangled, her clothes torn from fighting. But her face—her face was the same. Older, sharper around the edges maybe, but it was her.

His baby girl.

Angie.

Stiles was right.

All the fight bled out of him in an instant. His gun hand dropped uselessly to his side, his breath catching somewhere between disbelief and a sob. "...Angie?" The word left him in a whisper, barely a sound at all.

She stirred at the voice, her head lifting, eyes red and wary. Her gaze locked on him, but there was no recognition there—only suspicion. "Who are you?" she demanded hoarsely. She tried to shuffle back from him. "No more pain."

He raised his hands in surrender, his instincts gone and his hands trembling. "No, sweetheart. No. It's Dad."

She flinched back like the word had burned her. "Don't call me that."

"Dad," Stiles said softly, moving to his father's side. "She doesn't remember. Not yet."

Noah turned to him, confusion and pain warring on his face. "What do you mean, she doesn't—how could she not—"

"Everything I tried to tell you that night with the chessboard," Stiles said, rather patiently, as he repeated everything again. "It's all true. All of it. The werewolves, the Alpha Pack, Deucalion—it's real, Dad. Angie's a werewolf now. Deucalion... he took her. He took her memories, her whole life, and filled her head with his lies." He swallowed hard, eyes flicking between his sister and his father. "But she's still in there. And we can get her back. We just... we need you. You have to get her to remember you."

Noah stared from his son to his daughter, breathing ragged, eyes shining. His voice cracked when he spoke, his breath stolen from his lungs when Angie's eyes glowed red. "I—I don't even know what to say," he started before they began to pour out. "I've spent years... years searching. Every missing person's report, every Jane Doe, every cold case. Every night I thought maybe—maybe tomorrow I'll get a call. Maybe I'll find something. I looked in every ditch, every stretch of forest, every corner of this damn town." 

His voice broke completely now, tears glinting under the flickering light. "I remember the night you were born, Angie," he whispered, believing all of it, unabashedly if it meant his Angie came back. "I remember holding you for the first time, the way you cried in my arms. The way I promised that I would always protect you." He took a shaky breath, his hand pressing against the glassy air between them. "And then you were kidnapped; you disappeared on my watch. Your bed never slept in. Your window open. Your blood on the floor at the high school."