The Hellhound's Mate

Angie's Return - Part 8

Angie sat cross-legged on her bed, the late afternoon light filtering through her curtains in thin gold stripes. The diary in her lap was worn and soft around the edges — a relic of a girl she could barely remember being. Her fingers traced the ink-smudged pages as if she might feel her old self beneath them: the girl who had fallen in love, who had fought with her brother, who had laughed without fear.

Her breath hitched softly as she read an entry about Derek — I think I might be sick. I can't believe I just did that. With Derek Hale of all people. And worse, that it was good. Really, really good. She flipped another page — I broke up with him today, I think it's for the best. Surprisingly, he still wants to be my friend. Another – Derek couldn't have me, and now he wants Paige. Worst of all, she doesn't seem against the idea.

She continued reading as her phone rested on her knee, waiting for her father's hourly phone call. While he'd been unable to take the day off work, and was completely anxious about leaving his daughter now that she'd come back, calling eased his worries a little. Every hour on the hour, her phone rang.

Angie was still waiting and reading as Stiles rounded the corner and leaned on her doorframe, words about to spill out, but stopping when he saw her. he had stayed back with his sister and also taken to checking on her frequently, so scared that she'd disappear.

She smiled faintly, still staring at the diary as she sensed him there. "I'm still here, little brother," she promised before she flipped another page. "It just...it feels like a dream for me too. being back here. It's like I fell asleep at 17 and woke up years later, after someone else lived my life for me." Her voice grew quieter, eyes lingering on the looping words she'd written so long ago. "I didn't realise how much of me I'd lost. Or how hard it would be to slip back into... this. My room, my life. How do I just walk back into it after all the horrible things I've done, Stiles?"

The ache in her voice cracked something in him. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Angie..." His tone softened, carrying none of his usual nervous energy. "None of that was your fault. You were doing what Deucalion made you do — what you had to do to survive. That's not on you."

Her eyes met his, still shadowed with guilt.

"But," he went on, voice firming, "if you really want to make it up — if you need to start somewhere — you can start now."

Her brows knit slightly. "Now?"

"How much did you know about all the murders that've been happening?"

"Just that there were murders and they had nothing to do with us," she answered.

"Yeah, well, they're being killed by a dark druid. A Darach. They've been performing these ritual sacrifices – threefold deaths. A blow to the head, a slash to the throat and strangulation with a garrotte. Each one fits into a pattern — healers, philosophers, warriors, virgins. It's... bad, Ang. I've already lost two people I knew, two people I cared about."

"Stiles-"

"That's why I came to you," he confessed, cutting her off. He hesitated, guilt flickering across his face. "There's a third teacher that's going to be taken and sacrificed tonight. We don't know who, but it's happening at the memorial concert at the high school. And I know you're still unpacking everything, and part of me doesn't want you anywhere near it. But...I can't do this alone. And I thought maybe—"

Angie set the diary aside and stood, the movement fluid, instinctive. She reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. "And you thought maybe your big sister might have your back?"

Stiles looked up at her, eyes already glassy.

She smiled — soft, sure, familiar. "I've got your back, Mischief. Always."