Stiles's Arc

Chapter 11 of 20

The brick clinic smelled like antiseptic and something older underneath. Stiles helped lift the boy onto the cold metal table while Lydia held the door and Scott steadied the head. Kira hovered close, hands ready. Deaton took one look at the gold eyes and the small ankh charm and stepped back fast. "Everyone, away from the table," Deaton said. He didn't explain. He just started mixing — a pale salve, a pinch of silver dust, a tincture that smelled like burned cedar. He pressed a carved stone to the boy's chest and worked the salve into the wounds. The overhead lights stuttered. Stiles felt the air push, like something inside the boy was shoving back. Then it settled. The boy's breathing evened out. His eyes opened, gold and sharp, and locked on Stiles. "You can talk?" Stiles asked. He stepped closer before Scott could stop him. "Please. People are dying. I need a name." The boy's mouth moved. His voice came thin but clear. "Malik. Malik Anubarak. I was tracking it too." He coughed. "It isn't a wolf. It wears one. That's the gap you couldn't explain — the wound that doesn't fit. It changes shape when it feeds." Stiles felt the floor tilt. The missing piece, handed over in one breath. Scott put a hand on his shoulder, steady. Lydia was already pulling out her phone to write it down. Stiles didn't shake Scott off this time. The board wasn't his alone anymore — and the thing hunting them had just stopped being a mystery and started being a target.