The sound of pins getting pummeled echoed through the cavernous Beacon Hills Bowl, mixed with laughter, children screaming, and a soundtrack of generic pop that seemed specifically chosen to test my patience.
We took Lane 4.
The teams were divided with that typical high school social cruelty: Jackson and Lydia versus Scott and Allison—the "team of rejects," according to Jackson's logic. I, as the odd number and the guy with the car, was left floating between the two, technically playing "with" Jackson, but practically just filling space.
Jackson went first.
He walked to the foul line with the posture of an Olympic athlete about to jump. He wiped the ball on his shirt, took a deep breath, took three precise steps, and released.
The ball glided down the lane as if it were on a rail.
CLACK.
Strike.
Jackson turned around, arms wide, waiting for applause. Lydia clapped politely, wearing that "my boyfriend is the best" smile, while I just nodded, taking a sip of my soda.
"Technique, Salt," Jackson said, passing me and giving my shoulder a light punch. "See the spin? It's all in the wrist."
"Impressive," I agreed, playing the ally. "Scott's got his work cut out for him."
Scott was next.
He looked like he was walking to the gallows. Stiles, sitting on the bench behind us, was chewing his fingernails, whispering words of encouragement that sounded more like prayers.
Scott picked up a random green ball. He was tense. His aura was a mess of red, yellow, and grey.
He threw.
The ball went straight into the right gutter. It didn't even make it halfway down the lane.
Jackson let out a loud, cruel laugh.
"Wow, McCall. Careful not to crack the floor with all that strength."
Scott lowered his head, walking back to the bench. Allison looked at him with pity, but he avoided eye contact.
Then it was my turn.
I stood up, grabbing a twelve-pound black ball.
Okay, I thought. I can explode moving targets with compressed mana. I can create a sonic vacuum. Rolling a sphere on a flat surface should be basic physics.
[Activate Magic Sight Level 1]. Calculated the vector. Adjusted the angle.
I threw.
The ball left my hand.
And went, with humiliating precision, straight into the left gutter.
The sound of the ball rolling uselessly through the trench was the only noise in the lane for two seconds.
Jackson stopped laughing at Scott and looked at me, incredulous.
"Salt… that was worse than McCall."
"The physics of this floor are ridiculous," I grumbled, returning to the bench and sitting next to Lydia. "Who decided that oiling the floor is a sport?"
Lydia looked at me over her soda cup. There was an amused glint in her eyes.
"You're a disaster, Nathan," she commented quietly. "I thought you were good at aiming."
"I'm good with things that explode, Lydia. Not with things that roll," I retorted, crossing my arms.
The game continued.
Jackson threw strike after strike. Scott kept throwing gutter balls, getting more frustrated, closer to losing control. His aura was starting to heat up. The red of the inner wolf was bubbling.
Stiles noticed. He stood up, nervous.
"Hey, Scott, maybe we should… go? Eat some curly fries?"
"No," Scott growled low. "I'm going to get one."
That was when the magic happened.
Her magic.
Allison stood up.
I adjusted myself on the bench, watching. It was exactly as I predicted in the car.
She walked up to Scott, who was gripping the ball so hard I feared it might crack.
"You're thinking too much," she said, softly.
"I can't…" Scott started, his voice shaking.
"Shh. Let me help you."
She positioned herself behind him. Pressed her body against his back. Held his arms, guiding the movement.
Jackson rolled his eyes next to me.
"Oh, come on. Get a room already."
But I was fascinated.
In Magic Sight, I saw what was happening. Allison's calm, pink and light-blue aura wrapped around Scott's chaotic red one. It was like throwing cold water on hot iron.
Scott's wolf didn't disappear. It focused. The aggression turned into desire. The will to destroy turned into the will to impress.
She whispered something in his ear. I couldn't hear it with human hearing, and I didn't dare use magic to amplify it, but I saw the effect.
Scott's spine stiffened. His heart rate spiked. I saw the pulsation in his aura.
She stepped back, smiling.
Scott took a deep breath. His eyes flashed for a millisecond.
He threw.
The ball didn't roll. It flew low, touched the lane halfway down, and exploded against the pins.
PAAAAAAACK.
Strike.
The pins flew with such violence that one ricocheted and almost flew out of the machine.
Jackson stopped laughing. The smile died.
Stiles jumped on the bench, screaming.
Scott turned around, shocked by his own strength, and looked at Allison. She smiled and winked.
"See? Just focus."
From then on, the game turned.
Scott started getting strikes. One after another. They weren't technical strikes like Jackson's. They were brute force strikes. Every throw was a thunderclap.
Jackson turned red. His aura began firing spikes of envy and rage.
"He's cheating," Jackson hissed at me. "Nobody plays like that."
"He's motivated," I replied, keeping calm. "Hormones work miracles."
But the problem wasn't Jackson.
It was Scott.
In the tenth frame, he picked up the ball and smiled. A predatory smile.
[Activate Magic Sight]
The aura was too concentrated in his right arm. He was going to put that ball through the back wall.
I couldn't stop the throw.
But I could dampen the disaster.
The instant his arm came down, I closed my hand under the table, focusing on the sapphire ring.
[Phase Cancellation. Target: Impact.]
I didn't aim at Scott.
I aimed at the pins.
The ball left like a cannon shot.
When it hit the pins…
Thump.
The sound was muffled.
The mana absorbed the shockwave. The pins fell. Strike. Normal. No explosion.
Scott blinked, confused.
Jackson frowned.
"Luck," he muttered. "It was just luck."
I let out a breath, relaxing my hand. The ring pulsed warm.
"Saved by the bell."
The game ended. Scott won by a hair.
Allison was hugging him. Stiles was dancing like an idiot.
Jackson stared at the scoreboard, motionless.
I stood up and sat next to him.
"Jackson."
He didn't look at me.
"He doesn't know how to play," he hissed. "How did he win?"
"He didn't win," I lied. "He survived."
I pointed discreetly.
"He played like his life depended on it. You didn't even sweat. Tomorrow, technique wins."
Jackson absorbed the idea.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Pathetic try-hard."
"Exactly. Let's go."
He stood up.
We left. Lydia walked past me.
"You're good at this," she whispered.
"Bowling?"
"Putting out fires," she corrected, winking.
In the cold parking lot, I unlocked the Charger.
As I drove, I watched my hand on the steering wheel.
I avoided a supernatural disaster with a bowling ball, kept the future Kanima under control.
And confirmed that Allison Argent was Scott McCall's anchor.
Not a bad night.
(POV: Scott McCall)
The school looked the same as always—metal lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, the smell of cheap disinfectant mixed with teenage hormones—but to me, everything was different. The world had changed color since last night at the bowling alley.
I wasn't just walking through hallways; I was marching through a minefield.
I sat in Chemistry, feeling the hard stool against my back. Stiles was next to me, vibrating with that nervous energy that seemed never-ending. I had just told him everything. Everything Derek told me in the shadows, everything I felt.
"If Derek isn't the Alpha, if he wasn't the one who bit you, then who was?" Stiles whispered, leaning toward me, his brown eyes wide with panic and curiosity.
I looked forward, trying not to draw Mr. Harris's attention, but my mind was spinning.
"I don't know," I replied, voice low.
Stiles didn't stop. His mind worked faster than my supernatural hearing could track.
"Did the Alpha kill the bus driver?" he fired the next question.
The image of the destroyed bus, the blood on the asphalt, the dream I had... it all came back in a wave of nausea. Nate had told me not to take the blame, that there were other energy signatures there, but the doubt still gnawed at my insides.
"I don't know," I repeated, feeling cold sweat on the back of my neck.
"Does Allison's dad know about the Alpha?" Stiles insisted, his voice going up an octave. "I mean, he's a hunter, Scott. They know about these things!"
I wiped my hand over my face, frustrated.
"I don't know, Stiles! I don't have answers for any of this!"
Before Stiles could formulate the fourth question on his endless list, Mr. Harris walked past our row. He said nothing, just dropped my test onto the desk with a dry, disappointing thud.
I looked at the paper.
The red ink seemed to scream at me.
D-
And right below, written in Harris's sharp, critical handwriting: "Scott, this is not your usual standard."
I felt my stomach sink. Between werewolves, hunters, mages, and killer Alphas, I was failing at the one thing that was supposed to be normal: school. My mom was going to kill me. If the Alpha didn't kill me first, Melissa McCall would.
"Dude..." Stiles peeked at the grade, making a face of sympathetic pain. "You need to study hard."
He patted my shoulder.
"Seriously. Like, really hard. You want help?"
I shook my head, shoving the test into my backpack like it was evidence of a crime.
"No. I'm going to study with Allison after school."
Stiles's eyes lit up. "Detective Mode" turned off, and "Depraved Teenager Mode" switched on instantly.
"Study." He made air quotes with his fingers, a mischievous grin appearing on his face. "That's it. That's my favorite code word."
"It's not code, Stiles," I sighed, tired. "We're just going to study."
"No, you're not going to 'just study,'" he insisted, leaning closer. "Scott, you can't waste this opportunity. You guys are going to be alone. In her room. With hormones. Dude, you have to... you know."
"I'm not going to do anything," I cut in, but felt my face heat up. "We're just studying History."
"History of human anatomy, I hope," Stiles murmured, turning back to the board.
I tried to focus on the class, but it was impossible. My senses were dialed up too high. The sound of someone's pen tapping on a desk sounded like a hammer. The smell of someone's perfume three rows ahead felt like it was under my nose.
And then, I heard it.
Not in the room. Far away. In the boys' locker room.
It was a dragging sound. Heavy footsteps. Labored breathing, as if someone's lungs were full of fluid.
I recognized the heart rate. Slow. Weak. Almost stopping.
Derek.
(POV: Nathan Salt)
I was closing my locker in the main hallway when the smell hit me.
It wasn't the smell of school disinfectant, nor the cheap perfume of the cheerleaders. It was a smell I had sensed in the woods, days ago, when my father fought the Construct.
Rot. Corrupted magic.
But this time, mixed with something more... lupine.
"Derek," I muttered, frowning.
[Activate Magic Sight]
The trail wasn't hard to follow. A line of grey, sickly energy, pulsing like an infected vein, cut through the air toward the boys' locker room.
And then, I heard the voice.
The voice I was learning to tolerate, but at that moment sounded like a fire alarm.
"...You should stop sampling your own merchandise. You're wrecked, man. Look at you."
Jackson.
My blood ran cold.
I knew exactly what scene this was. I knew where this was leading.
No, no, no, I thought, dropping my backpack on the floor and running. The idiot is going to provoke the wounded wolf.
If Derek scratched Jackson now, with his body rejecting the Wolfsbane and his mind unstable, he would pass on the curse. He would create the Kanima. The monster I was manipulating Jackson not to become.
I ran down the hall, ignoring the protests of some students I bumped into.
The locker room door was ten meters away.
I heard Derek's growl. A guttural, painful sound.
"Where. Is. He?"
"I'll tell you where he is. If you give me a little of what you sold him."
Shut up, Jackson! I screamed mentally, extending my hand as I ran.
I prepared a Kinetic Blast. Not to hurt, but to blow the door open and create a distraction. I needed to separate them before physical contact.
I picked up the pace. Five meters.
I pulled the mental trigger.
BAM.
The double doors of the locker room flew open with the force of my telekinetic impact, slamming against the tile walls with a crash that echoed through the entire bathroom.
I skidded in, hand raised, ready to pull Jackson away.
But reality, sometimes, is faster than magic.
I saw everything in slow motion, magnified by my Magic Sight.
I saw Derek Hale's rotting, trembling aura, cornered, desperate, and dying. I saw Jackson's electric-blue, arrogant aura, full of contempt.
I saw Derek lunge.
"STOP!" I yelled, launching a Push wave.
My mana hit Derek in the shoulder, throwing him to the side.
But it was a split second too late.
The moment I pushed him, his hand had already come down.
SRAAAK.
The sound of claws tearing skin and fabric was nauseating.
Jackson screamed, clapping his hand to the back of his neck.
Derek, off-balance from my push and his own weakness, crashed against the lockers on the other side, denting the metal. He fell to his knees, gasping, claws still dripping with fresh blood.
I stopped in the middle of the locker room, chest heaving.
I looked at the back of Jackson's neck.
Through his fingers, blood was trickling down.
In my Magic Sight, it wasn't just a cut.
It was an injection.
I saw the Beta's energy mixed with the Wolfsbane corruption and Jackson's own insecurity. His blue aura, right where the cut happened, started to bubble.
It turned green. A toxic, reptilian green.
"Shit," I whispered. "It happened."
Derek lifted his head. His eyes were glazed, feverish. He looked at me but didn't seem to recognize me. He saw only an obstacle.
"Get... out of the way," he growled, trying to stand.
I could stop him. He was weak. A well-placed Kinetic Blast to the knee and he wouldn't walk.
But Jackson was groaning on the floor, and the "infection" was spreading fast through his aura. If I attacked Derek now, I'd lose precious time with Jackson. And, let's be honest, Derek needed to find Scott for the story to progress and for them to discover the truth about Kate.
I stepped aside, clearing the path.
"Go," I said, coldly. "Before I change my mind."
Derek didn't question it. He stumbled toward the back exit, leaving a trail of sickly sweat and blood behind.
As soon as he was gone, I knelt beside Jackson.
He was pale, eyes wide with shock, holding his neck.
"He... he cut me!" Jackson choked out, looking at the blood on his hand. "That crazy junkie cut me!"
"Let me see," I ordered, moving his hand away firmly.
I examined the cut. Three parallel lines, deep, but not fatal.
The problem wasn't the depth. It was the magic.
Under my vision, I saw invisible scales starting to form on the ethereal structure of his soul. His identity was cracking, and something ancient and vengeful was filling the gaps.
"What is it?" Jackson asked, seeing my serious expression. The arrogance was gone, replaced by pure fear. "Is it bad? Am I gonna catch something? Tetanus?"
I looked into his eyes.
You're going to catch something much worse than tetanus, buddy, I thought. You're going to turn into a giant lizard that paralyzes people.
But I couldn't say that.
"It was superficial," I lied, grabbing some paper towels from the dispenser and pressing them against the wound. "But you need to clean this. Now."
"I'm going to sue him..." Jackson hissed, anger returning as the fear faded. "I'm going to put his dad in jail. No, wait, his family died in a fire, right? I'm going to have that animal put down!"
He stood up, swaying a little. The toxic green aura pulsed at his neck, synchronized with his rage.
The Kanima had just gained a host.
And I, with all my mana, my rings, and my armored car, arrived one second too late.
"Jackson," I called, as he went to the mirror to check the damage.
He looked at me through the reflection.
"What, Salt?"
"Don't let anyone touch that. And if you start feeling... cold. Or paralysis. Call me."
Jackson frowned, confused by the specific warning.
"It's just a scratch, man. Quit the drama."
He stomped out of the locker room, already grabbing his phone, probably to call Lydia or a lawyer.
I stood alone in the locker room, looking at the drops of blood on the floor.
I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated.
"The universe has a funny way of course-correcting the script," I muttered to the silence.
I tried to stop it. I tried to manipulate his ego. I tried using brute force.
But Jackson still got scratched.
The only difference now was that I knew exactly when it happened. And I knew the countdown to the Kanima's first murder had begun.
I grabbed my backpack; the bell rang.
The drive back home was a blur of trees and asphalt. I drove the Charger on autopilot, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned under my gloves.
The image of Derek's claws tearing Jackson's neck replayed in my mind on a loop.
I had power. I had knowledge of the future. I had a magical arsenal.
And still, I lost by a second.
The Teen Wolf universe seemed to have its own inertia, a gravitational force pulling events back to the original script, no matter how hard I tried to push them out. Jackson was wounded. The Kanima toxin was in his system. The reptilian nightmare was about to begin.
I parked in the garage and killed the engine. The silence of the house was heavy, only the ticking of the cooling engine breaking the stillness.
I entered through the kitchen door, throwing my backpack onto the island with a dull thud.
Marcus was at the dining room table, surrounded by papers. Maps of Beacon Hills, mana fluctuation charts, and an old open book. He looked up when I entered, his usual analytical expression softening slightly upon seeing I was in one piece.
"Home early," he commented, returning to drawing a line on the map. "Was the school evacuated again, or did you decide to skip class?"
"We had an incident," I replied, going to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. My throat was dry. "But that's not what I want to talk about."
I walked to the table and sat across from him. The seriousness in my voice made Marcus put down his pen. He crossed his arms over his chest, giving me his full attention.
"Dad..." I began, choosing my words carefully. "Theoretically. If a human is wounded by a supernatural being. An Alpha, or an unstable Beta. Our magic... structural magic... can it reverse the process?"
The effect was instantaneous.
Marcus's calm evaporated. He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor with a sharp sound. In a fluid motion, he was at my side, grabbing my arm and pulling up my jacket sleeve.
"Where?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous, eyes sweeping my exposed skin with Magic Sight active, glowing intense blue. "Who touched you, Nathan? Was it Derek? Was it the Alpha?"
"Dad, calm down!" I pulled my arm back. "It wasn't me! I'm clean. Look at my aura!"
Marcus stopped. He took a deep breath, forcing his own mana to settle, and scanned my entire body. When he confirmed my structure was intact and free of any lycanthropic infection, he let out a breath, running a hand over his face.
"Never..." he pointed a finger at me, voice trembling with relief and anger. "Never scare me like that. Do you know what a bite does to us? To mages?"
"No, I don't," I admitted. "That's why I'm asking."
Marcus went back to his chair but didn't sit. He stood leaning on the backrest, regaining his composure.
"What happened at school, Nathan?"
"Jackson Whittemore," I answered. "He provoked Derek Hale. Derek wasn't well, looked sick, weak. He lost control and scratched Jackson. On the neck. It was deep."
Marcus frowned.
"Scratch from a born wolf..." he murmured, processing. "If it was deep enough to enter the bloodstream, the curse was transmitted."
"And magic?" I insisted. "I tried to get there in time, but I couldn't. If I used... I don't know, Healing Resonance? Or tried to extract the wolf mana from his wound? Would it work?"
Marcus shook his head slowly. His look grew somber.
"Nathan, you need to understand the difference between 'damage' and 'change'."
He picked up a glass of water on the table and dripped a drop of black ink from his fountain pen into it. The ink spread, dyeing the clear water in seconds.
"If you break an arm, the bone structure is damaged. We can use mana to realign and accelerate knitting. That is repair." He pointed to the glass. "But the bite... the bite isn't damage. It's a rewrite."
He swirled the glass, the water now dark grey.
"The moment the wolf's essence enters the blood, it doesn't attack the cells. It fuses with them. It alters the frequency of the person's soul. It's not an infection you can clean, son. It's new source code being installed."
I looked at the glass, feeling a weight in my stomach.
"So there's no going back?"
"We can detoxify the wound," Marcus conceded. "We can clean the bacteria, close the skin, take away the pain. We can even, with great effort, delay the process for a few hours, creating a stasis field around the heart. But the transformation?"
He looked into my eyes.
"Transformation is a law of nature. Once initiated, structural magic cannot reverse it without destroying the host in the process. If we tried to rip the wolf out of the boy now... we'd rip out his life along with it."
I swallowed hard.
So that was it. Jackson was doomed.
But Marcus continued, and what he said next made me think.
"The only thing that defines what he becomes is his mind," Marcus continued, swirling the glass and watching the ink mix. "The bite offers the power. The body accepts or rejects it. If the mind is weak, or the body fights the change... the transformation becomes something grotesque."
I felt a shiver. I knew exactly how grotesque. Scales, paralysis, venom. The Kanima.
"Okay, but what if we interfered with that?" I asked, leaning over the table, urgency leaking into my voice. "Is there no way for us to... force his body to accept it?"
Marcus stopped swirling the glass and looked at me, frowning.
"Force?"
"Yeah. Use our mana to 'bend' his will or biological structure so the wolf installs properly, preventing rejection," I explained quickly, gesturing. "Like, creating an artificial support structure that forces the correct transformation to happen. If the problem is his mind fighting it, can't we... subjugate that fight? Make the body accept the wolf by force?"
Marcus let out a heavy sigh, releasing the glass. The sound of glass hitting wood was the only noise in the kitchen for a second.
"You are talking about violating someone's essence, Nathan," he said, voice low and stern. "The bite is a question asked to the soul. You cannot force the answer."
He pointed to my chest.
"We are architects. We build walls, bridges, barriers. But we cannot build character. If we tried to force acceptance... if we tried to mold his essence by force to fit the wolf mold... we would create a broken puppet. His mind would fragment."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out into the darkness.
"If his foundation is rotten, if it is made of insecurity or hate... the house falls, Nathan. No matter how much magic cement you pour around it to hold it up. If we forced it, he might become a wolf, yes. But he would be a mindless wolf. A rabid animal that would need to be put down in hours."
I swallowed hard.
So there was no shortcut. Jackson had to face his own demons, or the demons would turn him into the monster he deserved to be.
"Got it," I murmured, leaning back in the chair, defeated. "So we just sit and watch the disaster happen?"
"We observe," Marcus corrected, turning to me. "And we contain the damage if the 'grotesque' decides to go for a walk."
He looked at me with curiosity.
"Why all this interest, son? A new unstable werewolf is a Hunter problem, not ours. Let Chris Argent deal with Derek Hale's failures."
"Because if what comes out of him is what I think it's going to be..." I stood up, grabbing my backpack.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, but the shrill ring of my cell phone cut the kitchen air.
"Stiles Stilinski".
I answered.
"Nate! For the love of God, tell me you're near the vet clinic!" Stiles's voice was a squeal of panic, mixed with a mechanical buzzing in the background.
"Clinic? What are you doing at Deaton's at this hour?"
"Derek! We broke in because he said he needed a 'safe place'! But now he's dying, Nate! He's turning blue, and black, and he smells like rotting meat!"
Marcus narrowed his eyes, listening.
"What's wrong with Derek?" I asked, heading for the door.
"The bullet! The infection moved up! He said if it reaches his heart, he dies. He wants me to cut off his arm!" Stiles sobbed. "He turned on a chainsaw, Nate! He wants me to saw his arm off!"
I stopped.
"Cut off his arm?"
"I'm gonna puke! I can't do it! But you... I saw you in class healing Erica! I know you do things! Get over here now and heal this werewolf before I have to amputate him!"
I looked at Marcus. He nodded.
"Wolfsbane doesn't leave with magic," my father warned. "But you can stop the flow. Go."
"I'm coming, Stiles. Don't cut anything. Hold him."
I hung up.
"Take the full ring," Marcus tossed the box. "And don't let the human dirty the Druid's clinic with Beta blood. Deaton is picky about cleanliness."
I arched an eyebrow. "You know Deaton!?"
"We'll talk about that later." Marcus waved his hand in the air as if it were a useless detail. "Now go."
I ran to the backyard.
There was no time for the car. The clinic was six blocks away cutting through the woods.
Impulse, I thought.
I channeled mana into my legs and vaulted the wall, landing in the darkness of the woods and running as if the devil himself were on my heels.
The "Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic" sign flickered weakly in the night. Stiles's jeep was parked haphazardly out front.
The front door was locked, but I saw the light on in the back.
I ran to the side entrance. Locked.
"Ah, screw it," I muttered.
I pointed my hand at the lock.
[Impact.]
The lock burst with a metallic snap. I kicked the door and entered.
The smell of antiseptic and scared animals greeted me, but it was soon overpowered by the smell of ozone and necrosis.
I entered the exam room.
The scene was a horror movie.
Derek Hale was lying on the cold metal table, shirtless. His left arm was a mess of black veins climbing toward his neck. He was sweating so much the table was wet. A blue rubber tourniquet was tied around his bicep, tight as could be.
Stiles was standing next to him, holding a construction chainsaw. The machine was on, buzzing loud and dangerous in his shaking hands.
Derek, even half-unconscious, snarled:
"Cut it! Now!"
Stiles whimpered, bringing the blade closer to Derek's skin, but recoiling at the last second.
"I can't! What if you bleed to death?!"
"JUST DO IT!" Derek yelled, and his eyes rolled back.
"DROP IT!" I screamed.
Stiles jumped, almost dropping the chainsaw on top of Derek. He turned to me, eyes wide with terror and relief.
"Nate?! Thank God!"
He turned off the saw and threw it on a counter far away, as if it were on fire.
I walked to the table, pushing Stiles aside gently.
"You took too long!" Stiles accused, voice cracking. "He's fading!"
I looked at the arm. The infection was dark purple, almost black. The poison lines were already passing the physical tourniquet.
"The tourniquet isn't holding," I said, activating Magic Sight.
In my vision, the poison was a glowing green smoke, eating Derek's blue aura. It was inches from his heart.
"What are you gonna do?" Stiles asked, looking at my hand where the sapphire ring pulsed. "You gonna do that healing voodoo?"
"You can't cure Wolfsbane with mana, Stiles. It's spiritual poison." I placed my hands over Derek's chest and shoulder, not touching the infected skin. "But I can freeze the flow."
[Stasis: Hydraulic Lock]
I didn't use complex geometry. I used brute force.
I imagined a wall of invisible steel inside Derek's veins, right above the infection.
The ring on my finger shone intensely, illuminating the dark room with a bluish light.
Derek gasped, his back arching on the table.
"Hold him!" I yelled.
Stiles threw himself over Derek's legs to keep him still.
I gritted my teeth. The poison fought against my mana. It wanted to go up. It was aggressive, magical.
"Stay... still..." I growled, injecting another 500 MP from the ring straight into his circulatory system.
In my vision, the green smoke hit my blue wall and stopped. It swirled, furious, but didn't advance.
Derek's chest stopped heaving so much. His breathing, previously an agonizing wheeze, stabilized a little. The black veins stopped growing.
I let out a breath, but didn't remove my hands.
"Got it," I whispered, sweating cold. " I staunched it. But it won't last forever. The poison is building pressure."
Stiles looked at the arm, then at me, mouth open.
"You... you stopped the poison? With your hand?"
"I stopped the blood, Stiles. It's a magical tourniquet." I looked at him, serious. "Where is Scott? Derek needs the cure. I just bought time."
"Scott is at the dinner! With the Argents!" Stiles ran a hand through his hair, frantic. "He went to get the bullet. The magic bullet. Derek said it's the only thing that cures it."
"Nordic Blue Monkshood bullet," I muttered, remembering Marcus's conversation. "Scott has to bring the bullet."
At that moment, Derek opened his eyes. They weren't glazed anymore. They were focused, though full of pain. He looked at me, at the blue light coming out of my hands and entering his chest.
"Who... are... you?" he whispered, hoarse.
"The guy who saved your left arm," I replied. "Now shut up and save oxygen."
We stood there, in the tense silence of the clinic, listening only to the distant bark of a dog. Me holding death back in a werewolf's shoulder, Stiles pacing back and forth chewing his nails, and Derek Hale analyzing me with the distrust of a wounded animal.
"If Scott doesn't get here in ten minutes..." Stiles began.
"He'll get here," I cut in.
And then we heard it.
The sound of a door slamming out front. Running footsteps.
Scott McCall skidded into the room, still dressed in his dinner clothes, holding a silver bullet in his hand like it was the Holy Grail.
He stopped, panting, looking at the scene: me glowing blue on top of Derek, Stiles looking like he was going to faint, and the chainsaw thrown in the corner.
"I got it!" Scott held up the bullet.
"Great," I said, feeling my mana start to fail under the pressure of the poison. "Now shove that in him before my ring drains and he dies for real."