Reckless

Liam was curled up on the McCalls' couch, a blanket pulled up to his chin, a glass of water half-full on the coffee table. He was pretending to be asleep, but I could tell from the twitch of his fingers and the occasional shift of his jaw that he wasn't. His mind was still spinning—of course it was. He was fifteen and had just been almost set on fire at a school dance. I couldn't blame him.

I knelt down beside the couch, brushing my fingers gently over his arm. "You okay?" I asked quietly.

He shrugged, then gave me a look that was trying to be tough but didn't quite stick. "Fine."

"Liar," I whispered, smiling faintly. That got me a small, reluctant smirk.

I stood, grabbing the remote and lowering the volume on the movie I'd put on for background noise. Some old comedy, nothing with fire or blood or betrayal. Just noise to keep the dark thoughts out.

"Want anything? Toast? More water? Tea?" I asked.

"I'm not eighty."

"Okay, no tea," I said, grinning. "But I'm still making toast."

I was halfway to the kitchen when a thud-thud-thud of frantic footsteps echoed from upstairs.

Scott came down a moment later, eyes flickering between us. "Kira found Brett. They're fine, but we've got to go."

Liam looked up, face pale. "More assassins?"

"Maybe a lot more..." Scott answered grimly.

"Different than the ones who just tried to set us on fire?"

"Yeah. I think so."

There was a beat of silence before Scott stepped forward, voice gentling. "How about I take you home?"

Liam shook his head. "I'm not like you..."

"Not yet-" Scott started.

"I don't mean I'm not strong," Liam cut in, voice rising. "Or I'm never gonna learn how to be in control, I mean everything else. You guys... you try to protect everyone."

He looked between the two of us, wide-eyed. "Have you been doing this the whole time? I mean, how are you all still alive?"

The words hit me square in the chest, I froze, the images of Allison, Aiden, Boyd, and Erica flashing through my head. Scott's shoulders dropped slightly. "Not all of us are."

Scott stepped forward again. "Let me at least take you home."

"No," I interrupted softly, standing. "I'll take him."

Scott blinked. "Cassie-"

"You need to go with Kira," I said, voice firm. "This might be something big, and you'll need backup, not a scared beta in the backseat." Scott hesitated. "I've got him," I added, more gently now. "Go."

Scott finally nodded, gave Liam one last look, and then jogged toward his bike.

I turned back to Liam and helped him to his feet. "Come on. Let's get you home."

He tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. I pulled him in with one arm as we walked to my car, letting him lean against me.

-----☾-----

Liam gave me a tired look as I shifted the car into park outside his house.

"You gonna wait until I'm inside?" he asked.

"Of course I am," I said. "I'm not just gonna shove you out of the car like it's a drive-thru."

He gave a soft laugh, small, but it was there. He opened the door, stepping out slowly.

"Cassie?" he said, pausing halfway out.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

I smiled, soft and warm. "Go inside. Get some sleep. And Liam?"

"Yeah?"

"You're more like us than you think."

He didn't reply, just gave me a small nod and walked up the steps.

I watched the porch light flicker on, saw the door open and close behind him, and only then did I let myself exhale.

I glanced down at my phone to check the time.

One new message.

MELISSA MCCALL: Cassie—Stiles just showed up at the hospital. He's okay, but he is asking for you.

My heart dropped.

I was already turning the car around.

-----☾-----

The automatic doors slid open with a sterile hiss, and I stepped inside, squinting slightly at the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. My head was still pounding from where the guy had knocked me out at the bonfire. Braden had offered to patch me up, but I'd brushed her off.

The nurses at the front desk recognized me instantly and waved me through before I even had to ask. Melissa had already told them I'd be coming.

I found him in one of the observation rooms, half-sitting, half-sprawled across the hospital bed, his hair messy and eyes glazed in that I-hate-being-here way I knew too well. Melissa stood over him like a general guarding her last soldier, arms crossed and a clipboard in hand.

"I'm completely and totally fine," Stiles was saying as I reached the door.

"Uh-uh-uh!" Melissa countered, lifting a hand. "You completely and totally have a concussion, Stiles. Lie back down. The doctor said you're not leaving without a CT scan."

"We still haven't paid for the last one—"

I pushed the door open fully, and both their heads turned toward me. Stiles sat up fast when he saw me.

"Cass, holy crap." His eyes locked on the dried blood and the bruising at my temple. "What the hell happened to your head?"

"It's fine," I said quickly, waving him off. "It looks worse than it is."

"You have blood on your face," he said, clearly not buying it, pushing back the blanket and swinging his legs off the side of the bed like he was about to storm out right then and there.

I crossed the room and lightly pushed him back with two fingers. "You're concussed, I'm concussed, Melissa's one deep sigh away from slapping both of us—so how about we don't turn this into a competition?"

Melissa raised an eyebrow. "I'm giving you two five minutes. Then he needs to lie down. And get scanned."

"Yes, ma'am," we both chorused.

When she was gone, I sat down in the chair next to the bed and rested my elbow on the railing. "So... wanna tell me what the hell happened?"

He sighed, leaned his head back against the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. "We went to Eichen House. Me and Lydia. Thought we could find something in the files. Instead, we found Brunski."

"Brunski, like—"

"Yep. Brunski, head orderly, creepy as ever. Also? A full-blown Angel of Death."

I blinked. "As in...?"

"Serial killer. Thought he was helping people by killing them. Or something equally psychotic." He rubbed his temple. "He locked us in, was gonna make us part of the 'list' permanently. Lydia was the target."

My stomach turned. "Jesus."

"I got thrown around. She screamed," he said, voice tight. "Then Parrish saved us. He figured out that Brunski was the one pronouncing all the deaths from the list. Put it together. Shot him right before he could-"

Stiles didn't finish. He didn't have to. I reached for his hand and squeezed it.

"He okay?" I asked softly.

"Parrish? Yeah. Little shaken. But... here's the kicker," Stiles said, leaning closer, lowering his voice like the walls might be listening. "Brunski wasn't the Benefactor."

I froze. "What?"

He nodded. "Right before he died, Meredith walked in. Alive. And she said it—she's the Benefactor."

I felt the chill in my spine settle in like ice. "Meredith?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and fury. "She planned the whole thing."

Melissa chose that exact moment to poke her head back in. "Time's up."

Stiles groaned. "Can I get one favor first?"

She rolled her eyes. "Anything."

"Can you get me a tape player?"

"Like... cassettes?" she asked.

"Yes. Tapes."

"I'll see what I can do."

As she walked off, I rose to my feet and leaned down to brush a kiss against his temple. "I'm glad you're okay."

He looked up at me, eyes a little glassy now. "You too."

"I'll wait for you to be released okay? And then we can listen to those tapes."

-----☾-----

I curled up on the edge of Stiles' bed, one of his old hoodies swallowing me whole, the sleeves dangling over my fingertips as I picked at the hem.

Stiles sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a dusty old tape player like it was the key to saving the world. Maybe it was. At this point, I wasn't ruling anything out.

"You're chewing your cheek again," I murmured, watching him from under the blanket of my sleeves.

He blinked, looking up like I'd just spoken a foreign language. "I am not."

I smiled. "You are. You always do when you're nervous. Or thinking too hard."

He stared at me for a second, then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half exhaustion. "Guilty."

Stiles climbed up beside me on the bed, tape player in hand. The cassette inside clicked softly as he adjusted it, but he didn't press play yet. He just sat there, the tension in his shoulders refusing to uncoil. I reached for his wrist and wrapped my fingers around it.

"You good?" I asked.

He gave a little shrug. "I think so. Just... it's been a lot. Brunski, Meredith, the tapes... I mean, how does this even keep happening to us?" He looked at me then, really looked at me, and his eyes flicked to the bruise still blooming at my temple. "And you, God, Cass, when I saw you walk in with that..."

"I'm fine," I said quickly.

He frowned. "You could've gotten seriously hurt."

"But I didn't," I replied, inching closer until our knees touched. "And you're not allowed to be mad at me for showing up when you do the same thing ten times worse every other week."

"That's different."

"It's not." I leaned in, my forehead bumping gently against his. "You're not the only one who gets to be stubborn and reckless."

Stiles sighed, soft and fond, and his hand cupped the side of my face carefully, thumb brushing just beneath the cut. "Okay, fine. But next time, duck faster."

I laughed, and he kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that made the chaos of the last few hours fade into the background. For a moment, it was just us. Just this.

When we broke apart, he nodded toward the tape player. "You ready?"

"Always," I said, pulling my knees up and hugging them as he pressed play.

Brunski on the tape; Let's go, Lorraine.

Lorraine on the tape; Listen to me... Please, listen. There's something I have to do. Something I have to stop.

Brunski on the tape; I have to take you back to Eichen, Lorraine...

Lorraine on the tape; No. No, I don't think you're gonna be taking me anywhere. I can hear the recorder in your pocket. It's on now, isn't it? You're making a tape... Just like you taped the others.

Stiles furrowed his brow, leaning in. "This didn't happen at Eichen House."

My eyes narrowed. "Then where did she go?"

He didn't answer. The tape continued to crackle.

Brunski on the tape; ...Get back to Eichen, Lorraine...

Lorraine on the tape; No. No, I don't think you're gonna be taking me anywhere...

Something in her tone made the hairs on my arms stand up. My heart skipped.

"Wait-" I sat up straighter. "That's it. That's where it is. Play it again, and turn it up."

Stiles gave me a look but rewound the tape, turning the dial all the way up.

Lorraine on the tape; No. No, I don't think you're gonna be taking me anywhere. I can hear the recorder in your pocket. It's on now, isn't it? You're making a tape... Just like you taped the others.

"There," I whispered. "It's the record player."

He blinked. "What record player?"

"The one at the lake house. In the study, she went back there. She escaped Eichen House because she needed to hear something."

Stiles stared at me, realization dawning in his eyes. "Because she was a Banshee. Like Lydia."

"Exactly," I nodded. "She predicted her daughter's death. Just once. But maybe... maybe she spent all those years trying to predict something else."

"And maybe she finally did." His voice had gone low, steady.

"What if this time, it wasn't just one death," I said, heart racing, "It was a lot of deaths."

"Like the Deadpool."

I looked at him, breath caught in my throat. "What if... all those years ago, Lorraine predicted it? And she knew there was something in the study that could stop it?"

We both sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it hanging between us.

Stiles stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. "Then we're going to the lake house."

I stood too, fingers catching his as he moved for the door.

"Hey," I said, softly. He turned, eyebrows lifting. "We're going together," I said. "Got it?"

His hand tightened in mine. "Yeah. Got it."

-----☾-----

The record player kept spinning.

No sound, no message. Just the soft, hypnotic whirl of a needle scratching empty vinyl. It filled the silence like a hum only I could hear, low and maddening, like something breathing in the walls.

Stiles paced behind me, hands in his hair, pacing like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. He went to turn it off.

"What are we doing?" he muttered, voice cracking with frustration. "This room wasn't even made for us. No, we need someone like Lydia, or Meredith, and we're just sitting here, listening to a stupid record player play a record that doesn't play anything."

He turned on his heel. "Come on. There's plenty of other things we can be totally useless doing."

"Stiles...?" I said, soft, hesitant.

He froze and looked at me. "Yes?"

I tilted my head toward the record player, eyes narrowing. "I can still hear it."

"But it's not on," he said, confused.

I shook my head slowly. "Then it's something else, something spinning."

He stepped closer, his brow furrowed. "Uh..."

My fingers brushed the edge of the desk. There was something underneath the surface noise, something mechanical. I knelt, pressing a button

"What is this?" I asked, moving toward a cabinet under the desk. The wall opened.

Stiles crouched beside me, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Deadpool. If this thing's being used to disseminate the list, then it's probably gonna keep going until everyone's dead."

I looked at him, dread tightening my chest. "Then what do we do?"

He ran a hand through his hair again, fingers twitching in that way they always did when his brain was sprinting a mile a minute. "It needs some kind of prompt or command or something, right? No, no, no..."

I stared down at the strange machine, then looked up. "What about a key?"

His eyes snapped to mine, wide.

He grabbed his phone and stood up quickly, dialing. "Lydia," he said when she answered, "you see it? There's got to be a way to turn it off, right?"

I could only hear her muffled voice on the other end as I knelt by the ancient-looking computer again. My fingers hovered over buttons I didn't recognize, all labeled in faded paint and symbols.

Stiles was pacing again. "Lydia, there is no monitor. There are buttons, spindles... no monitor."

"Wait, turn the phone back," Lydia said. "Point it at the carpet."

"What?"

"The floor! Just show me the floor."

Stiles lowered the phone toward the dark rug. I leaned in beside him.

"There's nothing," he said after a moment.

"That doesn't make sense," Lydia murmured through the speaker. "I gave the five hundred dollars I was supposed to use to hire cleaners to Brunski."

I shot Stiles a look. "Why would she give him that?"

"No clue," he muttered.

"Lydia, what the hell does wine have to do with anything?" Stiles asked.

"Red wine doesn't just disappear..." Lydia said, trailing off. "Unless it wasn't wine..."

My stomach turned.

"The ashes weren't ashes... The study isn't a study... The record player isn't a record player..." Lydia continued, voice rising. "So maybe the wine wasn't wine..."

Stiles' eyes widened. "What?"

"Stiles, you have to find the wine! Find the bottle. There could be something about it."

He scanned the room quickly. I darted over to the cabinet, yanking open drawers. "Over here," I said, pulling out a dusty bottle. "Côtes du Rhône, 1982. This it?"

Stiles brought the phone to his ear again. "What kind? What's it called?"

"It's a 1982 Côtes du Rhône," Lydia confirmed.

"I think there's something inside," Stiles said, holding the bottle up to the light. "Do you have, like, a wine opener, or..."

I just grinned, smashing it over my knee. Stiles pulled the key out of the shard of glass, shoving it into the spot in the machine.

Maybe it was over.