Chapter 18

"There's nothing natural about this," Stiles gasps between the pains. His throat is hoarse, it hurts to scream. Another one comes, and he twists, dragging at his bonds, hissing through the tearing sensation inside him.

They're not contractions. He doesn't have the anatomy for it. This is, plain and simple, something that should never have been in him in the first place, grown too large and pushing against the confines of its prison.

Peter sits on the edge of the massive tree stump Stiles is tied to, watching in interest. "True. I can take her out now, if that's what you want. Have you had enough, Stiles? Of course you're going to bleed to death. Do you know what will happen when your blood soaks into the Nemeton? There'll be so much of it and it's going to make me stronger."

Stiles whimpers. He's going to bleed internally if this goes on much longer. He'll die, and the baby will die with him if she stays inside. "What are you going to do to her?"

Peter gives him a benign smile. "I'm going to cut her throat. I'm going to add her blood to yours. I'll be more powerful than Deucalion ever was."

"Then leave her in me." Hot tears pour down Stiles' temples, soak into the wood beneath him. It'll be a better end for his baby. Peaceful, instead of violence and pain. Now all he can do is hope that he dies quickly.

Peter shakes his head. "Sorry. Can't do that. It would be a terrible waste, for a start." He holds out his hand, claws stretch out from each fingertip. "I think it's time, don't you?"

He leans over, shoves Stiles' shirt right up, tucking it over the top of the bump. Cold rain hits Stiles' skin, and then the sharp point of a claw digs into the taut flesh of his side.

"I hate to make a ripe fruit joke here," Peter says, "but it's really just like that, isn't it?" The claw drags, and a line of fire inches up Stiles' side.

He starts to scream.

Peter lets out a growl at the same moment the pain eases to a burning throb. Stiles snaps his eyes open, and Peter's there beside the tree trunk, crouched and ready to spring. The next instant, he's gone in a blur of hair and limbs and fangs and claws, and there's a resounding thump as two werewolves hit the ground somewhere behind him, somewhere he can't see.

"Derek," Stiles whines, but it's drowned out by snapping jaws and deafening growls.

A warm hand comes down on Stiles' stomach. "Right here," Derek says, and then Stiles can see him, and he's never been happier to see someone in his life.

"It's not Scott," Stiles rasps. "It's Peter. It was always Peter."

Derek's claws slice through the rope holding Stiles' arms, freeing him. "I know. Scott's okay. He's keeping Peter busy, but we've gotta get you out of here."

Another pain rips through Stiles' middle and he screams again, arching up off the stump as his limbs go rigid. There are hands on him, trying to hold him, but they're hurting him more and as soon as the attack eases, he hits out at whatever he can reach. Wet rope rolls down his arm, falls across his chest and he flicks it away. "It hurts," he whimpers, every fiber of his body stinging in the aftermath of pain. Skin, bones, flesh, all burning away without fire and even though he can see the black spiraling up through Derek's veins, it doesn't seem to ease it at all.

The snarling and snapping comes closer, but Derek stares down at Stiles in horror, eyes wide, jaw hanging open.

"Help him," Stiles says. "Help Scott. You've gotta kill Peter, or he'll kill the baby."

Derek's just a blur as he moves. Stiles lets his head turn to the side, watches as Derek throws himself into the fray, catching Peter from behind, clawed hands locked around biceps, a knee in the small of Peter's back as he pulls him to the ground.

Scott springs, eyes glowing blood red, one clawed hand drawn back. He seems to hang in mid-air for a moment, and the expression on his face is pure determination. Then he comes down, his arm swings, and Stiles sees the blood as it sprays across the clearing.

Peter falls in slow motion, onto his face in the dirt.

Stiles smiles, and then the pain comes again.

When he can see, when he can hear and think, Derek's crouched beside him. There's blood spattered across his cheek, smeared into his hair. "Is he dead?" Stiles asks.

Derek's lips are pressed together tightly as he nods.

"For good this time," Scott says, then to Derek, "we have to get him to Deaton."

Derek nods again, rises, slips a hand beneath Stiles' shoulders as if to lift him, but the pain is excruciating.

"No," Stiles gasps. "I can't. Please, don't."

"You're gonna die," Derek whispers. "You're bleeding internally, I can hear your insides tearing."

"I'll go," Scott says. "I'll bring him here." He's gone in a rapid beat of feet and hands hitting the earth.

"Hold on," Derek says. "You can do this, Stiles. You've just gotta hold on."

Pain tears through Stiles again, but he's too exhausted to fight it. He clenches his teeth and groans, deep and guttural, until it eases. "They'll be too late," he pants, barely able to catch a breath between words. "You've gotta do it. I'm gonna die, Derek. You've gotta get her out, or she'll die, too."

"No." There's tears on Derek's face, washing paths through the blood. "No, Stiles."

Derek's hand is pressed palm down on the surface of the tree stump. Stiles uses a final reserve of energy to lift his hand and place it over Derek's. "I love you," he breathes. "Save our kid. But if you Twilight this baby out of me with your teeth, I'm going to come back from hell, and punch you in the face."

Derek lets out a sob that might be one part laughter to a hundred parts grief. "The last place you'll be going is hell, Stiles."

Stiles feels light-headed, floaty. His eyes drift to somewhere over Derek's shoulder. This is it, he thinks, when he sees her come out of the darkness like mist solidifying. This is what dying is like, pain and dreaming. "Dana," he whispers.

She smiles at him as she stands over Derek's shoulder and looks down. "Hey, Stiles."

Derek jerks his hand out from under Stiles', falls onto his ass in the dirt. "What?" He gets his feet under him, rising up, eyes locked to her and staring. "I didn't hear you. I can't smell you."

"She's not really there," Stiles slurs. He's having trouble keeping his eyes open. "Figment of my imagination."

Derek's head twitches around as he glances at Stiles. "She's there," he says. "I can see her." He looks back at Dana. "What are you?"

Stiles blinks, realization bringing him just a little more alert. "Shit," he breathes. "You're Sidhe. You've been here all along."

"Then you can save him," Derek says. "You can, right? That's why you're here."

"Yes," Dana says. "There's a knife in his pocket."

Derek stares.

"I can't do anything until the baby is out of him, Derek. Get the knife."

Stiles moans in pain as Derek lifts him enough to be able to fish the silver knife Dana gave him for his birthday out of his jeans pocket. It feels like a lifetime ago that she gave it to him, a lifetime since they gathered around the table and had cake, even though it's just a handful of hours.

When Derek hands her the knife, she stares at it. "I can't touch that," she says. "It's made of silver."

"What?" Derek shakes his head. "You gave it to him."

"For a reason," Dana says. Stiles has never seen her so fierce or so strong. "You have to be the one, Derek. It has to be you." She glances down. "Hurry. He's dying."

Derek climbs up onto the tree stump, kneeling by Stiles' hip, leaning over his stomach. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, and then the knife bites in.

A line of liquid fire spreads over Stiles' stomach. He feels wet where it passes, warmth spreading over his skin, and then cold as a breeze washes over him. He thinks he can feel Derek taking his pain away, a slow drawing of fire into the hand that presses against his skin. His throat is too raw to scream, and he can only whimper, blinking up at the moon as it blurs in front of his eyes, seems to quiver in the sky, and is slowly blocked out as his eyelids fall closed.

Stiles can feel the slow beat of his own heart as it pumps the life out of him and onto the tree beneath.