Chapter 25: Motel California.
The pack stared up at the neon sign flickering Motel Glen Capri.
"I'm no Evelyn Graves, but this place looks haunted," Hope said, wrapping her arms around Stiles. "Straight out of a low-budget horror film where everyone dies in the first twenty minutes."
Stiles welcomed the embrace—he definitely needed it right now. Actually, he always needs it. He is needy, sue him.
Lydia, meanwhile, looked like she'd just stepped into a nightmare. She didn't even notice Hope had dropped a new name into conversation—otherwise, she would've raised hell.
"I've seen worse," Scott muttered, gripping the strap of his duffel bag like it might bite him.
"Where have you seen worse?" Stiles asked, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Never mind. I don't want to know."
Coach blew his whistle, effectively ending all conversations. "Listen up! The meet's been pushed to tomorrow. This was the closest place with the most vacancies and the least common sense when it comes to accepting a bunch of teenage delinquents like yourselves. Pair up. Choose wisely. And I swear, if I hear even a hint of perversion, you'll wish you'd slept on the bus. Keep your filthy little hands to your equally filthy selves!"
Isaac and Boyd vanished instantly, not waiting for anyone. Hope turned to find Lydia still rooted to the ground.
Allison had noticed too. "Lydia?" she asked gently.
"I don't like this place," Lydia admitted quietly, her voice tight with unease.
"Even more reason to just sleep on the bus," Hope muttered.
"It's just one night," Allison tried to reassure them.
"Yeah, and so was The Purge," Hope added under her breath, but followed the group anyway.
Stiles wrapped his arms around her waist again. "Stiles is here, so why do you fear?" he sang softly.
"I'm even more terrified now," Hope teased.
She was supposed to bunk with Lydia and Allison, but followed Stiles and Scott to their room for now. As they sat on the bed, Stiles started brainstorming suspects for the Darach again.
Deaton had cracked the code: Harris left clues in his notes before he vanished. Rearranged, they spelled Darach—the one behind the sacrifices.
"All right, I have five," Stiles announced, holding up five fingers.
"Five? You've got five suspects?" Scott turned to him.
"Yeah. It was originally eleven—well, ten technically. I had Derek down twice."
"Derek does give off cult leader vibes," Hope mused. "He could run a brooding aesthetic cult. 'The Broody Gang.' Their motto? 'We scowl. We flex. We smolder. Behind those good looking looks'"
"You think Derek is good-looking?" Stiles shot her a look.
"I was praising myself," she said with a smirk.
"No, no. I definitely heard you say 'Derek' and 'good-looking' in the same breath."
"Look, there is a Broody Gang, I'm the founding member. So yes, I was indirectly praising myself. Also, I'm not blind—his arms are illegal."
Stiles groaned. "You could've just stabbed me instead of saying that. My girlfriend's drooling over my nemesis."
Scott looked between them, a mix of amusement and exasperation. They were fighting like a married couple. "Guys. Focus."
"We'll discuss this later," Stiles muttered.
"Gladly." Hope rolled her eyes.
"So who's number one? Harris?" Scott asked, trying to change the subject.
Stiles nodded. "Just because he's missing doesn't mean he's dead."
"What about someone else from school? Like... remember Matt?" Scott suggested. "We didn't realize he was behind the murders until it was too late."
Stiles looked offended. "I'm sorry—what? I called that. Day one. I was basically screaming it from the rooftops."
Hope nodded solemnly. "Yeah, Scott. You suck at guessing villains."
"Well… what if it's someone we really don't expect? Like Miss Blake. She's new, right? What do we know about her?" Hope suggested. "And she tried flirting with Derek. That alone makes her suspicious."
"Ooh. I hadn't thought about her," Stiles muttered, gears turning.
"It's always the unexpected ones. For all we know, you could be the villain, Stiles. Secret split personality, sacrificing people at night. Creepy smile. Very hot. I'd hate to fight you, but I'd look good doing it."
Stiles blinked. "So… I turn evil and suddenly I'm hotter? Is that what I'm hearing?"
"Yes. Right now, I just want to put you in my pocket and carry you around like emotional support chaos. But Evil Stiles? That's a full-on daddy vibe."
"Can we not do this?" Scott groaned. "My ears are bleeding."
"Scott saved you from being objectified just now," Stiles said proudly.
"Too late. Already did it in my head," Hope giggled.
"Kill me. Right now. Dig a hole. Bury me," Scott muttered.
"Okay, okay. No more sex talk," Hope said, still laughing.
"Who were the other four?" Scott asked, trying desperately to get the conversation back on track.
"Cora. No one knows anything about her. Derek's sister? Could be in on it." One finger down. "Next? Your boss."
"My boss?" Scott blinked.
"Yeah. He's too Obi-Wan for comfort. Gives me the creeps." Scott didn't get the reference.
"Oh my God—have you still not seen Star Wars?" Stiles asked.
Hope quickly looked away, studying the floorboards.
Stiles gasped. "You too? We are watching it if we live through this."
"Fine. But only if you don't spend the whole time judging my reactions."
"Deal."
"Who was the fourth?" Scott asked.
"Lydia," Stiles admitted.
Hope frowned. "Why?"
"She was controlled by Peter and didn't know it. Who's to say it's not happening again?"
"And the last one?" Hope asked softly.
"…Evelyn. And before you stab me, just—listen. She's from Eichen House. She talks to ghosts. That could mean demonic rituals. We just… we don't know her."
"Who's Evelyn?" Scott asked, genuinely confused.
"My friend," Hope replied instantly.
"You have friends?" Scott asked, teasing.
"Wow. Insulting and uncalled for." Hope shot him a glare before turning to Stiles, expression suddenly cold. "I trust her. I trust Lydia. And I trust Derek. I trust my gut."
"Can you really, Hope?" Stiles asked softly.
The room fell silent.
Hope stood without another word and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Scott and Stiles exchanged a tense look.
___
Derek's eyes fluttered open slowly, the light blinding him at first. His head felt heavy, like it was being weighed down by an invisible force. He groaned, trying to sit up but the pain shot through his body, reminding him that he wasn't ready to move yet.
"Easy there, big guy," came a voice, smooth but full of a certain bite. Evelyn appeared above him, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she studied him with a mix of amusement and slight annoyance. "You really need to stop getting yourself killed."
Derek's mind was foggy, but her words hit home. He remembered everything—his last moments, falling with Ennis, feeling the life draining out of him... And yet, here he was, alive. His gaze locked on Evelyn, still hovering over him. Her face was a picture of sweet sarcasm, but her eyes held something deeper—concern, maybe?
"I wasn't trying to die," he rasped, his voice hoarse from the pain.
"No one ever is. But look at you. Still breathing. You should be thanking me." She tilted her head to the side, glancing at his wounds. "I don't know if you noticed, but you were covered in blood. Almost like a walking crime scene. Guess I'm lucky I was nearby."
Derek huffed, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Lucky you were nearby, huh?"
"Don't flatter yourself, wolf-boy," she teased, reaching into her pocket. "If I had to pick a someone to save, it'd be because I'm running out of excuses for you getting your ass handed to you."
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment as she focused. Her fingers began to glow with an ethereal light, the energy swirling in the air around them like an invisible current. "I'm going to channel the spirits to heal you. Just don't get any funny ideas."
Derek's eyes flickered with suspicion, his usual guarded expression falling into place. "Funny ideas?"
Evelyn rolled her eyes, the light surrounding her hands intensifying. "Just... don't flirt with me while I'm trying to save your life. It's distracting."
He raised an eyebrow, his voice rough but teasing. "You think I'd flirt with you while you're... what, playing the necromancer?"
"I'm not a necromancer," she shot back, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "More like a spirit medium with a very high threshold for pain and annoyance."
Derek's smirk deepened, but the pain in his body was undeniable. He winced as Evelyn's energy flowed into him, the spirits answering her call, pulling the injuries in his body back together. He could feel the burn of the magic, a sharp contrast to the dull, constant ache that had overtaken him moments ago.
The spirits, at her command, worked swiftly to heal his wounds. He could feel them, a sensation like cold hands on his skin, stitching him back together, knitting muscle and bone in a way that was both soothing and unnerving.
But as the healing continued, Evelyn remained close, her breath steady, her presence grounding him. Something about her was... different. Not just her magic, but the way she was able to hold him together when he felt like he was about to break apart.
"You're going to be fine now," she murmured after a few moments, her eyes flickering down to his chest where the last of the wound closed up. The pain was all but gone, replaced with a feeling of peace and power.
Derek shifted slightly, testing his body. "I don't know how you do it."
"Well, I've got my secrets," she said with a wink, but there was something unspoken between them, a tension thickening the air around them. Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
But then Derek cleared his throat. "Tell Scott... and Hope. I'm alive. They need to know."
Evelyn's smile faded, her gaze softening. There was a certain weight to his request, as if he knew how much the others would worry. "I will," she said quietly. Then, her lips quirked again, her playful tone slipping back into place. "But if they ask, you owe me a favor. Preferably one that doesn't involve you getting yourself killed again. Deal?"
"Deal," Derek agreed, his voice low but sincere.
She chuckled softly, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Good. Now go on and take a nap. You're not allowed to go and die again before I get a proper drink out of you." She turned away, but not before tossing him a final look over her shoulder. "And next time, try to stay alive long enough for me to actually enjoy saving you."
Derek sat there, watching her as she moved away to tend to some of the other matters around the house. He didn't speak, but there was something in the air now. Something that neither of them had acknowledged yet. A spark, a flicker, that hung between them like the flickering of a flame.
But for now, all he could do was breathe, the weight in his chest lifting slightly, the tension slowly easing from his body.
"Thanks," he murmured after a beat, not caring if she heard him. But somehow, he knew she did.
Evelyn, as always, didn't answer directly. But the way she smiled over her shoulder, that look in her blue eyes, told him everything he needed to know.
___
The stars shimmered brightly, but Hope's eyes were fixed on the moon. She had an unhealthy obsession with it—always gazing, always captivated. There was something so hauntingly beautiful about it. As the moonlight bathed her face, her hair danced with the wind. It felt peaceful. Healing. Like breathing in serenity.
She was not mad at Stiles for suspecting her friends, She just needed some time alone to herself, just her and the moon.
She didn't know how long she had been sitting on the rooftop, eyes tracing the moon as it drifted across the sky. She always used to look at the moon with—
Who?
Why couldn't she remember?
Why was there such a gaping hole in her memory?
When she had transmigrated into Legacies, she hadn't even known who she was. Oddly enough, she remembered the plot—she knew this world wasn't originally hers. But who was she, really? What was her name? What had her life been?
The questions spiraled through her mind, clouding her peaceful moment—until a familiar voice pulled her back.
"Isn't the moon lovely tonight?"
Stiles stood beside her.
"Indeed, it is," she whispered, exhaling softly.
He began climbing onto the railings.
"What are you doing? Do you have a death wish?!" she shouted, grabbing him in panic.
"Don't you trust me, Hope?" he asked gently, his brown eyes locking with her wide, scared blue ones. It was hypnotizing. His eyes were so pretty… she could get lost in them. Like now. Like always. She felt like she could do anything he asked.
And then somehow—without realizing—her grip loosened. He climbed the railing and balanced on the narrow edge, gesturing for her to join him.
And she did.
He helped her up, and she sat beside him, holding his hand tightly. Their feet dangled into the night air—it was exhilarating, almost magical, if you ignored the looming threat of death below.
"You never told me," he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles.
"Told you what?" she asked, heart fluttering, a giddy warmth spreading in her chest. Right now, anything felt possible.
"Those three magical words," he whispered, leaning closer. His breath ghosted over her lips, making her flush.
"Don't you love me, Hope?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips. Her heart pounded violently in her chest.
"Say it, Hope," he urged, his lips skimming her skin with feather-light kisses. She could die like this and not mind.
"I do," she breathed.
He smiled, so brightly, so beautifully—she wanted to hold that smile forever.
"I do love you," she choked, emotion thick in her throat. Why did she feel like crying?
"I love you, Stiles," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. He kissed her then—softly, sweetly—and the tears spilled down her cheeks. He kissed those too.
"Then prove it," he said, pulling back from the kiss. The smile remained, but now… it felt wrong.
"What?" she asked, her voice shaking as the tears kept falling.
"Prove your love, Hope. Jump with me."
He offered his hand. She didn't want to take it, but it was as if some unknown force had taken control of her. She could hear something… someone… calling her.
But she saw nothing. Nothing but him.
She reached out. Took his hand.
And she jumped.
___
The room was quiet—dimly lit, the way Derek liked it. Shadows clung to the concrete walls, but the air had shifted since Evelyn walked in.
She stood in front of him, holding out a plate of freshly baked cupcakes with a crooked smile, her dimples making her look more endearing.
"I brought you cupcakes," she said softly.
Derek raised an eyebrow. "Cupcakes?"
"Vanilla. With caramel centers." She shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. "I figured saving your life earned me the right to feed you sugar."
He smirked faintly, eyes flicking from the box to her face. "I'm healed, not soft."
"You are soft," she teased. "On the inside. Somewhere. Very, very deep."
His eyes darkened slightly at her words, but not in warning. In heat.
He stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Evelyn."
His voice was low. Gravelly. Dangerous.
She swallowed, heart hammering against her ribs. She could smell him—pine, leather, heat. The kind of scent that wrapped around you and made you forget where you were. Who you were.
He reached out, taking the box from her hands without breaking eye contact, setting it aside on the counter. Then he turned back, crowding her space.
"You've been taking care of me," he said, voice like velvet over steel. "Healing me. Staying up with me. You even brought cupcakes."
"You're welcome," she whispered.
His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers trailing down the side of her neck with a touch so light it made her knees wobble.
"I haven't exactly been easy to deal with."
"No," she breathed. "You've been a grump and a half."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, but then he leaned in. Close. So close his lips nearly brushed hers.
"I've been trying to behave."
Her breath hitched. "Why?"
His eyes locked on hers—burning, hungry.
"Because if I don't—" His lips grazed hers, feather-light. "—I'll do this."
He kissed her. Deeply. Desperately. Like he'd been waiting for this moment since the first time she'd touched him. His hands cupped her jaw, holding her still while his mouth devoured hers.
Evelyn melted against him, fisting his shirt as he backed her into the counter. His mouth moved to her neck, teeth scraping gently over skin as a shiver tore through her.
"You smell like a damn bakery," he murmured into her skin. "I want to taste every inch of you."
"Then do it," she whispered.
Clothes came off in flashes. Urgency in every touch. Her shirt hit the floor. His fingers slid up her waist, strong hands lifting her onto the counter, spreading her thighs as he stepped between them.
She gasped when his lips trailed down her collarbone, hot and wet. His mouth was demanding, tongue tracing over her skin like he wanted to brand her.
He looked up, eyes glowing faintly gold.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her chest, even though his fingers were already exploring the inside of her thighs.
"I'm not stopping," she gasped, breathless. "Don't you dare stop."
He growled—a sound low in his throat that made her pulse throb between her legs. And when his mouth finally replaced his fingers, licking up her heat like it was his personal addiction, she arched into him, moaning his name.
"Derek—"
He didn't stop. Not when her hands clawed at the counter. Not when her thighs trembled around his head. Not even when she shattered for him, shaking and gasping.
Only when she tugged him up, kissing him hard with a taste of herself on his tongue, did he finally lift her and carry her to the couch.
"I don't need healing anymore," he whispered in her ear. "But I still need you."
And that night, he took her like a man starved.
___
Stiles saved Scott. Just like he did for everyone else. The adrenaline still throbbed in his veins, the chaos fading into heavy breaths and quiet relief.
But then the quiet got too loud. Something felt off.
Someone was missing.
Hope.
Where was she?
His heart dropped, cold and heavy like a stone sinking to the bottom of his stomach. How could he forget her?
No—no, no, no. He hadn't forgotten her. He'd just been so focused on surviving, on keeping Scott alive, on holding everything together. But how the hell could he have left her behind?
"Has anyone seen Hope?" he asked, frantic, spinning around to face the people near him. "Where is she?! Was she with you?"
Scott looked confused. "No, I—I thought she was with you."
Allison shook her head, worry dawning on her face.
Lydia's eyes slowly drifted upward, and her expression paled.
"There," she said quietly, pointing. "She's on the rooftop."
Stiles followed her gaze—and his blood turned to ice.
There she was. Hope. Sitting on the railing. Too close to the edge. The moonlight washed over her like a spotlight, and for a terrifying moment, she looked like a ghost.
"HOPE!"
He didn't wait. He didn't breathe. He ran.
His legs carried him faster than they ever had before, fueled by raw panic. His lungs burned. His heart was thundering, a war drum in his chest. The world blurred around him. All he could see was her.
Please don't jump. Please don't fall. Please, Hope, just stay—just stay.
The door to the rooftop slammed open. His shoes pounded against the concrete as he sprinted toward her.
"Love!"
She didn't turn. She didn't flinch. She looked gone. As if she were in a trance—eyes glazed, lips parted, like she was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere he couldn't reach.
And then—she let go.
She jumped.
"NO!"
Stiles dove.
Everything moved in slow motion. His body screamed, but his arms stretched forward, refusing to let her slip away. Refusing to lose her. Not her.
His hand caught her wrist just as gravity claimed her.
Their bodies jerked from the force, but his grip held. He grunted, nearly slipping over the edge himself, but he planted his foot, anchored them both with a strength he didn't know he had.
Hope dangled there, wide-eyed, her hair whipping around her face, breath stolen by the fall.
"I got you," Stiles gasped, muscles trembling, voice raw with desperation. "I got you."
She stared up at him, stunned. Tears clung to her lashes. Maybe his did too. He didn't care.
"You're okay," he whispered, pulling her up with all the strength left in him. "You're okay. I've got you. I'm never letting go."
When she was safely in his arms, he collapsed with her onto the rooftop, clutching her so tightly like she might vanish if he loosened his hold.
"How could I forget you?" he murmured, voice cracking. "How could I ever forget you?"
Hope didn't answer, just buried her face in his neck, her whole body trembling.
Stiles held her close, rocking slightly, whispering her name again and again like a promise, like a prayer.
She was here.
He caught her.
And he would never let her fall again.