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Peter’s ears perked as the front door slammed closed followed by the familiar sound of sneakered feet racing up the hardwood stairs.
“Peter, I have a surprise for you!” Stiles sing-songed as he pounded up the steps.
“Is the surprise that you remembered to take your shoes off when you came in?” Peter called back.
The stairs went silent followed by a single creak and two thumps that were almost certainly the young spark toeing off his shoes and chucking them back towards the entry before continuing on slippery socked feet.
“No!” Stiles said, just barely catching his momentum on the door frame of Peter’s study without braining himself. “That’s just a bonus, I always remember that. It’s this!” He held up a paper dramatically.
Peter sat up from where he had been reclining on the loveseat and snagged the flyer from Stiles’ hands, before the excited waving made him crosseyed, and examined the print carefully. “This is for a flea market?”
“Yeah! But, like, a really big one that has supernatural stuff too! It’s happening in Oregon in two weeks and Mom and Dad say we can totally go.”
“Supernatural stuff,” Peter said doubtfully, once again searching the flyer for the fine print and, yes, there it was, a small note at the bottom proclaiming the event to be specifically for the supernaturally inclined. “Exactly when did I agree to this? And where did you find this flyer?”
“The internet,” Stiles said casually before leveling wide hopeful eyes at the werewolf, eyes that Peter was all too familiar with and disgustingly susceptible to. “Don’t you wanna go with me? Think of all the things we could learn! Oh, man, I bet they have some of the bestest books to ever book!”
The werewolf pinched the bridge of his nose, once again wondering what kind of english they were teaching at the middle school. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Come on, Peter,” Stiles wheedled. “I bet they have some of the coolest stuff. Oh! I could meet a witch! I’ve never met a witch before, I bet witches have the best booths.” The kid sighed wistfully and Peter rolled his eyes.
“With your luck the witch would probably try to cook you for dinner.”
“Nuh uh! Witches are like opossums, they just get a bad rep.” Stiles pouted.
“Do opossums get a bad rep?” Peter asked, eyeing the boy quizzically.
“Yeah, because actually they are awesome! They eat snails, and slugs, and beetles, and mice, and rats, and snakes, and rotting fruit and stuff, which means they keep the ground clean of debris. They’re naturally resistant to rabies and botulism and they’re immune to bee or scorpion stings. Scorpion stings, Peter! They also eat ticks! And ticks carry lime disease and Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Did you know a single opossum will eat, like, 5,000 ticks a year? Isn’t that crazy?!”
“Crazy indeed.” Peter tipped a knowing look at the twelve year old. “I can only assume this knowledge is due to an internet rabbit hole on a late night?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “But it was worth it, I love opossums.”
“I’m sure they love you too. Now, I will look into this supernatural flea market and, assuming I find nothing untoward, I suppose I can be convinced to accompany you.”
“Yes!” He watched Stiles fist pump the air and then beam happily, a warmth he was growing increasingly acquainted with spreading in his chest. “You’re the best, Peter!”
“I could not agree more,” he said smugly.
“STILINSKI!”
Stiles jumped and Peter had to chuckle. “Sounds like Cora is ready to do homework.”
“Yeah.” Stiles peered warily down the hall before turning to whisper, “she flunked her english test today so it’s gonna be ‘angry homework’ all afternoon.”
“I HEARD THAT, STILINSKI!”
Peter hissed in sympathy. “It was a pleasure to know you, I’ll say something nice at your funeral.”
“Thanks.” Stiles heaved a sigh worthy of a man facing his execution and headed for the door. “If you don’t hear from me by dinner send help.”
“Of course,” Peter said graciously. “Right after I finish your share of the meal.”
“Like it matters,” Stiles mourned. “I’ll probably be dead at the hands of your niece.”
“STILINSKI!”
“Oops! Gotta go!”
Peter watched the boy skitter out of his study and half walk half fall down the stairs. He could hear his niece at the bottom, already haranguing him about her bad grade and how that meant they needed to study more, and by all that was holy he’d better help her do better! The werewolf chuckled to himself as he stood up and stretched, heading for his computer. Cora was a prickly little hellion at the best of times, and she hated to fail, Stiles was in for a trying afternoon. Perhaps, after perusing the internet for more information on the flea market he would go to the boy’s rescue, milk and cookies soothed the prickliest of souls after all.
Several hours later he had to admit he had found a surprisingly thorough summary of the flea market at the web address included on the flyer and much to his chagrin he had to admit Stiles was correct, there would likely be a number of incredibly rare and valuable books present along with numerous other trinkets and antiques. Things he would love to lay eyes on, and perhaps even hands if he had enough funds to pull from. It would be an expensive trip, to be certain, but it would be worth it. It would also make Stiles incredibly happy and who was he to deny the boy? Besides, his personal library was still sadly lacking since the fire, this would be an optimal opportunity to rebuild some of that loss.
His only hesitance was that he could not identify the market’s sponsor. There was a list of vendors, some of whom he’d had prior dealings with and knew to be authentic. There was a list of services that would be provided, need a peak into the future or a remedy for a spiritual haunting? There would be ample providers to choose from. There was even a list of all the nearby restaurants and hotels for those wishing to partake of the local delights. That was all well and good but typically such an event had a sponsor whose name was plastered on every page, gift bag, and free cup. Free publicity was often the intention behind such events so he was a little put off when he found the short paragraph hidden away in tiny print at the very bottom of the website that proclaimed: ‘The gracious sponsors of our event wish to remain anonymous in their charitable contributions.’
In any other scenario that would have been a red flag, but Peter had read every article and list the website had to offer, he knew the people and goods – some intimately – it was all above board. So, pushing his mild reluctance aside, he texted Claudia to be certain she and John had given their permission (because Stiles), and then purchased two tickets. They could leave the Friday before and spend the weekend away, Stiles would be delighted and Peter could use the break, he had enough vacation racked up. He did so love a two birds one stone scenario.
Two weeks later Peter followed Stiles down yet another row of vendors, nodding at every exclamation of delight and pointing out items hidden away among the laden tables that the boy had missed. It was a truly impressive event, the entire Portland Expo Center had been rented out for the weekend and every spare inch was packed with vendors, goods, and people. The cacophony of smells and noise was a constant distraction to the werewolf, although not entirely unpleasant.Already expecting quite a few wares of worth, Peter had been surprised by exactly how many valuable items could be found on the sales floor. Recalculations had been required when he realized exactly how much he was likely to spend at the event.
Stiles had taken one look around and immediately started gnawing on his lip. “Peter, I don’t think my piggy bank is gonna cover this.”
The werewolf had sighed. Stiles had been elated when Peter had confirmed their ticket purchase, he’d gone to his room immediately and returned with his personal bank, a blue polka dot pig, and asked his parent’s blessing to break it open. Its intended use had been college funds but the Sheriff had confided in Peter that he already had quite a bit saved away and they’d mostly told Stiles that to keep him from trying to buy anything and everything related to whatever his latest obsession was. At the time, his obsession had been snakes and John had chosen the partial lie over finding unsuspecting reptiles in his house. Peter had understood completely.
But everyone had agreed that this market was a different situation entirely, it would behoove Stiles to have some cash on hand and he was old enough that his parents trusted him to make good choices. Mostly. At least they trusted Peter’s presence to deter the worst choices and that was good enough. The blessing was given and the floor ended up covered in blue polka dot shards and shiny coins. It had been a tidy sum, but Peter had already known he’d be offering some financial assistance, these kinds of markets were not cheap.
“Not to worry, Stiles,” he’d said. “If we come across something you cannot live without I am willing to give you a hand.”
“Oh thank goodness!” Stiles sighed loudly. “I was worried I wasn’t gonna be able to get anything!”
“Come now,” Peter clapped a hand on the boney shoulder. “I’d be more than happy to get you a keychain, or coffee mug perhaps?”
“Only if they come personalized!”
Peter snorted. If they found a keychain that said ‘Stiles’ let alone ‘Mieczyslaw’ he would be very impressed indeed.
“Dude, is that a rack of human skulls?” Stiles asked staring transfixed at the back wall of a booth. Peter followed behind, eyes barely pausing at the display.
“It would appear so.”
“Whoa, that’s so cool!”
“Them’s not all human, son,” a woman, clearly the seller, said from her tiny chair shoved back in a corner. “Some of those is elf and pixie!”
“Which ones are the pixie ones?”
“The very small ones,” Peter murmured to himself as he perused the woman’s book selection, eyes alighting on a heavy tome worn with age. It glinted with sigils etched deep into the binding. The werewolf smiled, pulling the worn leather towards him as the woman descended upon Stiles who was listening in rapt delight as she detailed each skulls origins and uses. A glance inside proved his suspicions right, the book would make a wonderful addition to his library, a person could never have too many etiquette books on the ancient rituals of the fae. Especially since Stiles had, on more than one occasion, accidentally exploded a favored mushroom ring.
“Peter! Can I get this?”
He turned, eyes stopping on the tiny skull in the boy’s hands. “No, I will not be responsible for you bringing home a pixie skull.”
“But it’s a keychain! You said I could get a keychain!”
Peter glared. “The keychain was a humorous example, your mother would find this-” he pointed at the skull- “significantly less humorous.”
Stiles glowered but the werewolf could tell his heart wasn’t in it. The keychain was quaint, and while he almost certainly would have purchased it given half a chance, being told no meant he had the advantage on the next item he wanted. After all, Peter could only say no so many times before he was being unreasonable. And it was that kind of forward thinking that Peter appreciated about Stiles even when on the receiving end. Stiles was always three or four steps ahead of the rest of the pack (Peter was the typical exception since, as the left hand, he was expected to maintain a superior level of clever wiles), it was a valuable survival skill that the werewolf liked to encourage.
“Fiiiiine,” Stiles said, practically pouting as he handed the keychain back to the woman.
“Excellent,” Peter said. “Now, how much for this book?”
He reached back for the tome only to brush against the arm of another, he turned, surprised to find someone standing behind him when no one had been there before. He had not heard their arrival over the noise of the market. And they were holding his book.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “But I do intend to buy that.”
The man, tall and broad with golden skin and long black hair, leveled a yellow-eyed stare at the werewolf, a look of faint amusement crossing his face before he offered the book to Peter. “My apologies, I was merely curious.”
“None needed,” he took the book, gaze lingering on the other man. Something about him set his hackles up and he could not quite put a finger on why that was. “I should not have been so brusque, you caught me by surprise.”
The man hummed an understanding, his voice deep and gravelly.
As Stiles chattered the werewolf paid the seller for the book, the price was high, high enough he normally would have haggled her down, but her demeanor had changed. Her eyes kept drifting towards the other man in the booth who still examined the table’s contents, a nervousness that wasn’t there before flitted about her expression, and her scent had gone distinctly acrid. Already on edge, it was enough to encourage Peter to depart quickly, so he paid without question and then pulled Stiles in close to his side as they left the booth, glancing back long enough to see the yellow eyes watching them leave.
“Hey, Peter, can we go back to that shop with the carnivorous plants?” Stiles asked.
“That was on the far side of the building, wasn’t it?”
“Yep.”
Peter sighed in relief. Distance was good. “Then yes, that sounds perfect.”
Stiles crowed in delight, blissfully unaware of what the werewolf was positive had been far too close a call even if he was not certain how.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet, or as quiet as it could be when shepherding a young spark through a supernatural flea market. By the time Peter was ready to call it a day and head back to their hotel he had talked Stiles out of a carnivorous plant large enough to eat rats, a haunted music box that Claudia did not need no matter how pretty the music was, two pet firebirds, and an enormous sword that Stiles probably would have tripped over and impaled himself on if allowed to carry it out of the booth.
Their final stop of the day, made at the last minute just as they were about to wander off in search of dinner, was a stall piled high with books, organized without rhyme or reason and stacked nearly to the ceiling. Nary a word had been exchanged between them for several minutes as they intently searched through the piles, both delighted at the variety and the relatively reasonable prices.
“Moons above, I haven’t seen a bestiary this old since I stole that one copy from a darach years ago.”
“Peter, this one has all kinds of poisons! And cures too. Wow,” Stiles frowned. “Who knew wolfsbane came in so many varieties?”
“I did,” Peter said dryly. He passed Stiles a different book. “Here, this one is all about Nessie, you’ve been asking me questions nonstop about her.”
“Sweet, thanks!”
He smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm and went back to his own search. This was not the first book vender they had visited and it would not be the last, but it was by far the largest yet. Peter suspected that both he and Stiles could spend several fortunes on the wonderful finds they were sniffing out amongst the duller, more mundane options.
“Whoa, Peter, look at this.”
The werewolf turned at the boy’s words, curious at what could fill Stiles’ tone with such awe. It was a box set of supernatural history, a volume for each continent. The covers were made of the finest leather with intricate, hand painted depictions of the land and creatures, the page edges dusted with gold. Even the box that held the volumes was intricately ornate, encrusted with glittering scales and scrolling designs of silver.
The entire presentation was quite a feast for the eyes and when he thumbed gently through the pages of one of the volumes he found the information to be less dated and more thorough than he had expected.
“Those are quite the find, Stiles. Good eye.” The boy preened happily.
“Quite a find indeed,” a voice echoed behind them.
They looked up, surprised to find someone else in the booth with them. A tall man, skin translucent and hair brilliantly white and flowing, smiled at them. His eyes were an electric blue and his suit a soft heather.
“Did I not tell you it was a rare piece?” Another voice said, making Peter tense. He recognized it, deep and gravelly and screaming danger. He turned ever so slightly to glance over his shoulder, unwilling to turn his back fully on the new arrival. Dread began to pull in his belly when the familiar yellow eyes glittered at him smugly.
“Yes, but you did not say it was so fresh and untarnished.” Peter turned again to find a third man, shorter and broader than the other two, frowning in their general direction. His skin was black as night, hair a thick silver and eyes red as the scarlet sash that looped over his shoulder.
The werewolf growled. He was less than amused by the sudden and silent appearance of these men, clearly supernaturals, clearly predators, and clearly following him and Stiles around the market. He pulled Stiles close, the boy giving him a bewildered look before glancing around the booth and seeming to really take in their companions for the first time.
“It is perfect and will last many lifetimes in my collection.”
His collection? Ah. Peter relaxed incrementally. They were collectors, which would make sense given their surroundings. Rare volumes were often sought and lusted after by those with the means to buy them, if not for the knowledge they held than for the distinction of owning the rare article and the prestige it bought in certain circles. This meant that, while he and Stiles were still standing in a metaphorical mine field, they were not the intended target. Stiles’ newly discovered seven volume boxset was.
“Gentlemen,” Peter said politely. “There appears to be a misunderstanding, the ‘rare piece’ is not available. I believe ‘first come, first served’ is the appropriate saying for the occasion.”
His words garnered little else than a raised eyebrow by the golden-skinned man they had first met, the other two ignored him completely.
“Dude,” Stiles said with a grin. “Your eyes are as blue as Peter’s! Are they always glowing? How do you go to the grocery story or restaurants like that?”
The white-haired man smiled, endeared, as most were, by Stiles’ questions. “I do not run errands, my servants do so on my behalf.”
“That must be awesome! Are you super important or something? Is that why you have servants?”
The man laughed, it was a light airy sound that sent a shiver down Peter’s spine, though he couldn’t say why. “I suppose I am less important than I am ancient and powerful, if a little limited and archaic in my form. Servants allow me to work around such limitations, as they do for all dragons.”
Stiles’ eyes nearly popped out of his head, it was an expression Peter typically found amusing but in that moment he was far too distracted by the fear and trepidation filling his gut. Suddenly he was not so certain they were not the targets.
“You’re a dragon,” Stiles asked, utterly delighted. “That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to meet a dragon, are you all dragons? Dude!” He turned back to the werewolf, his expression elated. “This is amazing!”
“Your chattering is akin to a primate in heat,” the black-skinned man snapped. “Be silent, Llllrrrrrkrrrrrrrrreeeeal, you show your age.”
The white-haired one rolled his eyes. “There is no harm in friendly overtures.”
“Enough,” the yellow-eyed one interrupted, his voice low and hissing. “Do you agree the article is worth the base price?
The other two men agreed, their glowing eyes drifting between the golden-skinned dragon and the young spark.
“Then the bidding proceeds.”
“Seven thousand silvers.”
The black-skinned one sneered. “It is worth far more than that, your bid is an insult.”
“Correct me if I am wrong but I believe bids traditionally start low and work up.”
“Eighteen thousand gold pieces.”
“Twenty thousand and a purse of uncut diamonds.”
The dragons continued, hurling insults nearly as often as bids, their tones shifting, more akin to growls and hisses than vowels and consonants.
Peter gripped the back of Stiles’ hoody and started inching towards the back of the booth. “How is your teleportation practice going?”
“Uh, not great. Why, what’s wrong?”
Peter bit back a heavy sigh. “What do you think they’re bidding on right now?”
Stiles’ nose scrunched up. “The freaking awesome boxset that we got first?”
“Unfortunately, no. Dragons are known to collect the most rare and valuable items, both animate and inanimate. What do you think that means for us?”
The boy’s mouth worked silently for a moment and then he paled, turning wide eyes on Peter. “Me?” He squeaked.
Peter nodded shortly. “So, again, your teleportation?”
“Depends” Stiles admitted nervously. “I’m really good at teleporting parts of things, just not, ya know, whole things. . . In their entirety.”
“Fine, then we’ll simply have to make a run for it.” He turned to the back of the booth, claws sliding out to slice through the curtained frame when suddenly the room shook, the tables of books toppled to the ground as the space was suddenly filled with a giant shape, solid and thick it crushed booths against the walls as it grew, sending venders and buyers alike running for refuge. Peter was knocked to the ground, a giant gold scaled foot pinning him down as a talon, well over a foot in length, pressed almost delicately against his throat. He swallowed thickly and laid still.
“Peter!” Stiles yelled, tripping over books and debris as he scrambled over.
Peter snarled at him. “Run, Stiles, run!”
“That would be unwise.” The dragon’s voice had grown with its body, deep and resonant, the words barely audible over the constant thrumming growl in its chest. The talon’s pressure increased.
“No! Stop! You can’t kill him!”
The black-skinned dragon rolled his eyes. “He has no value, werewolves are dull and worth little. It would be kindness to end his miserable life.”
Peter, despite his tenuous situation, was rather insulted, his life was far from miserable!
“He has worth to me, you dick!” Stiles shouted angrily and then scrabbled at his pockets. “Wait! Wait, I’ll buy him! Then you have to leave him alone because he’ll belong to me!”
The red eyes narrowed in annoyance. “A waste of time.”
“Come now, Shrrrrrroooakaaaaasssss, he was patient as we bid, it would only be polite to return the favor.” Peter could barely see the white-haired dragon but his tone of good-natured amusement was unmistakeable.
“He tried to escape while we bid,” the other grumbled.
“Escape eternal imprisonment? How strange.”
“Here,” Stiles said, holding up a wad of wrinkled bills and freshly smudged coins. “$56.72. I bid $56.72 on Peter.”
“And if I chose to bid $57?” The dragon’s electric blue eyes glinted with curiosity.
“Then I would roast you like a marshmallow!” the twelve-year-old threatened, flames briefly licking up his fingers and singeing the bills. Stiles yelped and dropped the money, stamping on it hurriedly.
Were he in a different position the werewolf would have smacked his head in disbelief. Stiles had just threatened a dragon with fire. A dragon. Despite the seriousness of the situation, or perhaps because of it, Peter felt a nearly overwhelming urge to laugh. As it was, he waited breathlessly, the talon at his throat had eased slightly but it would take less than a thought for the dragon to ‘slip’, thereby ending his existence. And that would simply not do, not only because Peter did not want to die, but because he knew Stiles would not be able to extricate himself from the situation fully without help. Dragons had centuries to learn, they were clever and smart and had ages to practice deceit and manipulation. They wereallowing Stiles to bid on him, it was a ploy to keep the boy distracted, to let him feel in control until they closed the net. Yet there was little to do other than let it play out. Peter was in no position to save them at that moment and Stiles didn’t know he needed to.
There was a long thoughtful rumble and then the golden dragon dipped its head slightly. “The bid is accepted.” Peter breathed a sigh of relief as the heavy foot was lifted, the talon scraping teasingly against his throat as it was withdrawn. “Peter!” Stiles dropped down at his side, boney knees digging into his ribs. “Shit, that was close!”
“Language,” Peter managed, but he wrapped his arms around the boy. It had been close, too close, and they were not out of the woods yet.
“A heart-warming scene, to be sure. It seems I will be taking two specimens with me this day.”
The black-skinned dragon snorted. “The sting of loss is salved by the knowledge your collection will be tainted by the substandard werewolf.”
“Tainted or more intriguing?” The white-haired one asked.
“Tainted,” the former said firmly.
The air pressure of the room shifted as the golden dragon returned to his human form, dusting off the lapels of his suit. “Do you have transport prepared?”
“Of course,” the younger one demurred. “I always come prepared to such events.”
“Excellent.” The golden skinned dragon pulled a book of receipts out of his breast pocket, a fountain pen materializing in his other hand. “We shall expect your payment in no less than three days, that should be sufficient time, yes?”
“More than sufficient.”
The dragon grunted and finished scribbling away at the pad before ripping off the top page and handing it over to the white-haired dragon. “You’re proof of ownership.”
“Dude,” Stiles griped. “I’m not an object, you can’t just own me.”
“And here is your receipt for the werewolf,” the dragon continued, unperturbed. He ripped off a second piece of paper and delicately extended it towards the young spark, his eyes meeting the werewolves’ smugly. “No refunds or returns.”
Peter’s lip curled in a silent snarl as Stiles grabbed the receipt and stuffed it in his pocket before sticking his tongue out at the dragon. “Duh.”
“We shall be on our way.”
Peter stiffened, pulling Stiles close once more as their new owner (and didn’t that word smart) pulled a small glass jar from his pocket. He uncorked the top and gently tossed the contents into the air where they slithered like thousands of tiny sparkling motes before forming into runes the werewolf had never seen before, and floating down to land on the floor in a perfect circle surrounding Peter and Stiles.
Stiles watched in delighted fascination, hissing excitedly at Peter, right up until the last rune touched the cold tiling and the room flashed in a brilliant, blinding light. The werewolf growled, throwing an arm up to protect his eyes, the other tightening around the boy who had yelled in surprise. There was a distinct sense of falling followed by a sudden jerking stop, and then the light began to fade. Peter blinked the spots away, drawing himself up into a crouch, ready to attack or run, whichever seemed most plausible, only to discover they were no longer at the flea market. He doubted they were still in Oregon.
They found themselves in a giant room, big enough for a dragon to curl up comfortably in its true form, with high arching ceilings and marble floors and pillars. The space was filled with rare artifacts displayed artfully in high quality cases as well as the odd mound of gold or rubies shoved into corners, yet Peter’s eye was drawn not to the mystical artifacts as it would be normally, but to the heavy bars that surrounded him and Stiles and separated them from the rest of the room.The metal was ornate, dipped in gold and encrusted with jewels, and the interior filled with pillows and blankets and furs, soft rugs covered the cold floor, and a couch and small desk sat against the back wall. A luxurious prison, but a prison nonetheless.
A glance around the room showed other such cages interspersed with the smaller displays, but all appeared empty except their own.
“Wow,” Stiles said next to him, his wide eyes taking in the room.
“Indeed, that is exactly the effect this room is intended to invoke.” The white-haired dragon stepped out of a cloud of mist. Apparently, unlike Stiles, he had no difficulty teleporting things in their entirety. “I am certain you shall be quite content in your new quarters.”
Peter sneered. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying about gilt cages.”
“Yes, it is quite lovely, isn’t it?”
“That’s not-”
“It does have nice scroll work,” Stiles said cheerfully.
Peter spun around and pinned the boy with an incredulous glare. Stiles had the decency to look embarrassed but when the werewolf turned back to the dragon at hand there was a muttered, “well it does,” behind him. Peter fought the urge to throttle the boy, they had more important things to worry about than Stiles’ newfound love of scroll work.
“Surely you cannot mean to keep us here forever,” he said, aiming for reasonable instead of annoyed. “There are laws against such things.”
The dragon’s brow furrowed, his perfect eyebrows drawing together in puzzlement. “Human laws, perhaps, I am not human. But perhaps I shall not keep you, you have no value and I hunger.”
Peter took a step back from the bars as the dragon’s eyes went from electric blue to pearlescent, a forked tongue flicking out of his mouth in the werewolf’s direction.
“Nope!” Stiles appeared in front of Peter, his voice several octaves higher than normal. He held the receipt, crumpled from his pocket, and thrust it under the dragon’s nose, the pearlescent eyes flickering back to blue in surprise. “Nope, not cool. I bought him, remember, he’s mine. So you can’t eat him. Besides, his presence is super important for the flourishing of this spark. If you eat him I could very well pine myself to an early grave. That’s just a bad investment on your part.”
“Really, Stiles? Pine?”
Stiles hissed at him to shut up and Peter shook his head.
The dragon seemed to be thinking over the boy’s words and finally nodded. “That is only fair, I would be most upset if someone ate a specimen I had purchased, even one with as little worth as this werewolf.”
“I’m going to have a complex by the time we get out of here,” Peter muttered to himself.
“And given the substantial percentage of my hoard that was traded for your acquisition it would be quite disappointing to have you die before I could enjoy the ownership. I am not Shrrrrrroooakaaaaasssss, my appetite is easily bridled and the small taint of the werewolf is worth the proprietorship of a spark.”
“Right, well, that’s good. Thank you, uh.” Stiles paused and frowned. “What’s your name?”
“To those with less years I am called Krrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrr, it means ‘master.’”
“Well, that simply wont do,” Peter said dryly. “Perhaps an alternative.”
The dragon shrugged. “My given name is Llllrrrrrkrrrrrrrrreeeeal, but that is difficult for non-dragons to pronounce.”
It was obvious why, between the deep resonate growls and the amount of phlegm required to create such a sound Peter would be shocked if any non-dragon could replicate it correctly.
“Um,” Stiles scratched his head. “Can we just call you Lurk for short?”
The dragon’s lips pursed in distaste. “That sounds terribly informal.” He paused and his expression smoothed. “But then, your existence in my collection shall lasts many eons, a slightly more informal relation could be acceptable.”
“Great!” Stiles said grinning. “Thank you for not eating my werewolf, Lurk.”
“You are most welcome,” the dragon bowed. “Now I shall leave you to settle in, explore the space and make yourselves comfortable.”
“Will do!”
They watched the tall man walk away, his stride smooth and sliding. Peter turned an unimpressed look on Stiles.
“What?”
“I think it is time we have a conversation concerning the flyer you found for the market, more specifically where you found it.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh.’ And I think we should follow that up with a conversation about exactly how much your Sight revealed in advance.”
Stiles stared down at where he was scuffing a beat up tennis shoe into one of the ornate rugs covering the floor. He glanced up at Peter from under his lashes, going for puppy dog eyes, but the werewolf was far too agitated to be taken in so easily. He glowered at the boy until Stiles flushed and hung his head.
“So, I maybe found this site online, it was only a little sketchy so I figured it was okay.”
“You found a site online.” Peter arched an eyebrow.
“. . . It may have been on the dark web. And I may have had to do some not 100% legal stuff to get in.”
Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to grind his teeth. Clearly the website on the flyer had been part of the con. “I’m sure your father will be very interested to hear exactly what that ‘stuff’ was.”
“No, Peter! You can’t tell him!”
“I think, assuming we manage to extract ourselves from these circumstances, that I very much can,” he said ignoring the boy’s pleading. “Now, your Sight?”
Stiles turned his eyes back down, shrugging one shoulder. “Um, I may have known there would be dragons. But I just wanted to meet one, Peter! I didn’t think it would be a problem, and the visions weren’t, like, super dark so it didn’t occur to me to be worried. And the market was just as awesome as I thought it would be, so that was definitely worth it. Besides, I have you with me and you always keep me safe, you’re like my personal bodyguard! And I didn’t even know dragons still existed and it seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity and how could anyone pass that up, right? You’re not mad at me are you?”
Like all preadolescents, Stiles could fly through emotions faster than a magician through cards. The flow of words that had started grudging and turned excited had ended on a very sad and worried note, the boy’s expression clearly braced for the worst. Stiles had not meant to put either of them in danger, he never did, but sometimes his excitement took a bat to the knees of his common sense, leaving it limping in the dust, while running full steam ahead.
“I am not mad, but I am disappointed.” Stiles’ face crumpled at his words. Peter knelt in front of him so they could see eye to eye, hands on his shoulders. “Keeping information back has put us in danger, it has put you in danger. I nearly died earlier, how could I protect you if I was dead? If you had been honest I could have told you what I know of dragons, and maybe we could have found a way to meet one that didn’t mean eternal imprisonment.”
Stiles sniffed loudly and scrubbed a fist against his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Peter said, pulling the boy into a hug and letting him bury his face in his shoulder. “Next time you talk to me first, you tell me everything. Understand?” Stiles nodded without lifting his head. “Alright. Now, we need to figure out how to escape.”
“Um, we could just walk out?”
Peter blinked. “What?”
“Well.” The boy cleared his throat, breath hitching slightly, Peter almost felt bad for lecturing him, but this was a serious situation. “The, uh, the bars are gold covered iron, right? And the floor too, under the rugs and stuff. So I can’t get out using magic, but a super strong werewolf could probably bend the bars. The cage isn’t werewolf proof because-”
“Werewolves have no value.” Peter couldn’t decide if he wanted to groan or laugh, but Stiles’ watery grin tipped the balance. He laughed until his sides and cheeks ached, he laughed until Stiles giggled and joined him on the floor, rolling in the blankets and rugs. Eventually he sat up, still chuckling, and pulled Stiles into a headlock, ruffling his hair. “Moons above, it’s a good day to be a worthless werewolf.”
Stiles snorted and tried to wrestle out of Peter’s grip, only managing to dig his sharp elbows into the werewolf’s kidney. Peter released him and stood in one fluid motion, heading for the bars. “Come along, Stiles, no time for dillydallying.” The boy made a noise of faux outrage but scrambled to his feet and quickly followed.
Dragons had a reputation for being clever, but they also had a reputation for being so enamored with their own cleverness that they rarely considered the possibility that someone else might be quite as clever as they were. After all, they had centuries of experience to draw from and most creatures, even supernatural ones, did not live anywhere as long and therefore could never be as clever. Their seemingly arbitrary bestowal of worth and value on certain creatures and complete dismissal of others also tended to lead to a certain amount of oversight, like placing a werewolf (no value) with a spark (great value) in the same cage and then assuming that the enclosure would hold both with equal effectiveness because it was built for the more worthy of the two.
With that in mind, Peter bent the bars, ushering Stiles through the hole, and then unbent them so their manner of escape was not immediately clear. Let Lurk wonder how the all powerful spark had fled his iron clad prison, a feat that was suppose to be impossible.
The werewolf hummed in satisfaction before turning to locate Stiles. He sighed heavily. “Stiles, what is that?”
The boy blinked up from, if the label could be believed, a glass pedestal that held a siren’s voice-box. “Huh?”
“Around your neck?”
“Oh!” Stiles grinned and did a spin. “Do you like it? It’s my cape!”
The young spark had taken two tasseled ends of one of the rugs that had been on the bottom of their cage and tied them around his neck, it did look very much like a cape.
“Is it really wise to be absconding with someone else’s belongings right now?”
“Dude, it was on the floor of our cage, pretty sure it’s like stealing the newspaper off the floor of a puppy pen.”
Peter did not have a response to that, at least not one that would be appropriate to share with a child. “Fine, come on then. We need to find your receipt so Lurk can’t prove he owns you.”
“Couldn’t he just get a copy from that other dragon who sold me?” Stiles asked, gamely following behind.
“Hardly,” Peter said with a chuckle. “Dragons are terribly proud. It would be an embarrassment beyond words to admit you escaped, copping to misplacing your receipt as well? His reputation would be in ruins.”
“Cool.”
The dragon’s mansion was surprisingly easy to maneuver through, there was even a sign to the stairs and a placard proclaiming their current location the Hoard Hall. Once upstairs, on what Peter assumed was the main floor going by the gratuitous amount of carefully trimmed grass and gardens outside the floor to ceiling windows, they paused. They had found the main entrance hall. There was a grand stairway to their left, facing a pair of solid wood doors with brass hinges and handles that led to the outside world. To their right the hall continued a short ways before opening into a bright gaudy ballroom. The entire place appeared deserted, not a servant to be seen. No dragon either, for that matter.
They slunk up the grand staircase under the reasoning that the main floor appeared reserved for fancy events, and if one wanted a sanctuary away from the noise and chaos it would likely be on a different floor.
The lack of people had Peter on edge, surely the dragon had servants? Right? He’d never thought his knowledge of the giant lizards lacking before, but he was starting to wish he’d studied them more thoroughly. Did they have servants? Did the servants live in the mansion? Did he send them home at night when the work of the day was done? Did Peter need to be worried about security measures or did the dragon consider himself security enough? The questions chased each other about his mind as he silently slid through the shadows of the upper hallway, eyes on the lookout for the smallest movement. He was determined to see any danger before it saw them. Then again, it was hard to stay focused when Stiles was around.
“Stiles, if you don’t stop humming the theme to Mission Impossible I will personally see you back in your gilded cage along with a letter of instruction for your care,” he snapped softly.
“Nuh uh!” Stiles said.
“’Dear Lurk the Dragon,’” Peter began composing. “’I’ve been called away on business. Stiles likes spaghetti O’s and orange juice, please make sure he eats his vegetables and gets lots of exercise. XOXO, Peter.’”
“Ugh!” The boy pretended to vomit. “I hate orange juice!”
“Hardly the point, ah, I do believe this is it.” Peter, followed by a blessedly silent Stiles, entered the room in question and looked around. His first thought was a rather incredulous query on whether anyone, even a dragon, needed a desk so large it practically filled the not small room. His second thought was forget the desk because the walls were filled with bookshelves that reeked of old leather and magic. His third thought was that he better check on Stiles because they were most certainly not going to steal any of the books in that room. Thanks to his third thought he managed to catch the boy in the act of stuffing one of the books inside his sweatshirt and glared at him until it was placed back on the shelf where it belonged.
Satisfied, Peter turned back to the desk to begin his hopeful rifling. Sometimes he thought the Stilinskis had tricked him into being a glorified babysitter, then again most babysitters didn’t end up part of a dragon’s hoard, at least not without significant compensation.
Stiles stuck to his side, poking around the top of the desk as well before getting bored and opening all the drawers. Peter let him. Going by the dates of the visible paperwork, most recent items had simply been tossed on top of the stained hardwood which meant the receipt could very well be in one of the piles. He was just sifting through one of the biggest stacks of papers when Stiles made a noise of triumph next to him.
“What,” Peter demanded. “Did you find it?”
“I think so.” He held up a file labeled ‘Hoard/Collection’ that he had found in one of the drawers. The werewolf grinned and took the file, spreading it out on the desk so he and Stiles could both see. It was filled with reports, notes, and (to the werewolf’s great relief) purchase receipts. Once they had the file, the information on Stiles was easy to find, it was short, a single page description with the receipt of sale stapled to the top.
Stiles grabbed the receipt, tearing it free as Peter cheerfully shredded the other piece of paper into tiny useless ribbons.
“My, this is a surprise.”
Their heads snapped up. Lurk stood in the doorway, watching them gravely, his arrival had been silent, even to werewolf ears, something Peter was beginning to really hate. Ignoring the ache of his gums as his shift pushed for release, Peter smiled at the other man.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here. I’m afraid we got a bit lost in our attempt to familiarize ourselves with our surroundings. Would you be a good dragon and show us the way back?”
“I think not,” the dragon said, eyes shifting pearlescent and teeth beginning to grow unnaturally long in his human mouth. “I did so want to please the spark by allowing you to live, but now I see your influence is suspect.”
Peter shrugged. “Well that is unfortunate,” he said. And then he hurled the obnoxiously large desk across the room where it slammed into the doorway and the dragon standing there, momentarily blocking Stiles’ would be owner and Peter’s would be eater from view.
“Peter! Come on, we have to go!”
He spun, more than happy to comply only to stop and stare incredulously, his feet glueing themselves to the floor, dragon be damned. “Not a chance!”
Stiles rolled his eyes from where he stood on the cape cum flying carpet and held out his hand. “Dude, do you trust me?”
“I will not be playing the part of Princess Jasmine in tonight’s escape,” he growled, ignoring the roar behind him as Lurk began to fully shift, desk smashed to splinters under his weight. “Absolutely not! And there is no way that is safe!”
“Do you trust me?” Stiles demanded again, eyes flickering worriedly at the dragon Peter knew was closing in behind him.
The werewolf flashed his eyes dangerously. “Not a single word of this is to be breathed to another living soul, am I understood?” Stiles nodded and Peter took his hand, stepping up onto the carpet which quickly dipped and wove away from the giant clawed foot that was thrust out the window behind them. “I really hate your Disney obsession right now,” he muttered mulishly, one hand gripping the carpet and the other securely fastened to the spark.
Stiles whooped giddily as he made the carpet do barrel rolls.
Later, when they were hundreds of miles away from the dragon’s mansion and the country it was located in (possiblyGreenland? There had been a lot of snow and ice), Peter finally voiced the thought he had been mulling over for some time. “So you can make a flying carpet out of a regular rug but you can’t teleport? Explain that to me.”
“Um,” Stiles glanced at him, his scent awash in embarrassment. “So I think they’re called intrusive thoughts, or at least that’s what the internet therapists say. For some reason when I try to teleport things all I can think of are all the things that could go wrong. I might only teleport half of someone, or I might teleport them inside out, or what if they exploded, ya know?”
“Yes,” Peter said solemnly, thinking of Stiles’ long hours bingeing all things Star Trek related. “I cannot imagine where such images would have come from.”
“Right?! But most other stuff is no big deal.” He shrugged.
“Well, I am glad you mastered the magic of flying carpets, it is preferable to being a crispy dragon snack.”
“I’m glad you’re not a dragon snack too, because then who would help me come up with a believable story for Mom and Dad?”
“I seem to recall telling you in no uncertain terms that your parents would be properly advised of your actions and the results thereof.”
“Yeah, but that was before you made me promise not to tell anyone you were Princess Jasmine,” Stiles waggled his eyebrows. “That sounds like a quid pro quo to me.”
Peter gave him an arch look. What a horribly clever manipulator his boy was growing into. Too bad for him that Peter knew when to bite the bullet and suffer embarrassment for the greater good, which, in this case, would be a solid hour or two of Stilinski Parental Units lecturing their son about truth and honesty and unintended consequences. Stiles would be grounded for months and Peter felt no guilt whatsoever.
Or, at least, he did not feel any guilt until he walked into Stiles’ room several weeks later to deliver books to the hapless preadolescent who was handling his library withdrawals less than elegantly (the terms of his grounding meant he had to stay in the Stilinski home and not his room at the pack house, the lack of wall to wall bookcases was making the kid twitchy). Peter was turning to leave, his errand completed, when his eyes caught on a picture frame hanging over the boy’s bed. It had clearly been a school project, the paint was extra thick in some areas and suspiciously thin in others and it bore the additional decorations of glitter and glued on buttons. It was atrocious, and Peter was certain he had never seen anything more wonderful.
After that, he visited the spark every day of his grounding and even convinced John and Claudia to shorten the sentence by a week. Stiles, over the moon with excitement at his pending freedom, had hugged the werewolf with all his might. Peter had only been to glad to return the gesture, squeezing the boy tightly, his eyes locked on the gaudy frame and its contents.
The receipt for one Peter Hale, werewolf, purchased by Stiles Stilinski.