EVA SINCLAIR STARED AT HIM LIKE SHE WAS TRYING TO TEAR HIM APART WITH HER GAZE AND BUILD HIM BACK UP THE WAY SHE LIKED. For all the years Stiles has known her, Eva remained as hostile as she is striking. If Remington embodied the classic princess with her polished etiquettes, then her mother gave meaning to the tragic rose; just as beautiful but surrounded by thrones.

He picked up on bits and piece of Eva's life from fleeting conversations the witch had with his parents—a miscarriage, a divorce from a guy named Vincent, an accident that led to Remington adoption—but Stiles couldn't quite figure out what exactly broke Eva Sinclair and left her in a world of resentment.

She watched Remington from the porch of the ivy-covered mansion, sweater wrapped securely over her. Her expression was pitched, arms crossed tightly like any other pose would cause her to strikeout.

Today, he's taking Remington to eat with his dad since Eva is not going to be home until late at night and the witch disliked leaving her alone. While Remington finished placing away her painting materials, Eva decided to play catch-up with him.

"Now, tell me what happened?" The witch asked evenly. She continued to watch her daughter as she moved underneath the shade of a yellowing tree, Remington gathering brushes and paintings tools a distance away, but Stiles knew Eva was paying close attention to his words. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What hasn't happened yet?" He said bitterly. "Derek went power crazy; he's turning a bunch of teenagers to build his pack. He has three betas so far. Isaac Lahey is one of them. Oh, also! His dad got murdered by Kanima—a, uh, werejaguar from South America that goes after murderers, if you didn't know—and even worse, Allison's grandfather is hellbent on murdering every supernatural creature he can find."

Eva remained quiet, then a slow chuckle escaped her. "Lahey is dead? Good riddance." She sounded pleased.

Stiles bit his tongue. "Are you going to ignore everything else?"

"Yes," Eva nodded, smiling faintly as a butterfly landed on Remington's raised paintbrush. Her daughter turned to her, a large grin forming as she showed off to them. "I have my little minion to straighten everything out: You, Stiles."

She walked past him, black curls bouncing hypnotically with each step. "I don't care about the Kanima or parasites like Derek Hale. I will, however, help you with Isaac. Lord forbid something happens to him— I would hate to see Remington cry over a mutt."

"Eva," Stiles walked quickly after the witch. "Did you just—how the hell am I supposed to 'straighten out' a werejaguar with paralytic venom? I'm human!"

She faced him for the first time since he arrived at the house. "Like you always do, Stiles; research." Her dark eyes seemed to shimmer, a smile tilting dangerously.

"I already tried that," Stiles complained, fists tightening. "I ended up watching a mechanic getting squished to death by a hydraulic lift!"

"Read more," Eva shrugged. Seeing Stiles's frustrated face, the witch smiled with amusement. "I'll help you this time, sweetheart. Don't look so glum, Stiles. True strength isn't physical, it's mental."

"Yeah, try saying that while a werewolf chokes you to death. I'm not like you. I can't look at someone and shatter their bones." Stiles felt a little self-conscious admitting one of his insecurities, but it's the truth: he can't do what Scott or Eva can. He isn't as resilient.

He looked down, ashamed of his weakness.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Despite the gentle touch, Eva looked intense with a raised an eyebrow. "You have a spark, Stiles. That's why I picked you. Grow it into a flame and you'll never have to live in fear " She sounded kind, almost, and it terrified him. That tone is usually followed by life-altering revelations or a funeral.

"I don't know how to," he admitted.

Eva laughed lightly. "You're doing just fine. You're the best of them all."

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the backyard, Stiles trying to decipher her words. It's one of the warmer days of autumn. Remington turned to her mother with a beaming smile, blonde locks blowing lightly, dress smeared with paint. She greeted with excitement. "Mom! Did you see the butterfly? It landed on me!"

"I did, pretty." Eva smiled widely for her daughter, combing back her bangs to see her eyes better; ocean blue, brimming with so much emotion it caused her heart to ache. "Do you know what that means when a butterfly lands on you? It means something great is about to happen, darling."

Remington's eyes twinkled, believing her mother's words without hesitation. "Really?"

Eva glanced at Stiles, expression full of intent, and nodded. "Of course! Would mom lie to you?"

"Never," Remington said firmly.

Stiles watched the two interact; he used to stare at his own mom the same way. Stepping away from them, Stiles looked at the canvas prompt on the easel, the oil paint still wet—it was a massive white Victorian styled mansion, grand with dozens of pillars and a large tower on the right, shingles with curving edges that resemble fish scales. It was ghostly, something he never expected the girl to paint.

"Is this your dream house, Teddy?" He said, staring at the canvas with a strange feeling.

"No," she said. "I just couldn't stop thinking of this cottage." Stiles bit his bottom lip, nodding to keep her from worrying. He felt it was something important, for some reason. He knew the girl started painting to cope with her visions; maybe this is one of them.

Neither of them noticed Eva's breath hitching.

Remington giggled at the Sheriff's underwhelmed expression as she bit into the veggie burger, red-and-white straw in between her lips. Stiles smirked at her, unpacking their meal without pausing. The three of them sat in the Sheriff's office at the department, not an unusual occurrence whenever Eva had to go out at night. The Sinclair girl fitted in seamlessly, all bright smiles as she ate her apple slices.

"Oh, what the hell is this?" The Sheriff sounded disgusted, staring at his burger.

Stiles passed Remington her dinner; white rice with chicken and steamed vegetables. "It's a veggie burger,"

"I asked for a hamburger." The Sheriff sighed.

Stiles shook his head, lifting his bowl of salad up. "Well, veggie is healthier. Remy can't eat fried food which means we can't either."

Remington blushed, stuffing her mouth so she wouldn't have to speak when the Sheriff looked at her with disbelief. "Most foods make her nauseous," Stiles explained. "Side effect of treatment."

The Sheriff nodded, a faraway dazed in his eyes. "Claudia had the same issues..." At the tense silence that developed, the Sheriff let out a tired chuckle. "I'm sorry, Remington, but hell, why are you two trying to ruin my life?"

Remington, as a peace offering, took a celery stick from the Sherriff's plate. He looked grateful.

"I'm trying to extend your life, okay?" Stiles grumbled, shaking his salad. "Could you just eat it, please? And tell me what you found."

The Sherriff shook his head. "No," he said, boxing his vegetable burger back in the wrappers. "No, I'm not sharing confidential police work with two teenagers."

"Is that it on the board behind you?" Remington asked curiously. Stiles looked at the wall behind the sheriff's desk; the corkboard isn't visible with the amount of papers thumbtacked to it, red sharpie arrows flying from the image of victims to maps of locations.

"Don't look at that!" The Sherriff warned. His son didn't listen—obviously—"Stiles! Avert your eyes!" Stiles stood up to get even closer to the board, making Remington laugh loudly. The Sherriff raised both his hands, used to his behavior when he wanted to find something out. "Fine,"

Stiles's eyes widen with interest. His dad continued, "I found something. Mechanic and the couple who were murdered. They all had something in common."

"All three?" Remington asked before Stiles, setting down her food to pay closer attention without distractions. Stiles leaned forward, intrigued.

"Yeah," the Sherriff nodded. "Yeah. You know what I always say—One's an incident."

Remington continued. "Two's coincidence,"

"Three's a pattern," Stiles finished.

The Sherriff nodded, raising his fingers as he listed. "The mechanic, the husband, the wife—all the same age. All 24."

Stiles shuffled in his seat, trying to keep up with his dad. "Wait a minute, but what about Mr. Lahey? I mean, Isaac's dad isn't anywhere near 24."

"I think Lahey's murder isn't connected," the Sherriff sighed, resting his head in his hands tiredly.

Remington bit her lip, pushing aside her bangs to look at the Sherriff. "But Camden—he is—Camden would've turned twenty-four this year." The Sherriff and Stiles both turned to her. "Isaac's older brother. He died, uh, in combat after enlisting."

The Sherriff sat up abruptly, turning to face the corkboard. Stiles stumbled his way after him; Remington, unsure, sat up as well.

"Now what if same age means the same class—I mean, did you think of that?" Stiles asked his dad. The Sherriff raised a finger to his mouth, eyes crinkling deeply as he thought.

"Yeah, yeah. Well, I would've. I mean, I—look, I let me order Lahey's file." The Sherriff turned to his desk, picking up his phone. Remington approached the board uncertainly, standing next to Stiles. She studied the images of the victims, tilting her head when something began nagging her.

"That's Tucker," she realized, pointing at the picture of a teenager in the Beacon Hills lacrosse uniform. Stiles turned to her, shocked. "He used to go to Isaac's house. He pulled my ponytail once. It made me trip. Camden gave him a black eye that day."

Stiles looked taken back. "Do you recognize anyone else? Teddy, c'mon—this could be a lead."

Remington perked up slightly, stepping closer to the board with more certainty. She wanted to help in any way she could. She studied a picture of a couple, the two smiling happily. "I'm not too sure," she said. "But I think this is Sean? Shawn? I'm sorry, I don't remember too well."

"The names don't matter," Stiles waved energetically. "Were they also Camden's friends? Classmates? Anything can help, just—think, Teddy."

Remington shook her head. "I don't know if they were friends, but they were in the swimming team together along with Tucker." It clicked in her mind, then. "Wait, Stiles—Mr. Lahey, he used to be the coach of the swimming team."

The Sherriff looked up from the phone in his desk at Remington's words, eyes wide; Stiles mirrored his expression. Suddenly, the two of them took, searching throughout the office, the Sherriff hanging up the phone. "Have I told you how much I love you, Remington?" Stiles rambled as his dad dropped a stack of files on the desk. He grabbed one blindly, flipping through it. "Because I love you, so much. Here!"

Sheriff Stilinski grabbed the file from his son, reading it carefully. It was a picture of Harris. "Same coach, same teacher." He stood up, pressing a kiss to Remington's forehead in his excitement. Resting a hand on Stiles's shoulder, he pointed. "Kid, this—this is definitely a pattern. Alright, give me the 2006 yearbook, look for the swim team. These names, we need faces."

"What does it mean?" Remington asked, cheeks still burning bright red. She was happy, if a little flustered.

"If the killer's not done killing, one of them is next." The Sherriff said as Stiles handed him the yearbook. He paused, looking up to smile at Remington. "With the yearbook, we can identify all the previous students and hopefully protect, or if necessary, relocate for them until we find the killer."

"Good job, kid." The Sherriff sounded proud. "You maybe just saved someone's life."

Stiles placed his hand on the back of her head, smiling down at her as well.

Nothing could've stopped Remington's grin from blooming.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

Welcome to filler hell! The last chapter was setting up the Sinclairs in Beacon Hills, this one hinted at the Originals portion of the fic. The next chapters will about the main characters; Remington, Stiles, Issac, and Eva!