PROLOGUE.               Letharia Vulpina
NOVEMBER 7.                                  2011

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THE HOUSE ON THE END OF ELM STREET SAT ON TOP OF THE HILL. The end of the long dark street with a culdesac that connected to the long driveway that lead to the white house with green roofing and details. Plants that were once neatly gardened were now starting to rot from lack of love and the cold November air. The yard that was once regularly mowed now had grass pass your ankles. The grass was turning yellow. Maybe they'd be lucky and a gust of snow would cover it for the winter. It's California, who could be so lucky?

The house was empty, mostly. Lights are off. Silence filled the air. It was as if it was abandoned, if it hadn't been for the small cat that ran across the floor, taking its hiding spot under the couch. Its green eyes reflecting in the moonlight. She was shades of orange, black, and white. She was small and dainty, much like the rest of the house.

     A shoe stepped in front of the cat's eyes. Black. They moved so quietly. A figure moving with unnatural stealth. The house was on mute. Maybe it was empty. He would've thought so, if he didn't know any better.

     The cat's entire body stiffened. She didn't move, but she watched the figures movements. Pale fingers wrapped around a glass vase of flowers on the dining table across the house.

CRASH.

     The cat skid across the floor, sprinting far away to another part of the house. The figure's head snapped upward.

     She snapped awake. A mess of blond sits up from her bed in tired confusion. The teenage girls eyes flicked towards her alarm clock. It was one in the morning. She fell asleep over an hour ago. Groaning in dismay, the blond girl pulls herself out of her bed, tearing off her flower patterned sheets.

     Cordelia was used to this, by now. When Mom came home drunk, she often tripped and smacked something. Or her cat would be into something she shouldn't, and run off. Neither her mother or her cat were very graceful. It was why she slept so lightly. She couldn't let her mom hurt herself.

     "Mom?"

     Cordelia's voice echoes through the house. She hears nothing. No mumble or groan from her mom, or the scratch of a feline. She sticks her head over the stairs, peering down. A mess of blond. She couldn't see a thing. She sighed, starting to walk down finally to see what mess her mother or her pet made now.

     Bare feet patted against the floor. She had a hop in her step. She was in her pajamas. Shorts and a big sweatshirt. Her father's sweatshirt. It was dark green, and the strings were frayed from age. She was wearing shorts. She hated the feeling of pants when she slept. She claimed it felt like she was suffocating.

     Her eyes adjusted to the dark. Cordelia sighed in frustration at the shattered vase that had slid from the table to the floor. Water and flowers covered the dining room/kitchen floor. "Tinkerbell!" She grumbled in frustration, looking around the dark space for her cat. This wasn't shocking. Tinkerbell loved to drink the water from the vase. "You're such a dummy," She giggled softly, moving around the glass to get to the paper towels, broom, and dust pan.

Cordelia muttered to herself as she crouched down in the dining room. Behind her, a family photo from years ago hung like the star of the entire house. The Collins family, all smiles and love. There was no death. Or murder. Or alcohol. Nothing like that. They might've been considered perfect, even. That wasn't the reality of it all, anymore. Dad was dead. Virginia moved away. Mom was too drunk to matter. Cordelia was just alone.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Cordelia's head snapped up. She stared down the bathroom doorway. It was pitch black. She couldn't see a damn thing, and her skin began to crawl. She pushed her hair behind her ear. "Tinkerbell? That you, sweet girl?" She smiled softly. A shadow formed. A shadow much bigger than her cat. Her throat ran dry, and Cordelia gripped the dustpan tighter. The moonlight started to highlight features. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Freckles. Flannel. Relief flowed through her instantly. Cordelia sighed as she put the dustpan down. "Stiles, what the hell?" She laughed.

Stiles Stilinski. Cordelia's older cousin. He stood there silently, staring the girl down. She put down the dust pan, stepping over the glass. Her feet patted against the wood. She approached him with a grin. "What are you doing here?"

"I, um," Stiles's voice cut the air in a way that made Cordelia frown. "I've been having a rough few days. I just, um, wanted to see you,"

The blond girl stared at Stiles. "Well, geez, what happened? You haven't been here since the funeral." She titled her head to study his face. He looked tired. He was paler. He had bags under his eyes. He locked sick. Cordelia's lips turned down. "Stiles, are you okay?"

It was the smile. This wicked smile. All teeth. His eyes were black, she was sure. Stiles grinned at her. "I've never felt better." His voice made her skin tingle. She felt like her ribs were shaking in her body. Something wasn't right. Stiles didn't act like this. She knew that. This was Stiles.

"I'm gonna call Uncle Noah, okay?" Cordelia smiled softly. She stepped back, moving toward the kitchen where the house phone was. Cordelia walked backwards for a moment, before letting out a yelp. Cordelia turned to look at the glass she had stumbled on to. She had a shard stuck in her heel. "Oh, god," The blond balanced herself on the dining room chair, pulling her foot up. Her back was turned towards Stiles. She couldn't see the deadly glare. She winced as she pulled glass out of her foot. Blood spilled, dripping down her skin. "I'm gonna need to get a bandaid—"

"Don't worry." Cordelia jumped around, looking up at Stiles. He was close now. He was a foot away. She felt sick. Had Stiles even blinked? Stiles tilted his head slowly. "You okay?"

She stepped away from the glass. She played with her sleeves. "Yeah, I'm fine." Cordelia started walking backwards now, her eyes only on Stiles. "I'm gonna call Uncle Noah now." Stiles stepped closer. Cordelia's eyes flicked toward the phone. "Sounds good?"

"Perfect."

Stiles ran at her.

     Cordelia screeched at Stiles lunged in her direction. She dodged just as he stumbled into the counter. He grunted as his knuckles turned white. Cordelia reached for the phone, hitting one of the speed dials. Her eyes blew wide as Stiles turned around slowly, a knife in his hand. She abandoned the phone on the counter as she backed away slowly.

     She screamed as Stiles ran at her again, swinging his knife. Cordelia didn't say anything to the phone, running for the stairs. She yelled as glass stuck into her feet. She cried as Stiles swiped at her. She pulled a chair out, tossing it towards him. Cordelia ran for the stairs. Blood stained the carpet as she stumbled and ran. The phone sat on the kitchen counter, on dial with a number that wasn't Noah's.

     Stiles stomped up the stairs. He swung the knife, nearly catching Cordelia's back. She ran like hell, sprinting towards her bedroom. Cordelia cried as she spun to the door. She saw Stiles's face just as it slammed shut. She locked it, yelling in fear at the sound of his fists against the door.

     "Open the door, Cordelia!"

     "Stiles, please!"

     "Open the door!"

     "Go away!"

     She sobbed as she opened her closet door, causing the door and their handles to catch on to each other. A trick she used to use to keep Virgina and Stiles out as kids. Cordelia slid to the floor, starting to pull glass out of her feet again. She looked toward the door. Something was wrong with him. What was happening to Stiles? Why was he attacking her?

     "Cordy, please, I'm sorry. It's, it's this thing, okay? It's called the Nogitsune. It's been trying to get me. It's bad, Cordy. It's not me, okay? I promise it's not me." Cordelia frowned as she covered her mouth with her hand. She screwed her eyes shut. Fat tears rolled down her face. "Cordy, please!"

     She shook her head. The blond tried to hold her breath. She didn't want him to hear her. Cordelia sucks in her sobs. Was she going to die? How was she going to fight off Stiles? What was wrong with him? Drugs? Psychotic break? Something wasn't right.

     She pulled herself up slowly, her feet burning and aching. She leaned against the wall, pushing her hair behind her ear. It was silent. Cordelia held her breath. She couldn't hear him. Stiles wasn't talking. He wasn't trying to get in. Maybe he left. Cordelia looked towards her window. She could crawl out and try to escape. Run down the street for her neighbors.

     SLAM. The doors shook. Cordelia jumped back in fear as she looked at the door. She froze. Her entire body tensed up. The knife struck through the wood. Stiles slammed through the lock, causing the door to catch onto the closet. He was breaking through the wood. He slammed into the door.

     "Open the door or I'll gut you just like your daddy!"

     Stiles sounded evil. The girl sobbed as she pushed against the door. She couldn't let him in. She couldn't. Stiles slammed. He wasn't this strong. Not usually. This wasn't real. Surely, she was dreaming. But the pain in her feet was telling her otherwise.

     An unnatural strength slammed into the door. Cordelia flew back to the doors crashed into each other. The door handles snapped and fell into the floor. The bedroom door was now broken into nearly nothing. Stiles towered over her. Fear was flooding every bone in her body. Cordelia started to crawl backwards, choking on tears as she tried to get to something anything.

     Stiles stopped her movements. He crouched down and swung the knife. Cordelia yelled as she threw her arms against his. Her eyes focused on the blade. It glistened in the light. It was from a kitchen set her mom bought years ago. Now, it was inches from her chest. She tried to look into Stiles's eyes. But there was no Stiles there. Her arms ached. She already lacked upper arm strength, but all that was keeping her alive was adrenaline. She prayed whoever she called would come soon. She wasn't sure she'd live much longer.

     She hiccuped, her glossy eyes looking back at him. "Stiles. Stiles please. It's me. Cordy." She winced as she pushed him back. "Why are you doing this?"

     "Because you're a pathetic little brat." He chuckled, leaning closer. Cordelia squirmed. "And now I'm going to cut you open, and leave you to rot just like your daddy. I'll even string you to a tree. Like father like daughter."

     Stiles suddenly used an abrupt amount of force. Cordelia squirmed to the side just in time. The knife stabbed through her shoulder. She screeched. A yell of agony that started high pitched that became low and guttural from the pain. Her scream was so loud she was sure the neighbors could hear down the road. Cordelia brought up her legs, hitting him harshly. She pushed him off of her, running.

     She stumbled into the wall, holding the knife in her shoulder. Cordelia screamed as she heard him come running. She needed to get outside. Something. Anything. Cordelia ran toward the stairs. Stiles lunged at her. They shoved at each other. Cordelia grunted as her back hit the wall. Her head smacked against the glass of a picture of herself and Stiles. She was eight in that picture. It was shortly before Claudia died. Now look at them.

     Stiles grabbed the knife, ripping it from her shoulder. She had never felt so much pain in her life. Cordelia screamed as she pushed at him, the two of them tripping over the stairs. Two bodies rolled and tumbled down the stairs to the wooden floor. Grunts and loud thumps echoed as they ended up on the middle of the floor. Right between the front door and the rest of the house. She grunted out in pain, rolling to her side. She touched her forehead, it bleeding from the fall. Stiles was laying there. She couldn't tell if he was dead, unconscious, or just in shock. Regardless, she could see the knife in the doorway of the next room.

     Cordelia was quick. She grunted in pain as she pulled herself onto her hands and knees, crawling for the knife. She needed the knife, the phone, and the back door. She was going to make it! She was going to live! She smiled as hope flooded her body.

     But life does this funny thing. It gives you false hope. That much was obvious as suddenly Stiles's hand wrapped around her ankle, pulling her back. Cordelia's arms gave out and she slammed into the wood. The blond grunted as Stiles dragged her backwards, the knife escaping her grasp. She rolled onto her back, eyes meeting Stiles. She had never felt so cold in her life. His hands wrapped around her throat. He squeezed.

     She held her breath. Whatever air she had left she kept tightly. Her body wouldn't let her. Survival instinct kicking in as she clawed at his hands. Her throat ached. Her chest burned. Her eyes watered. She dug her nails into his hands. He laughed. He laughed in a way that made Cordelia's eyes water. This wasn't Stiles. Not the Stiles she grew up with.

     She couldn't hold her breath anymore. She gasped out, or tried to. He wouldn't let her. His hands tightened around her. She cried. She tried to kick her legs, wiggle out of his grip, anything. Cordelia's hand reached towards Stiles, trying to push him off. He moved her body. He avoided her harm.

     "You're not strong enough, Cordelia." Stiles hissed. Her stomach sank. He grinned at her. His smile made her want to rip her skin off. It felt wrong. "You're going to die like this." She tried to scream, she tried to say something, anything. She couldn't. Nothing could escape her lips. She pushed at him, but her arms were growing weaker. She closed her eyes tightly. Tears rolled down the side of her head. She was going to die and nobody was going to find her for days. Her own cousin was going to kill her. "Your cousin's friends really have to learn not to trust a fox. Cause they're tricksters. They'll fool you." Stiles was close to her face now. She was sure her vision was blackening out. "They'll fool everyone."

     "Not everyone."

     A figure was behind Stiles. He struck a needle into the teenage boys neck. Stiles tensed up. His breathing became ragged as he looked towards his cousin. His hands released her throat. Cordelia gasped, coughing for air as Stiles rolled off of her. His eyes began to droop. He crashed into the wood floor, unconscious.

     Another person crouched down to Cordelia, grabbing her arms. "Cordy! Cordy!" The voice shouted. She choked, her eyes regaining focus. Stiles's best friend, her bonus cousin, Scott McCall. His hands were on her shoulders, and he could see her glass-covered feet, her stab wound, the gash on her head from the stairs, the bruise forming on her neck. "You're okay. You're okay." Cordelia's face crumbled as she sobbed. Scott wrapped his arms around her protectively, pulling her close. He looked up at the person holding the needles Alan Deaton, a veterinarian, stood there over the unconscious Stilinski. "What was that? Was that a cure? Is he okay?"

     Deaton looked down at the boy. He crouched down to Stiles, moving his shoulder so he was laying on his back. "The fox is poisoned. But it's not dead." Deaton looked up slowly. His eyes focused on the girl with the bleeding shoulder. She was crying. He looked up at Scott. "Not yet."

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