siriusstuff

“Not too cold for the undead to lurk tonight?” Breath smoked around the werewolf’s head.

“Vampire’s gotta eat.”

Tempted into temperatures low enough to freeze him solid, Stiles had tracked the richest scent, only to find its source sealed, the wound healed.

“You should see the other guy,” the werewolf laughed.

Bloody hunters! Stiles suffered his own, their stakes and crucifixes.

“You could spare me a drink,” he proposed, stiffening, and not in the good way. “You’ll never miss it.”

“True. What’s in it for me?”

“Fame as a credit to your kind?”

“Eeh…”

“My fangs retract too!”

“That’ll work.”