“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.”
That was a bad word. Not found.
Have.
Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment.
One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.
“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”
Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.
Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.
“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.
“Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”