What the hell is even happening anymore. Stiles hardly knows—once the lawyer had finished reading the brief article, he’d returned to googling the Blackthorn name. This is why there are laws about texting and driving; maybe the Night Council should push a vote for no texting and dealing with supernatural creatures. That sounds reasonable. Or maybe Stiles should stop wondering about inane things like this and focus on the fact that the little old lady is pointing a loaded shotgun at them. Screaming shrilly, he clutches to Apollo as they head for the door (don’t worry, he’s still holding onto his cellphone, he hasn’t lost all his senses, heaven forbid).

When the floor gives way under their feet, his screams turn into a shrieking mantra of “oh my god oh my god oh my god” the whole way down. Hopefully Heiji’s fox hearing isn’t too sensitive.

Said fox does, in fact, break his fall. Small miracles. Incoherent yelling cut off in surprise, Stiles pushes himself up onto his arms to appreciate his continued existence. Then Apollo lands on him.

“Oh my god,” he whines, burying his face into Heiji’s fur and not even bothering to question how the hell Heiji had managed the feat, “this is just like the Exorcist and that grandma is going to haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.”