"A dead man walking..."

Stiles

Stiles watched the wisps of clouds pass by just outside his window seat. His fingers drummed rhythmically against his knee while losing himself in their abstract swirls. They looked so calm, while he felt he had a raging storm inside himself. He couldn't stop his mind from wandering.

Conjuring scenarios in his mind he had no right to think about. What were they doing to Hope by now? Were they torturing her? Was she dead? With a drawn-out sigh, he leaned back in his chair and tried to focus on anything but his reality.

Hope was kidnapped by psychopaths. Derek was hunting them down. Scott was back home, taking over alpha command in Derek's absence.

And Stiles?

Well, he was on a plane headed toward New Orleans to find the original vampire family to tell them their daughter...niece...whatever, has been taken for WWE.

Werewolf Wrestling Entertainment.

Stiles ran his hands over his face, leaning forward as his stomach churned. He contemplated how he would break the news. What was he supposed to say? 'Hey, I'm Hope's friend, and she may or may not be dead because I couldn't help her in time.'

It wasn't his fault. Of course, he knew that, but just because you weren't responsible for something doesn't make the guilt feel any less sharp in your heart.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" the stewardess asked.

Stiles looked up at the tall brunette whose name tag read 'Susan' from his nearly crouched position in his seat and forced a smile, "Maybe a little vodka," he nodded, pursing his lips "Or a time machine."

Susan smiled softly. "Fresh out, I'm afraid, but maybe some peanuts to calm your nerves" she offered the bag to him, which he took.

"Thank you," he nodded, "Uhm, how much longer on this flight?"

"We will be landing in about fifteen minutes."

"Perfect." He swallowed hard, feeling another wave of uneasy fear washing over him.

He watched her walk away, then returned to the mental task of preparing himself for what lay ahead. He was meeting the Mikaelson family by himself, armed with nothing but bad news.

This should be fun.

By the time the plane had landed, Stiles had gathered his belongings (which wasn't much) and was out the door to meet a cab; it was safe to say he was absolutely terrified. That or he had terrible food poisoning.

He was shivering in 95-degree heat.

"The French Quarter," he told the driver as he slipped into the backseat. As far as he knew, that's where the Mikaelson's lived, but Hope was never specific about where in the French Quarter. He was sure he could just ask around, but Stiles was worried he might ask the wrong person.

My family has enemies. I have them too.

Hope said that one night to him during one of their talks. He knew she and her family had enemies, but he didn't know who. So he would just have to take a guess he was asking a safe person and hope for the best.

Stiles hated this. Putting so much faith into one little action could mean the difference between life and death. There was no net to fall in here. No one to back him up if things went south.

He really could die here.

Stiles had to force himself to swallow all of that fear. He tried to steel himself as they drove through the city, heading for the Quarter. It won't be long now until he's amid the lion's den. He could do this. He had to.

For Hope.

After handing over a wad of cash, Stiles stepped out of the cab and onto the trumpeting streets of the Big Easy. His senses were penetrated all at once in a beautiful combination. The smells of fresh baked goods and spices combined with trumpeters on the sidewalks playing for cash or just for entertainment. Everyone here seemed to have so much energy, and it wasn't even Mardi Gras. For a moment, Stiles forgot his purpose for coming. The city was just so captivating.

He shook himself out of his little stupor and forced himself to focus. Scanning the crowd, he could see a lot of tourists, but who's to say some weren't locals just having a good time? That's who he needed to find. A local. Someone who knew the city like the back of their hand.

He watched a tour bus go by filled with party-going tourists. A tour, yes, he should find a local in charge of giving tours. Which one, though? There were likely tours for all types of sightseeing spectacles. Stiles ambled down the sidewalk, glancing here and there. Probably not a tour of architecture or an environment tour. He doubted they lived in that swamp area not far from here. Maybe...he looked up at a sign perched on a half-opened door that read Tour the Voodoo Side of New Orleans. Voodoo. Someone specializing in the city's supernatural side would probably be his best bet. They might know more about the Mikaelson name even if they weren't real. Stiles opened the door and slowly ventured into the little shop below the sign.

Inside, the place was small and cluttered. Only two rows of shelving separated the space with a window seat decorated in skeletons, fake rats in jars of amber fluids -hopefully, fake rats- and costume jewelry. It was like Halloween without it being October. The shelves in the middle held small items like chicken feet, boxes of rosemary and sage, and what looked like webs of silk next to dream catcher skeletons.

He looked over the walls to find massive geostones and intricate crystals hanging on discreet hooks. Jars of herbs and incense littered the lower wall shelving, all labeled and given a purpose for use. Stiles walked over to the holders and touched his fingers against the wolfsbane. Of course, he knew what this did. However, next to it was a similar-looking herb labeled vervain. He read the caption to himself to ward away vampires.

"No garlic, hm?" He muttered to himself quietly.

"Can I help you with something?" A voice sounded from behind the register, which had been vacant a moment ago.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin.

Swallowing back the hard lump in his throat, "Uhm...yeah. I mean, I hope so..." he began, venturing closer to the register. "I have a bit of a problem..." he continued.

"With sex?" the petite woman asked. She had short, dark kinked hair twisted into a purple bandana that complimented her bronzed skin tone.

Stiles widened his eyes a little "Oh, God, no..." he shook his head and bit his lip. "I wish..." he forced a little laugh but quickly cleared his throat as her dark brow rose in question. "Sorry," he tried again, "I saw the sign outside about voodoo tours...."

"Oh, they don't start until eight o'clock."

"Right, that's fine, I just had a question, and I figured a local who knows the supernatural side of the city could help me a little better than a tourist wearing a body inspector t-shirt...."

The shopkeeper smiled and gave a slow nod. "I suppose I could answer a question or two. If they are legitimate questions," she bit her full bottom lip, "I'm Simone."

"Stiles," he nodded. Should he have given her his real name? He couldn't help himself, though; red-tinted lips were his weakness.

Simone smiled and leaned forward against the counter, her dark eyes fierce with curiosity. "Alright, Stiles. What would you like to know?"

"I need to find the Mikaelson family," he said immediately. Best to rip it off like a band-aid, right?

She leaned back. The small smile that had curved her lips was gone. Now Stiles could see a slash of three long claws across her throat.

His stomach dropped, and he pursed his lips into a tight line.

"I...had a feeling that would be most locals' reaction..." he started but was quickly cut off by her.

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," she said in a hushed, panicked voice.

Stiles took a long breath and nodded, slowly letting it out. "I know...that I am in over my head and likely have a death wish, but the thing is..." he paused to shake his head, "I care more about the people I love than my own safety," he swallowed hard. "Every instinct I have tells me to run the other way. Still, I know I'm...too stupid for that. So here I am. Risking it all to save my friend..." he leaned forward on the counter just a little, his honey-brown eyes peering right into hers. "So...can you help me? I won't tell anyone I even talked to you. I just...I need to save my friend. She's in trouble."

Simone watched him for a long, silent moment. "Who's your friend you'd need to talk to the Mikaelson's for?"

"Hope."

Her brows rose in surprise. "Oh."

Stiles nodded and pursed his lips. "Yeah." He twiddled his thumbs a little, "I just need an address or hint of where they are...."

As he said this, Simone was already scratching something down on a scrap piece of paper from under the counter and handed it off to him.

"But you didn't come to me for this," she said, looking at him fixedly, "Right?"

Stiles looked down at the address sighing in relief. He glanced up at her and nodded. "Right." He left the shop and entered the sweltering heat with Simone staring after him. As if he were a dead man walking.