His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was Stiles's face, but it wasn't him. The light from the distant moon caught the glint of something ancient and hungry in his gaze.

He took a step forward, boots crunching on dry twigs. The sound was unnaturally loud in the dead quiet.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could see the grime under his fingernails, the faint tremor in his fingers—eager, not nervous.