January 27th 2011 - Thursday
Derek and Charlie popped their heads up almost simultaneously, the man just a tad faster than the woman. A wolf call, summoning his pack, pierced the night outside the window, audible only to the two of them. They both knew what the sound meant—trouble was approaching.
The werewolf disentangled himself from the blanket they were sharing and snuggled into each other on the couch. By now, they were reading in comfortable silence, not feeling the need to talk. She was grading the last of the tests she was due to hand in the next morning, and he was familiarizing himself with more titles relating to her unofficial profession. Over the past few days, they had developed a comfortable routine and a shared trust, a certain bond that neither of them was prepared to name by any particular word.
The witch threw him a worried glance but did not say a word, knowing that it did not make the slightest sense. Someone had to investigate the situation and, if need be, help Scott, who surely could not resist the call. The determination Derek felt was all the stronger because they could not find any trace for almost a week that would give them even the slightest clue as to the monster's identity. They silently agreed that he would be the best one for the task. So the woman remained curled up on the sofa while he left.
Derek's instincts and the sound of gunfire led him to the industrial district. The first thing he sensed when he arrived was the metallic smell of blood. He didn't have to search long for traces; the trail was fresh and still warm, the dark maroon drops guiding him like a string. He felt a sinister gaze upon him, though he could not decide if he himself was in danger. He raised his gaze, unerringly directing it to the roof of the nearest warehouse, and spotted it. A huge, fur-covered, gnarled silhouette that looked more like a beast from a nightmare than a human, or even his own werewolfish appearance.
The alpha was clearly beckoning him on, hopping up onto the next higher roof, completely unhurried and growling at him. Derek knew he should be careful, that the blood and smell of gunpowder indicated the Hunters' presence, but he had to find out who the man was, who had killed his sister, and why he had done it. Was it just about status and power? It was not a challenge for the werewolf to reach the roof of the building; He set off in pursuit.
Completely forgetting about the Hunters, he was so focused on his goal for a moment. As he leapt between the roofs, a gunshot broke the silence, and he almost immediately felt a pain in his shoulder that made him curl up all over. He fell from a height of two stories, unable to complete the jump. The painful impact on the ground forced all the air out of his lungs. He tried to gather his strength, but the shock prevented him from doing so. Upon hearing a vehicle approaching, he attempted to rise to a sitting position and looked around to see if anyone was coming. He lifted the sleeve of his blouse to see the wound.
A shimmering iridescent round hole appeared on his forearm, emitting a faint metallic scent. Alarmed by his body's refusal to heal, he watched as wisps of blue vapors slowly wafted from the wound. Instinct kicked in as he had been taught from birth to hide and wait out the worst in case of danger. With difficulty, he got up on his feet and moved away, in the opposite direction to that from which he had come. He could not bring unknown enemy forces down on Charlotte's head. He would wait so that the Hunters could not track him down, try to heal himself, and if he failed, seek the help of the witch.
Chris Argent got out of a black SUV that had stopped on the other side of the building, nervously looking around. He was worried that someone would spot him and was nervous about his daughter catching him leaving the house in the middle of the night.
"Get in!" in an aggressive tone, he turned to the attractive blonde, younger than himself, who came out to meet him. Some feature in their faces made them resemble each other, but the age difference made it hard to determine whether they were siblings or rather parent and child.
"What? Not even a 'hello, nice to see you'?" awed the woman, with a hint of amusement in her voice. Over her shoulder, she had a sniper rifle slung, which she carried with the nonchalance that any other woman would hold a handbag.
"At the moment all I've got is 'Please put the assault rifle away before someone notices,'" the man continued to look carefully around, honoring the girl with just a glance.
"That's the brother I love," she laughed and grinned, then changed the subject. "I know there are two. And one of them just attacked me."
"Alpha?"
"I don't know."
"One of them is going to lead us to the other. He can't do that if he's dead," announced Chris reproachfully.
"And I can't help kill either of them if one of them kills me first," she stated the obvious, shrugging her shoulders, clearly unconcerned by the man's words.
"How long will it take?" he asked, looking around helplessly, clearly having given up.
"I'd give him 48 hours," the woman pursed her lips in thought. "If that," she elaborated, then headed for her car to stow the gun and follow her brother to his house.
🌙
January 28th 2011 - Friday
After a sleepless night, waiting until dawn for Derek to return, Charlie felt exhausted. He did not show up, and this added to her already considerable worries. The dark circles under her eyes that morning were prominent, and not even the strongest coffee could revive her energy. She was both worried and angry, compounded because she was due to attend another funeral that day, the second this week, immediately after her classes. She didn't know Mr. Meyers, but she felt responsible; if she discovered who the murderous Alpha was, the older man would surely live.
She was handing out the tests she had graded last evening, just before Derek left, when she overheard a conversation between two of her students.
"If Derek's not the Alpha... If he's not the one who bit you... who did?" Stiles asked, not even bothering to lower his voice. It wasn't a poor tactic, given that probably most of their peers thought the boys were talking about some computer game or something.
"I don't know..." Scott had the decency not to turn to his friend sitting in the bench behind him; he just tilted his head slightly.
"Did the Alpha kill the bus driver?" Stiles continued, twisting around in his seat.
"I don't know." The young werewolf's voice lacked energy and hope. This made the sheriff's son sink into his thoughts for a moment.
"Does Allison's dad know about the Alpha?"
"I don't know!" Finally, Scott couldn't stand it and shouted, drawing the attention of the other students. When he saw their gazes fixed on him, he slid down his chair a little and grimaced. At the same moment, the teacher approached him, placing a test on the tabletop in front of him with a grade of D- and the comment: "Not like you! See me after class." In contrast, Stiles got the highest grade that could be earned, an A.
"Dude, you need to study more," commented his friend, peering over the werewolf's shoulder and noticing the red writing at the top of the page. When Scott just sighed, the boy continued. "And that was a joke. It's one test; Mrs. Benoit will definitely let you correct it. You need help studying?"
"I'm studying with Allison at her house after school," the black-haired boy declined, in a slightly more cheerful tone.
"That's my boy!" commented his friend, modulating his voice playfully.
"We're just studying."
"No, you're not," laughed Stiles, and seeing the other boy's uncomprehending look, he said, "Not if I'm forced to live vicariously through you. If you go to her house and squander that colossal opportunity, I'll have you professionally de-balled. Got it?"
"Yes," Scott measured his friend with a disbelieving look, trying to reassure him not to draw undue attention to them again. "If you stop with the questions."
"Done. No more talk of Alphas or Derek." the husky boy raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Especially Derek... He still scares me..." he finished under his breath.
None of the three of them could have predicted that later that day, the aforementioned werewolf would turn up at the school, looking for help. Charlotte had already left and was staying in the graveyard, and the boys still had a few lessons separating them from the weekend.
Mingled between the students, with his head down, trying to conserve as much energy as possible and pick up any familiar scent, was Derek walking. His nose led him to Jackson Whittemore, who only moments earlier had poked Scott hard with his shoulder. It was the smell of a teenage werewolf that brought the poor-looking man to him.
"Where's Scott McCall?" spoke a voice, almost right next to the lacrosse team captain's ear, as he pulled from his locker the books he needed for his next lesson.
"Why should I tell you?" The teenager measured him with a contemptuous glance. Derek's skin was waxy and covered in sweat. There were dark circles under his eyes.
"Because I asked you politely. And I only do that once," almost growled the werewolf, perfectly sensing the smell of superiority emanating from the boy, which was getting on his already tarnished nerves.
"Okay, tough guy," snorted the kid. "How about I help you if you tell me what you're selling him?" he prompted, without getting an answer. "What is it? Dianabol? HGH?"
"Steroids..." Derek raised an eyebrow disbelievingly.
"No, Girl Scout Cookies. What do you think I'm talking about?" You could hear hectolitres of venom in the young man's voice. "And by the way, whatever else you're selling? I'd stop sampling the merchandise. You look wrecked." He measured the man with pity.
The werewolf clenched his teeth and felt a trickle of blood run down his hand, warm and sticky. He had less and less time. He moved forward, ignoring the young man, but the boy stopped him, aggressively grabbing his arm. Jackson didn't even have time to realize when his face was violently pressed against the lockers, nails digging painfully into his neck. However, just as quickly as he felt the pain, his assailant disappeared, leaving him sprawled, all alone, in the now-empty corridor.
Derek ducked around the corner, terrified, staring at his wolf's claws, covered in the boy's blood. He was losing control, and he was in the middle of a school full of students. He knew that if he didn't find any of the initiated three quickly, the wound would be the least of his problems. With all his senses, he tried to focus, examining the surrounding building. He sensed his hearing and his sense of smell, but focused on the former when it became apparent that there were too many scents mingling in the school, from sweaty clothes to overly perfumed, hormone-boosting teenage girls.
To his ears came the increased hum of whispers, the scuffling of chalk on the blackboard, music coming from someone's headphones, and even a phone call. Eventually, he caught the familiar name 'Scott' in this cacophony. Two girls were talking to each other about the exact teenager he needed at that moment. One girl must have been Hunter's daughter, just announcing to a friend that before meeting Scott, who seemed so different, she hadn't planned on having a boyfriend until college. The werewolf snorted inwardly, regretting that she hadn't stood firm in her resolve, but after a moment, he realized that just knowing her could be very useful to him at this point. Derek had only heard that his last resort was having an after-school date when the school bell sounded just above his head, inflicting a piercing pain. This brought him back down to earth and, along with the wave of students pouring out of the building, he moved towards the car park.
Almost at the last moment, he dashed out right in front of the bonnet of Stiles' just-departing blue Roscoe, stopping it. This action, however, used up the residual energy to keep him on his feet, and before Stiles had time to jump out of the car, the werewolf tumbled heavily, landing on his back.
"Are you kidding me? This guy is all over the place," commented the teenage driver, getting out and noticing that his friend was already kneeling beside the older werewolf.
"I was shot," Derek explained to the terrified boys, who were leaning over him.
"Why aren't you healing?" Scott didn't understand.
"I can't. It was a different kind of bullet..." He was finding it harder and harder to catch his breath; he could feel his body temperature rising dangerously.
"A silver bullet?" Asked an excited Stiles.
"No, you idiot..."
"Wait a second. That's what she meant when she said 48 hours." Scott understood at that moment the conversation of the hunters he had overheard that night.
"What? Who said 48 hours?" Derek had trouble focusing his gaze on the teenager's face.
"The one who shot you..." Scott explained, dismayed to discover that the older man's eyes were glowing an electrifying blue. "What are you doing? Stop that!"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you. I can't," growled the wounded man, and the sound of car horns blasted into his ears. The rest of the students wanted to leave the car park but were prevented from doing so by Stiles' jeep.
Scott, seeing Derek losing consciousness, grabbed him under the arms and demanded his friend's help. More and more students were taking an interest in the commotion they had caused. The boys were struggling to place the man's inert body in the husky's car when the werewolf regained consciousness just enough to tell Scott that he needed to find out what kind of bullet had shot him, which he had a great opportunity to do by being invited to the Hunters' house that day.
"Why should I help you?" asked the nervous teenager.
"Because you need me."
"Fine, fine. I'll try." He surrendered, turning to his friend. "Get him out of here."
"I hate you for this," growled Stiles at the teenage werewolf, moving out of the school car park with a screech of tyres.
"What was he doing here?" Allison approached Scott, with a suspicious look on her face, clearly thinking of the man who had given her a lift home after Lydia's party, not the hyperactive Stiles.
"Uh... Stiles is giving him a ride. It's a long story. I'll tell you at your house. Okay?"
"I thought you said you weren't friends with him."
"I'm not. Not really." The teenager tangled. "We're still studying together, right? Meet at your place?"
He awkwardly jumped to another topic, watching the changing expression on the girl's face, but over her shoulder, he spotted Jackson. The boy's eyebrows were pulled down in angry thoughtfulness as he observed the whole situation and calculated something in his mind until Lydia approached him.
"Who was that?"
"No one," the captain tried to dispose of the girl.
"He definitely looked like SOMEONE," she followed the receding jeep with her eyes, then returned her eyes to her boyfriend. "And what's on your neck?"
🌙
Scott, despite riding his bike, arrived outside Allison's house at the same time as the girl was finishing parking her car. Puzzled, she asked him why he had been acting so strangely lately, seeing her boyfriend"s obvious irritation.
"I think I"m just stressed about classes. I"m not doing as good this year." he explained, following her up the stairs.
"Not doing as well" she corrected, smiling.
"Exactly."
"Maybe we should start with English," she laughed, letting the boy into her room. He looked around the room, noticing that it was in a very austere state, with no bookshelves or pictures on the walls, instead full of moving boxes.
"I"m still unpacking," explained Allison, who suddenly felt embarrassed by the state of her room.
"Haven"t you been here for over a month?"
"I"m taking my time."
"I know you wanted to start with History so I asked Mrs Benoit for some study papers..." started Scott, pulling off his sweatshirt and looking to unpack his backpack.
Allison interrupted him by coming up to him and kissing him, completely surprising the boy with this. The kiss was gentle and innocent at first, but she moved a little closer to him, standing on tiptoe. Shocked, he squatted down on the bed that stood just behind him and pulled her to him. Both of them, still in their clothes, began to explore each other's bodies with their hands, completely losing themselves in a feeling that was new to both of them.
The boy felt a rush of adrenaline and some strange tingling in his fingertips, which he first explained to himself with excitement, but after a moment he noticed that instead of the usual human nails, there were wolf"s claws on the tips of his fingers. He drew in air violently, thus pulling Allison away from the kisses she was giving on his neck.
"What's wrong?" She asked, concerned.
"Nothing. I just don't want to make you feel like you have to do something you don't want to do" he sobbed out with difficulty, hiding his hands under the blanket.
"I" not doing anything I don't want to do" the girl smiled radiantly, resting her head on her hand and looking down at him. "Are you?"
"You're seriously asking that question?" They were just about to go back to kissing when the silence was broken by the ringing of Scott's phone, completely spoiling their mood.
The boy didn't answer, but a message from Stiles appeared on the display: "Did you find it yet", to which he quickly replied: "Need more time," then switched the phone off. Putting it in his jacket pocket, he noticed one of the open boxes and its contents, which caught his eye. On top of it lay a frame with a photograph showing Allison's father and a young, blonde-haired woman. The same one that had shot Derek last night. He grabbed it in his hand, taking it out and showing it to the girl.
"Who's this?"
" That's my Dad's sister, Kate. Except she's more like my sister," she explained. "She just got here last night."
"Last night?"
"Yeah, she had some car trouble."
"What kind of car trouble?" Scott was curious.
"Just..." she stopped there for a second. "Car trouble."
"She looks familiar..."
"She actually used to live in Beacon Hills. Maybe you saw her once." Allison fell silent, thinking about something.
Scott put down the photo and reached for the rest of the contents of the box, pulling out more photographs and paintings.
"Did you take all of these?"
"Back when I thought I could be a photographer." she laughed. "I stopped when I realized I was terrible at it. The framing's off, bad lighting." She took the pictures out of his hands. "That's when I tried painting. Terrible at that too." She open another box, holding several journals. "That was the year of the attempt at poetry. Terrible doesn't even come close to describe that."
"What are you good at?" Scott asked, looking into her eyes, genuinely curious.
"I'll show you," she thought for a moment before adding. "If you promise not to laugh..."
She led him into the garage, cluttered with even more boxes than her room. She turned on the light and led him past two sizable SUVs parked inside.
"I used to enter tournaments. My Dad used to cheer me on, but I think I got bored. Promise you won't laugh," she asked, leaning over some crates while the teenager looked around curiously, looking for something that might give him a clue to Stiles and Derek.
"I promise," he said reflexively, and jumped back as he looked at the girl. She was aiming straight at him with a bow. "What the hell is that?"
"It's a compound bow," she explained with a smile. "And I"m pretty sure it requires an arrow to be harmful."
"That's what you're good at? Archery?" Scott stated, and the air escaped him as the sight of the bow brought back unpleasant memories of the last full moon.
"I was nationally ranked when I was competing. My Dad wanted me to keep going. He thought maybe I could go to the Olympics. But I just didn't like it enough. And you said you wouldn't laugh" she reminded reproachfully.
"Trust me. I'm not laughing." as he finished saying these words, it became apparent that they carried even more weight than he had assumed. His gaze paused on the opposite wall of the garage, where there was a barred cupboard, and in it, as if on display, were a dusting of all sorts of machine guns and sniper rifles, as well as a few pistols and other weapons he hadn't even tried to name. On one of the opaque doors inside was a logo with the name of the company: Argent Arms International.
"Oh, I guess I should explain..." Allison frowned, seeing the look on his face clearly showing that the boy was in shock. "Don't worry. We're not some kind of separatist gun nut family. My dad sells firearms to law enforcement."
"Oh. That"s... That's good. Are you planning on joining the family business?" Scott asked, struggling to tear his gaze away from the chilling sight.
"You tell me. Would I look hot with a gun?" She asked, flirtatiously smiling and wrapping her arms around him.
"Hotter without," the teenager smiled, looking deeply into her eyes and kissing her.
Unfortunately, this time too, they were interrupted by a sudden sound. The garage door opened with a creak and Allison pulled him with her, hiding behind one of the cars.
The girl's father entered the room, carrying a box of some sort in his hands. His sister's voice came from inside the house.
"Chris, don't expect the women to do all the heavy lifting out here. Get your ass out of the fifties and come help with the groceries."
Argent set the cardboard box down on a pile of other similar ones and announced that he was going. However, something caught his attention, causing him to step back and look around the garage. He leaned his hand against the car behind which the teenagers were hiding and looked straight at them, completely unsurprised.
"You two mind helping?" The pair nodded their heads in agreement, which, seeing, the man smiled and headed towards the house. "Great."
They had already finished unpacking the groceries from the car parked outside the house when Scott received another text message from a friend: "Derek not looking good". He sighed heavily, realising that he had not done his job. He looked helplessly at Allison. It was already getting dark. He had less and less time.
"Do you want to keep studying?" He asked hopefully, avoiding her father's gaze.
"I think she'll concentrate better on her own," came the cool reply from the man, who did not wait for his daughter to speak. " You, on your bike," he showed to the teenager his means of transport, then turned to the girl. "You. Inside."
"Chris, really?" Kate approached them, spreading her arms in a gesture of disbelief. "They were making out in the garage. Not shooting amateur porn," she said, defiantly looking her brother in the eye, then put her hand on Scott's shoulder and announced, smiling almost flirtatiously. "You, with the adorable brown eyes. Drop the bike. You're staying for dinner."
The older man measured all three of them with a cool gaze, but did not object. He waited until the women had disappeared into the house and turned back to the boy.
"Do you like steak?" He asked, completely submitting to his commanding sister's will.
Scott merely nodded without uttering a word, feeling a huge weight fall from his chest. There was still a chance to find the bullet and save Derek. All was not lost.
"You don't mind?" the boy made sure, walking through the door.
"Actually, no. It'll give us a chance to get to know each other." the man smiled, but something about that smile sent shivers down Scott's spine.
The teenager was helping his girlfriend set the dining room table as her parents and aunt prepared dinner in the kitchen next door. His hands were shaking, and he had the feeling that it was his life hanging in the balance, not that of a familiar werewolf.
"He doesn't hate you, he's just protective," Allison tried to reassure him.
"He hates me."
"I wouldn't call it hate."
"Intense dislike?" suggested Scott, smiling nervously as he spread napkins by the plates. He usually only ate with his mum in such a setting at Christmas. "Should I just not say anything?"
"No, I want you to say stuff. Just don't say anything stupid." she hung her head for a moment, then added cheerfully. "Not that you're going to. Just be the amazingly charming, sweet guy you always are. Be yourself. He'll like you if you're confident."
"Do I look confident?"
"You will when you stop sweating," she handed him a handkerchief so he could wipe his drip-drenched forehead.
"Oh God..." the boy could sense, from the change in her scent, that the girl was just as frightened as he was, though making a good face.
They sat down at the table at last, in tense silence. At the head sat Chris Argent, as head of the house, having his sister on his left and Scott on his right. Next to the boy sat Allison, nervously sipping her water, and next to her, facing her husband, was the girl's mum, Victoria. The teenager himself didn't know which of the adults scared him the most. Was the cool but smiling man, following his every move like a bird of prey. Or the disturbingly sexy young aunt, throwing funny remarks around, clearly enjoying the restraint of everyone around her. Or perhaps, finally, the other woman, older, with short-cropped red hair and terrifying bright eyes that could turn him into a block of ice if he looked into them.
"You want something to drink other than water, Scott?" the latter asked him, seeing that the teenager had held the glass to his lips a moment too long without swallowing.
"We could get you a beer" prompted Mr Argent, raising his eyebrows to emphasise the question, at which his daughter looked at him quizzically. "Tequila?"
"Dad!"
"You don't drink, Scott?" couldn't believe the man, when the boy shook his head with negation.
"I"m not old enough to."
"That doesn't seem to stop many teenagers." Victoria whined.
"No, but it should," stated Scott, without thinking, finally a little more confident.
"Good answer!" concluded Kate cheerfully. "Total lie, but well played, Scott. You may yet survive the night." She added, looking defiantly at her brother, who was doing his best to ignore her.
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"You ever smoked pot?" fired the man, pointing at the boy with the knife he held in his hand, with which he had just been cutting meat.
"Oh, please," laughed the blonde loudly. "Changing the channel to something a little less conservative... Allison says you're on the lacrosse team. I don't know much about it, I always more a basketball girl" she didn't wait for a response and took her own advice, completely ignoring the abashed looks her niece's parents exchanged between them. "How do you play?"
"You know hockey. " Scott relaxed a little, smiling. "It's kind of like that only on grass instead of ice."
"Hockey on grass is called field hokey," Chris interjected, interrupting his food and throwing a defiant look at the teenager. Allison measured her father with an angry stare.
"So It's like field hokey except the sticks have nets," the girl explained, wanting to help the boy.
Scott felt the phone in his pocket vibrate, but rejected the call, seeing that it was Stiles.
"Can you slap check like hokey?" Kate inquired, clearly wanting to keep the conversation going, although it was hard to judge whether she wanted to help the teenager or spite her brother.
"Yeah. But only the gloves or stick."
"Sounds violent," Kate stated, puffing out her lips. "I like it."
"Scott's amazing too. Dad was at the first game with me. Wasn't he good?" smiled Allison, grateful to her aunt for helping to blunt her father's attacks.
"He was fine," concluded Chris, clearly trying not to compliment the boy.
"He scored the last shot. The winning shot" paired the girl, at which her aunt smiled, taking obvious pleasure in this confrontation.
"True. But he didn't score at all until the last few minutes."
"His first shot ripped through the goalie's net. It was incredible!"
"I think the goalie probably had a defective stick. But yeah, Scott played well." Every sentence from his daughter, Chris had to comment.
Allison took a sip of water and set the glass down with a clink, leaning back against the backrest. She couldn't believe that her beloved dad could bring her into such disrepute in Scott's eyes. The werewolf heard her heartbeat speed up rapidly and, after a moment's hesitation, took her hand tucked under the table. It worked. The girl relaxed visibly.
"You know... " broke the heavy silence of the teenager, at first uncertain, but then in a more cheerful tone. "On second thought, I'll take that shot of tequila." he looked Argent straight in the eye, defiantly, expecting his reaction. He felt Allison's fingers tighten on his hand and could almost see the smile blossoming on her face, even though he wasn't looking at her.
The adults froze, then all laughed quietly, understanding that the boy was joking. After a while, he managed to find an excuse to leave the table for a moment and call Stiles. The man, finally impatient, handed the receiver back to the wounded werewolf.
"Did you find it?" came the question, asked in a recognisable but much weaker voice than usual.
"How the hell am I supposed to find one bullet? They have a million. This house is the freaking Walmart of guns!"
"You don't find it, I"m dead."
"I"m starting to think that wouldn't be such a bad thing."
"So think about this..." the werewolf's voice was breaking down, and somewhere in the background Scott could hear the voices of Stiles and someone else, a woman. He guessed his friend had called the history teacher, whom he seemed to trust implicitly, for help.
The werewolf, meanwhile, was explaining to Scott that without his help, he was sure the teenager would end up dead, as he didn't stand a chance against the terrifying Alpha himself. The man didn't even let him answer and hung up, leaving the distraught teenager in the middle of a hallway in the Werewolf Hunters" house with no idea what to do next.
Scott's gaze stopped on the door in front of him. It was protected by an electronic lock, which gave him hope that this was where he would find what he needed. So he grabbed the handle, but as soon as he pressed it a quiet buzzing sounded, indicating a working alarm.
"You look like a lost puppy," he heard a quiet voice behind him and turned abruptly. In the hallway, leaning against the wall, stood Allisons" aunt, measuring him with sparkling light brown eyes.
"Just trying to find the bathroom."
"Bathroom?" She took a few steps towards him. The boy didn't know whether to feel threatened or excited. The woman was definitely sending strange signals that he couldn't read. "Does that look like a bathroom?" she pointed with her chin to the electronic lock on the door he had just wanted to open.
"No... " they answered simultaneously.
"Use the one in the guest room. " she pointed him to the room she occupied.
Scott thanked her and entered the dark bedroom, turning on the light. The room was clearly no one's permanent residence, perfectly neutral, in shades of beige and brown. He directed his steps immediately to the bathroom, but froze, sensing a strange smell in the air. He looked around and noticed a bag sticking out from under the bed, from which the smell was wafting. As he reached for it, the hair on his arms went astray and a sensation like electric sparks ran between his fingers. He undid the zip and spotted a black metal box between his clothes. As he opened it, he found it filled with clips, but his focus quickly shifted to a different box. This box, made of wood, had a lid adorned with an intricately engraved flower. He opened it. There were ten holes carved into the centre, in which the cartridges rested. One was missing. He grabbed another, leaving two holes now free. On contacting the skin with the cartridge, he felt his eyes glow gold. He knew he had found what he had come for.
He hastily put everything together exactly as it was before he moved anything, only putting the cartridge deep into his pocket. He spotted the inscription still on the wooden wrapping: "Aconit Napel Bleu Nordique", which he translated with his phone and sent to his friend. Maybe the name itself would be useful, too. Before he left the room, he jumped quickly into the bathroom to flush and wash his hands for the sake of appearances.
He returned to the dining room but did not sit down at the table, full of anxiety, declaring that he should go home by now and thanking them for dinner.
"Oh no!" objected Kate. "Stay for dessert. I want to hear more about you. Sit down"" she pointed to the boy's chair, not expecting resistance. The boy agreed, intimidated by her commanding attitude.
"Allison was saying you work for a veterinarian" the girl's mum was clearly trying to hide the tension, the remnants of which could still be felt in the room.
"I told them how you put the cast on the dog I hit," the teenager elaborated when Scott sensed his phone vibrating urgently.
"What's your boss think of the animal attacks? Any theories?" Chris got curious.
"Everybody's saying mountain lion."
"That would have to be a pretty large mountain lion" snorted the blonde at this statement, bringing a smile to Victoria's face with her words as well.
"What do you think, Scott?" asked the redhead.
"I wouldn't really know. We get mostly dogs and cats at the clinic. Nothing that vicious."
"Never had to deal with a rabid dog?" asked Argent, looking up at the ceiling, as if searching it for the patience he was running out of. Scott shook his head in denial."I grew up wiht a lot of dogs. I saw one get rabies from a bat. It was transferred through the bite. Sad, but kind of fascinating. People think a rabid dog just suddenly goes mad. It's actually a lot more gradual." he explained, thus weighing down the mood at the table.
His daughter stopped smiling, listening intently, with her head bowed.
"The first stage is subtle changes in behavior. They're restless, morose. It's the second stage that everyone knows. The "furious phase". That's when they attack. And we're talking any moving object. Did you know a caged, rabid dog will break its own teeth trying to chew through the bars? It'll even rear back and snap its own spine. Can you imagine the amount of force it takes to do that?" he said each word slowly and carefully, staring into the teenager's face. There was no shadow of any emotion in his cold grey eyes. They seemed dead. "It's a complete character reversal. This harmless animal turns into a perfectly vicious killer. And it all starts with one bite."
The boy tore his gaze away from the man and looked around. Kate, who was sitting opposite him, seemed to struggle to hold back a smile of joy at hearing the story.
"But it died, didn't it?" interrupted Allison, quietly.
"Yeah, well," replied her mother. "Your grandfather shot it."
"Because he wanted to put it out of its misery," explained the teenager to herself.
"Because it was too dangerous," corrected her father. "Something that out of control is better off dead."
Scott swallowed his saliva loudly, wondering if he could have betrayed himself with anything? Did the Argents know he had been bitten? Did they think he was a rabid dog? His heart was palpitating in his chest, trying to leap onto the table. His hands were sweating, but with all his willpower he tried to remain calm, concentrating on the steady heartbeat of Allison, who was sitting right next to him.
Fortunately, it didn't take them long to eat their dessert. Allison fetched his backpack from her room and escorted him to the door.
"I"m incredibly sorry for that being the worst, most horribly awkward dinner ever in the history of horribly awkward dinners," said the girl.
"It wasn't the worst. There was the dinner where my parents told me they were getting divorced."" he sang out, trying to make her laugh." This is a close second."
Allison pulled him close, wanting to kiss him. But the boy noticed they were being closely watched the whole time by the girl's father, sipping whisky. This did not discourage her, however, and she kissed him on the lips. Kate interrupted the moment, approaching them with a brisk step.
"One second, guys. I have to ask Scott something," she stammered for a moment, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her trousers and looking at the teenager intently. "What did you take from my bag?"
The boy became confused, flooded with a wave of fear.
"You need me to repeat my question or ennunciate any more clearly?" she inquired as her brother, interested in the confusion, joined her. "My bag was open in the guest roo. It was zipped shut when I left it," she explained. "Scott came in to use the bathroom. He left. My bag was open."
"He didn't take anything... " groaned Allison, and her cheeks turned scarlet.
"SOMETHING was taken from my bag" her aunt insisted."And I hate to be the accuser, Scott, because I do like those adorable brown eyes. I don;t know if you're a klepto, curious, or just stupid, but answer the question. WHAT DID YOU TAKE?"
"Nothing, I swear " the boy was sure he'd left everything exactly as he'd found it, but he could feel himself sweating. He couldn't think of any explanation for the bullet he had just clenched in a fist pressed deep into his trouser pocket.
"You don't mind proving it, do you?" Kate looked at him with cold eyes, completely calm, like a predator on its prey.
"Are you serious?" Allison became indignant.
"How about you show us what's in your pockets?" offered the blonde, her brother looking at her closely but not saying a word, even at her daughter's request. "Come on, Scott, prove me wrong."
"I'll prove you wrong. " Allison couldn't stand the tension and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender, directing the attention of everyone gathered in the corridor to herself. "It wasn't Scott going through your bag. It was me." Everyone looked at her, shocked. Their surprise deepened further when the girl pulled a wrapped condom from her pocket and proudly presented everyone with the silverware rustling in her hand. Scott glanced at her, then restrainedly turned his face back to the front door to avoid looking at the adults.
Kate bit her lip, completely taken aback, and Chris turned pale with rage. They looked at each other, then wordlessly let the boy leave.
🌙
During the somber gathering at the bus driver's funeral, Charlotte listened intently to the whispered conversations of his friends, piecing together fragments of his past. The revelation that the late driver had once been an insurance investigator caught her off guard. Once home, she wasted no time in calling her cousin Luise, hoping for any scrap of relevant information. To her relief, Luise recalled that Mr. Meyers had been investigating a fire at the Hale house.
No sooner had she ended the call than the phone in her hand rang again. The unfamiliar number displayed made her hesitate, but curiosity got the better of her. Stiles' voice, laced with panic, resonated through the receiver, sending a shiver down her spine.
"Mrs. Benoit... I need help. I have an injured werewolf in my car..."
"Scott... What's wrong with him? Where are you guys?"
"No, it's not Scott. It's Derek. Scott is trying to find a cure at the Argents. We don't know what to do, and I thought maybe..."
"Come get me!" she commanded, her voice betraying her fear. She barely composed herself before stepping outside, where Stiles' blue Jeep awaited her. She approached it, hearing the tense exchange of words inside.
"Are you dying?" Stiles asked nervously.
"Not yet," Derek replied, his sweat-soaked skin reflecting his anxiety. "I have a last resort."
"What do you mean? What last resort?" Ignoring Stiles, Charlotte flung open the driver's door, maneuvering past him to reach the back seat.
As she assessed Derek's condition, her horror grew when she saw the gaping wound in his forearm, the inflamed edges emitting black veins.
"Oh, my god..." The sight made Stiles feel queasy, and his face turned green. "Is that contagious? Maybe you should just get out?"
"Start the car," Derek sighed heavily, his tiredness weighing down each word. "Now."
"I don't think you should be giving orders looking like that," Stiles retorted indignantly. "In fact, I think if I wanted to, I could probably drag your werewolf ass out to the middle of the road and leave you for dead."
Charlotte's gaze towards Stiles was a mixture of admiration and empathy. Despite his condition, Derek's dangerous nature remained unchanged.
"Start the car," Derek snarled, his voice laced with menace, "or I'm going to rip your throat out with my teeth."
There was a palpable tension in the air before Stiles, almost incredulous, turned the key in the ignition.
As dusk settled, they drove aimlessly, avoiding both the burnt house and Charlotte's home. Derek was adamant about keeping their acquaintance a secret, and though it hurt, Charlotte understood. Their focus now was on finding way to save him.
Stiles finally succeeded in reaching Scott, his heart pounding with anticipation.
"What am I supposed to do with him?" Stiles asked his friend.
"Take him somewhere, anywhere..."
"By the way, he's starting to smell," Stiles noted, his attempt at humor failing to lighten the mood.
"Like what?" Scott's voice echoed through the phone, filled with curiosity.
"Like death," as the word was spoken, the witch realised it was real. A palpable heaviness hung in the air, accompanied by a putrid odor that filled her nostrils. The stench was unmistakable - a somber reminder that the infection was relentlessly advancing, consuming her lover's weakened body.
"Okay. Take him to the animal clinic."
"What about your boss?"
"He's gone. There's a spare key in a box behind the dumpster."
"You're not going to believe where he's telling me to take you," Stiles sighed, handing the phone to Derek.
"Well, werewolves aren't that far from dogs anyway," Charlotte muttered from the back seat, eliciting a faint smile from Stiles.
Derek, meanwhile, was discussing with Scott. "The Alpha called you out against your will. He's going to do it again. And next time you either kill with him or you get killed. You need me. Find the bullet." He ended the call and handed the phone back to Stiles, who started the car again.
"Alpha called Scott? Why don't I know anything about this?" Charlotte demanded, trying to maintain appearances. Stiles attempted to explain, but their arrival at the clinic interrupted him.
Inside the dimly lit room, Charlotte delicately eased Derek out of his shirt, unveiling the ghastly sight of his deteriorating wound. As Stiles anxiously attempted to reach Scott once more, he couldn't help but notice the uncanny familiarity that resonated between the two adults. A strange intuition began to take hold of him, intensifying his suspicion. The air was heavy with tension, the sound of their quiet movements reverberating in the room. Stiles couldn't shake the unsettling feeling as he observed the teacher's adeptness in undressing the werewolf, surpassing the ease with which a teenager would undress themselves.
"I should be healed by now..." Derek wheezed, his breaths coming in short, labored gasps, as he searched through the cabinets.
"Does Blue Nordic monkshood mean anything to you?" Stiles asked, eyes on his phone.
"It's a rare variety of Wolfsbane. He has to bring me the bullet." The werewolf measured the boy with his eyes, while the witch herself was also looking for something in the drawers. She furrowed her eyebrows as she spotted several jars in one of the drawers with familiar contents that vets were unlikely to use.
"Why?"
"Because without it, I'm dead."
The wound grew increasingly severe. The skin surrounding the bullet hole became progressively more inflamed, emitting a fiery heat that intensified with each passing moment. Derek's breaths grew labored, each inhalation and exhalation requiring more effort than the last.
"Well, that doesn't look like anything some Echinacea and a good night's sleep couldn't fix," Stiles joked, looking away from the wound.
"When the infection reaches my heart, it'll kill me," Derek explained.
"Positivity just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?" Fed up with the growing fear, Charlotte snapped, her voice filled with frustration. Closing the drawer, she couldn't help but wonder about its strange contents, but she had to focus on the immediate problem at hand.
"If he doesn't get here with the bullet in time... last resort."
"Which is?" Stiles asked.
"Last resort." Derek raised an automatic saw for amputating animal limbs in his hand, causing the boy to become speechless. His body frozen in place, he stood at the metal table, his mouth the only part of him in motion, flapping like a fish out of water.
The witch rolled her eyes when she heard the exchange of words between the two, the man had a visible tendency to be dramatic. She pushed past the werewolf towards the table, pulling him behind her. She directed Stiles' hands on Derek's arm and had him hold it firmly.
"We need to remove the bullet first. It's what's poisoning the body," she explained, lifting the curved pliers in her hand. "It won't be the most pleasant experience. Clench your teeth."
Without warning or undue hesitation, she inserted the sharp tip of the tool into the gaping wound, feeling a cold shiver crawl up her spine. As she rotated it, searching for any resistance, a faint metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of aconite. The tissue fought against her, constantly attempting to heal around the wound, but she persevered. With a firm grip on the jagged metal shard, she pulled with all her strength, causing a slight crunching sound that made the younger man's face turn pale and the older man grit his teeth, suppressing a pained cry. A fresh surge of blood cascaded onto the tabletop, creating a macabre blend of black and red. Witnessing this gruesome sight, Charlie swiftly reached for a tourniquet, tightly securing it above the werewolf's elbow, feeling the tension in the air as they battled against time.
The procedure definitely didn't appease Derek, who moved the saw towards Stiles. The man squeezed the trigger of the device, and when it made its distinctive sound, he put it down on the countertop in disgust.
"Oh my god... What if you bleed out?"
"It'll heal. If it works." Derek said, his voice barely audible as his strength waned.
"But your arm won't grow back..." witch's concern deepened.
"I don't know if I can do it..." As the room fell silent, Stiles began, capturing everyone's attention.
"Why not?" Derek growled.
"Because of the cutting through flesh, the sawing of bone, and especially the blood."
"You faint at the sight of blood?" Charlotte asked incredulously.
"No, but I might at the sight of a chopped-off arm..."
"How about this: either you cut off my arm, or I rip off your head."
"I'm not buiyng your threats anymore." Before the boy could finish, Derek grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back over the table. "Okay, bought, sold, I'll do it, I'll do it."
Before the werewolf had a chance to release the boy, he hunched forward on the edge of the tabletop, convulsing violently as a guttural retching sound pierced the air. Thick, inky black blood gushed forth from his mouth, the nauseating stench of iron and decay filling the room.
"Holly god, what the hell is that?"
"My body... trying... to heal" the man explained with a gasp.
"It's not doing a very good job," commented Charlie, her voice filled with concern, as she cautiously examined the wound. The pulsating veins were increasingly prominent, snaking their way above the tightly tied tourniquet.
"Now... You have to do this now." The werewolf was struggling to lift his head.
"Seriously, I can't do it..." Stiles started to pull away.
"Just do it!" Derek shouted, collapsing onto the metal table.
"Okay, okay..." Stiles took the saw in his hand and applied it slowly to the man's arm, trying it on. Charlotte watched anxiously, grabbing Derek's shoulders to hold him down in case he should lash out. "Okay... Let's go!" shouted Stiles, the moment the front door of the clinic slammed, and they heard Scott's voice from afar.
"Stiles!" the teenager ran into the treatment room and swept the scene with his eyes. "What the hell are you doing?"
"You just prevented a lifetime of nightmares" sighed Stiles, dismissing the device from himself.
"Did you get it?" Charlie asked and immediately snatched the cartridge from the teenager's hands. She separated the casing from the bullet with a scalpel and spilled the contents onto a small piece of countertop that wasn't stained with blood.
Derek, in the meantime, had managed to lose consciousness, falling to the floor. Scott rushed over to him, to see if the injured man was still alive, it seemed so, but just barely.
Charlotte carefully reached into her trouser pocket, retrieving a sleek silver lighter. As she flicked it open, a small flame danced to life, casting a warm glow in the dimly lit room. The gunpowder-infused powder ignited instantly, unleashing a fierce blaze that crackled and roared. The acrid scent of burnt herbs mingled with the slightly bluish smoke, permeating the air and tickling the senses.
With a determined focus, Charlotte cupped her hand, collecting the smoldering ashes. She lowered herself into a crouched position beside the patient, her movements deliberate and calculated. Countless healing spells raced through her mind, a whirlwind of possibilities, each requiring extensive preparation.
Gently, she pressed her hand against the bullet hole, where moments earlier she had removed its deadly contents. The ashes, now spread across the wound, clung to her skin. As she continued her ministrations, her index finger delved deeper, sinking into the wound until it reached the base of her nail. A shudder of revulsion rippled through both boys, their eyes locked on her every move, their discomfort palpable.
Derek's eyelids fluttered open as the procedure jolted him awake. A pungent smell of burnt flesh filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. A sharp hiss escaped his lips, a mixture of a shriek and a growl, as his body contorted in a violent spasm of agony. The room seemed to blur as tears welled up in his eyes.
But then, a glimmer of hope emerged. The pulsating veins, once a vivid sign of infection, gradually faded into the background, like a waning storm. The wound itself seemed to exhale wisps of smoke, as if releasing the remnants of its torment. And then, as if guided by some unseen force, the bullet hole sealed shut, like an invisible hand stitching up the fabric of his flesh. It was a miraculous sight, as if magic itself had intervened to heal him.
"That. Was. Awesome. Yes!" exclaimed Stiles, shaking off the shock.
Derek lifted himself from the floor with difficulty, enlisting Charlotte's help, resting most of his own weight on her.
"Are you okay?" Scott asked, trying to take the burden from his teacher.
"Except for the agonizing pain." Derek replied with a scowl on his face, dripping with irony.
"I'm guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a sign of good health," commented the sheriff's son, but fell instantly silent as the werewolf's gaze lingered on him.
"We saved your life. That means you're going to leave us alone. You got that?" Scott seemed very agitated. The witch wondered what had actually happened between the two werewolves. "And if you don't I go back to Allison's dad and tell him everything..." he threatened.
"You're going to trust them? You think they can help you?" Derek asked in disbelief.
"Why not? They're a lot freaking nicer than you are."
"I can show you exactly how nice they are," replied Derek, and in his eyes Charlie saw a dangerous glint. She knew exactly where the werewolf wanted to take the boy. She had been there herself recently, investigating the lead, the Long Term Care Unit.
Stiles drive them to her car, so she offered to drive the werewolves to their destination. The lean boy took his friend's bike and decided he'd had enough excitement for tonight, so he said goodbye and left them in her driveway. Charlotte thanked herself in spirit for her forethought and leaving the black Camaro in a locked garage so that Scott couldn't realise the other werewolf had ever been to her place.
She drove them to the hospital and waited in the car park, having no desire to run into the now familiar, not very friendly staff.
The man led the teenager through the deserted corridors of the hospital, looking around to see if anyone saw them. When they reached the room marked 137, he pushed the boy into the room and quietly closed the door behind them. The room was bathed in moonlight pouring in through a large window on one of the walls. Only after a moment did Scott realise they were not alone in the room. A man was sitting in a wheelchair, facing the window, completely oblivious to them.
The boy could not see his face, only his arms resting inertly against the back of the chair and his hands resting gently on the armrests. As he approached, he saw that the man was unresponsive, staring dead ahead, unable to see what he was looking at.
Derek stood in front of the man, looking at him with his jaw clenched tightly, anger bubbling from his stance.
"Who is he?" asked the teenager quietly, still studying the profile of the catatonic man. There was something familiar about him, perhaps the outline of a nose, or the shape of a forehead, but the boy couldn't pinpoint it until he looked at his companion.
"My uncle, Peter Hale," the werewolf struggled to say the words, and it all became clear to Scott. They both had a similar profile, although the darkness made an exact comparison difficult.
"Is he... Like you? A werewolf?"
"He was. Now he's barely even human," Derek stated, his face once again nailed into a mask of indifference. "Six years ago, my sister and I were at school when our house caught fires. Eleven people were trapped inside. He was the only survivor..."
The werewolf really didn't want to tell the kid about it, however, he knew he had to. The witch had almost forced him to promise to do so when they were working out a plan to help the boy. She was right, if he wanted to gain Scott's trust, he had to trust him at least a little bit himself and share the story, especially since Stiles would surely discover all the details himself soon enough, or at least that's what Charlie claimed.
"How are you so sure they set the fire?" asked the teenager, piecing together the facts with disbelief. If it wasn't the Argents, the werewolf certainly wouldn't have brought him here.
"They're the only ones who knew about us," he measured the kid with a glance, he had better proof, but he would not tell anyone about it. He wouldn't tell Laura, nor would he tell the witch or some puppy, it was a burden he had to carry himself.
"Then they had a reason." Scott attempted to explain something, but it's unclear if he was explaining it to himself or to someone else.
"Like what?" Asked Derek in disbelief, grabbing the chair where his uncle was sitting and turning it so that the boy finally saw the whole situation.
Peter's head rolled limply onto his shoulder, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight that caressed the right side of his face, previously concealed from the boy's gaze. Startled, the teenager cautiously approached, his senses heightened by the unexpected sight of a burn scar. The scar distorted the contour of Peter's head and altered the shape of his ear, as if frozen in an eternal state of disfigurement. The absence of hair above the scar exposed the raw, burnt skin, a reminder of the unyielding flames that had ravaged his flesh. Astonishingly, Peter still possessed both of his eyes, their depths reflecting a miraculous resilience. Tracing a path down his neck, the marks vanished beneath his hospital shirt, only to resurface on his right hand, a haunting testament to his painful journey.
"What justifies this?" the man waited a moment so that the teenager had time to realise what he was actually seeing, then took up: "They say they'll only kill an adult and only with absolute proof. But there were members of my family who were perfectly ordinary in that fire. This is what they do. It's what Allison will do."
They both stiffened, sensing that something had changed. The door to the room creaked open and in stood a nurse in a white gown and tightly braided hair of a slightly lighter shade than Charlotte's hair. Her name badge proclaimed her name was Jennifer.
"What are you doing here? How did you get in here?" Her voice was annoying, too high-pitched and a little squawky. She was about to reach for the button, summoning security, but froze in mid-motion, looking at the older werewolf's face, which she spotted in the moonlight. "Wait... Are you a relative?"
Derek didn't answer, dodging her in the doorway. Scott followed, not knowing what else to do. The woman led them away with a curious look, then entered the room they had just left.
As the two werewolves walked back to the witch's car, Scott was silent almost the entire way to his house, trying to digest the sight that Peter Hale was presenting. Charlotte couldn't bear the tense silence that fell between them.
"Scott, go home, go to bed. It's been an adventurous day. This one here," she pointed to Derek. "I'll drive him home too, and everyone will have time to calm down and think. There's no point in deciding in the state you're both in."
As the boy disappeared into his house and her Chevelle had already covered a few blocks, the werewolf sitting next to her finally broke the silence.
"How is it that you always arrange your words so that they are not lies?"
"Years of practice," she replied immediately. "But I'm surprised Scott hasn't figured out yet that you're staying with me.... Shouldn't he smell it or something?"
"He doesn't know how to take full advantage of his senses yet," Derek explained. "But don't imagine I don't know that you can somehow control your scent..."
She looked at him puzzled. She knew she could temporarily hide her presence from others, but the spell she was using was more of an illusion.
The werewolf, seeing her questioning look, elaborated: "I'm the one who smells of you more than the other way around. Which could be explained by the fact that I live with you, if it actually only worked that way."
"I don't understand. Then how does it work? Don't tell me that the scent of werewolves somehow transfers differently..."
"Not in werewolves, in lovers" he fell silent. They never defined exactly what word they should use when talking about what was between them. "The male always leaves a stronger mark than the female. The male marks the female, thus giving a sign to possible rivals."
"So you've marked me as your property?" she raised an eyebrow, parking the car in the driveway. "Does that mean all the guys in the neighbourhood will subconsciously avoid me for fear of messing up with the big, bad werewolf?" she laughed, trying to trivialise the strange tightness in her stomach she felt.
He didn't answer her, getting out of the car and starting for home, dragging her behind him.
As soon as the front door slammed behind them, Derek pressed Charlotte against the wall, his lips crashing into hers with a fierce, urgent hunger. Reflexively, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hoisted herself up, standing on tiptoes to deepen their kiss.
With a passionate and forceful motion, he removed her shirt, causing a cascade of tender kisses to rain down upon her shoulders and exposed cleavage. The absence of a bra revealed her petite, porcelain-white breasts, igniting a visceral reaction within him. As he captured one of her delicate nipples between his lips, he applied a gentle nibble, coaxing a pleasurable moan to escape her lips. The sensation of her fingers entwining in his hair, tugging and tousling, served as a delightful sign of her satisfaction.
Her delicate hand tightly clasped his forearm, yearning to direct it towards the place where she longed for his caress the most. However, her movement abruptly halted as she sensed the viscous texture beneath her fingertips. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized that his hand remained coated in a mixture of dark, crimson blood that had not yet congealed.
With a heavy sigh, she pushed him away. She picked up their shirts from the floor, wondering when his had joined hers there. Noticing both were dirty and tattered, she sighed again, heading toward the kitchen. She threw the shirts into the sink and turned on the cold water.
Derek followed her, never leaving her side. When she stopped, he encircled her waist with his arms and placed a kiss on the back of her neck. She grasped his injured hand, wiping the blood off it with one of the wet shirts.
"Come on... A little blood doesn't bother you..." His quiet voice murmured in her ear.
"It doesn't bother the Lurker, but it does me." She turned to face him, leaning against the countertop. His eyes immediately dropped to her exposed chest, her nipples swollen and pink from the cool air, begging for his attention. Yet, she seemed oblivious to her nakedness.
"I don't want to lose control every time you're near me. The smell of blood complicates things," she said, finally meeting his gaze.
His pupils were dilated with arousal, fully displaying his desire. She wanted to succumb to the passion, as she had so many times before, but something held her back. Her efforts to regulate her emotions proved challenging as the ominous tendrils of her inner turmoil coiled around her, menacingly testing her resolve.
She didn't have the strength to fight it that evening, so she decided she would try another time. So she let the Darkness take over, and her eyes glowed an unnatural green. The air was filled with a scent that Derek already associated only with them, together, entwined in a passionate embrace. He, too, allowed himself to loosen the leash on which he always kept his wolf. The flash of blue in his irises made the Darkness in her boil. They threw themselves at each other like hungry animals.
In a matter of seconds, they shed their clothes and Derek's back crashed against the floor as Charlie positioned herself on top of him. She didn't hesitate or prepare for a single moment before accepting him into her. She was hot and wet, and he groaned in delight.
For a moment, he wondered what it would be like if he were Alpha and his need to dominate was stronger. Would they fight for dominance every time? Could they be together like this? Would it turn into a fight to the death, with blood and flesh wounds? He found that at the moment he didn't give a damn. He was completely at the mercy of the Witch and the Darkness within her, and he liked it. Probably a little too much.
He gripped her hips in his hands to steady her movements, chaotic and passionate, both of them panting hard. He watched with pleasure as her hair rippled around her body, lifted by an invisible wind, her white skin adorned with freckles and tattoos covered in droplets of sweat slowly trickling down, drenching his own body.
He knew he wouldn't last long that day. The pain he had experienced and the adrenaline that was still coursing through his veins had put him over the edge. She didn't seem to mind. He could see by the pretty curl of her lips and the frown of her brows that she didn't need much anymore, either. And he was right. Coming, he clenched his fingers tighter on her hips, almost howling with pleasure, like a wolf to the moon, when he heard her scream filled with ecstasy. She fell hard against him, pressing her breasts against his chest. Her head was near his ear, and he could feel her lips whispering some words, but even his sensitive wolf's senses could not hear what exactly the woman was saying. After a moment, she fell silent, and he felt her lips form a smile.
"Let's move to somewhere more comfortable and warmer, hm?"
🌙
Meanwhile, in the Argents' living room, a war council was in session. Though it comprised only Kate and Chris, the gravity of the meeting was palpable.
"The one that attacked me was big. Broad shoulders, strong. The one I shot, though, was lean and quick," Kate recounted, her fingers idly toying with a matchstick that chimed as it moved.
"That would be Derek Hale," Chris said, his gaze tracking his sister as she paced.
"Are you certain?" She flicked the match in her hands, a habit that hinted at her restlessness.
"Mostly," Chris replied, taking a measured sip of his whiskey, his expression unyielding.
"And we're sure it's just the two of them?"
"Not yet. But if Derek's alive, he'll lead us to the Alpha," he noted, watching as she turned off the gas in the fireplace.
"Take down the pack leader, and the rest will follow," she said with a dangerous glint in her eyes, rising with an almost morbid enthusiasm.
"And we do it by the code," Chris reminded her, his tone stern.
"You and your code," she laughed, a touch mockingly.
"It's there for a reason," he said seriously.
"Of course..." she murmured, lighting the match and watching the flame flicker for a moment. The faint smell of gas reached her nose before she threw the lit match into the fireplace, triggering a controlled explosion. "I always play by the rules," she declared, winking at her brother before striding out, leaving him to his contemplations.
Moments later, the living room door swung open, and there stood Victoria, her posture rigid and her gaze cold.
"We're supposed to attend a meeting at the school on Monday. Allison just gave me her grades spreadsheet. Do you know who her history teacher is?" she asked, seating herself beside her husband and handing him a piece of paper.
Chris scanned the page quickly, his brows furrowing at the sight of his daughter's less-than-stellar grades. His attention stopped at one name - Charlotte Benoit. His face turned into a mask of concern. He looked at Victoria, his blue eyes filled with a mix of dread and determination. He knew they now faced a more intricate challenge.
"It might not be her," he whispered, hoping against hope that it was a coincidence. "We don't need to tell him until we're sure. Maybe it's just a coincidence..." His attempt to reassure himself fell flat, as he didn't believe in coincidences. However, his words calmed Victoria, who nodded and left to prepare for bed.
Chris rubbed his tired face and poured himself another whiskey. He needed a plan to prevent Kate from discovering there was a Witch in Beacon Hills. If she did, bloodshed was inevitable, far beyond what the Code could handle. He had to delay the inevitable, to save as many lives as he could before his father's arrival turned everything to rubble.