Word of the most recent Darach victim, one of Beacon Hills' own students, cast a dark shadow over the town. For Scott, Stiles, and Damien, the pressing nature of the supernatural threat brought the idea of normalcy within school to what felt like a thin, gossamer thread.
Scott's morning was one of frantic worry. He hardly noticed Coach Finstock screaming at him during lacrosse practice. Each stray odor, each blaring noise, shot a rush of primitive energy through him, causing his claws to prickle. His restraint was a high wire balancing over an abyss of savage impulses. He had to concentrate, but his thoughts kept recurring to Allison Argent. Her smile yesterday, the soothing impact her presence had on his sharpened senses – it was a ray of light in his mad new existence. He wished he could just be an average teenager, having geometry and lacrosse on his mind, and not ancient Druids and ambitious Alphas.
Stiles was stuck with stacks of old books at the Sheriff's department, sustained by stale coffee and a sense of foreboding. The Darach's specificity of targeting one "bloodline" was eating away at him. He studied local historical records, ancient town documents, and even secret folklore websites, searching for any reference to families connected to the Nemeton's origins, or families of peculiar significance in Beacon Hills' history. The data were few, ambiguous, and usually conflicting, and so his anger grew.
Damien, watching them dash about, spent his own time in contemplative silence. He could feel the delicate changes in the town's ley lines, the charged atmosphere building in tension. He could sense Derek Hale, a wolf consumed by one, all-consuming desire, pushing through the Preserve, his black shape weaving through the trees. Derek's quest for the Alpha was picking up, the scent stronger, clearer, by the day. Damien knew it was only a matter of time before Derek hit upon the truth.
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That day, after-school chance bumped Scott back into a fragile sense of normalcy. He was walking to his locker when he noticed Allison trying to get her lock free from being jammed. Automatically, his werewolf strength covertly took over, and he gave the locker door a slight push. It creaked open.
"Whoa, thanks!" Allison laughed, turning to him, her eyes sparkling. "That thing hates me. Must be the new kid curse."
Scott chuckled, feeling a blush creep up his neck. "Nah, it's just old. This school has a lot of 'old' things." He caught himself before saying too much, before hinting at the true age of some things in Beacon Hills. "Anyway, I'm Scott, from English class."
"Allison," she answered, extending a hand. Her touch was like a spark of electricity, a warmth that calmed the restless wolf inside him. "Still getting accustomed to locating everything. This town is… quiet."
"Yeah, quiet," Scott repeated, remembering the yelling headlines and the victims painted red. He shifted subjects in a hurry. "So, are you considering trying out for something? Like, lacrosse? Girls' team?"
Allison's eyes brightened. "Maybe. My dad is big on extracurriculars. He wants me to get settled." She looked thoughtful for a moment, her brow furrowed. "He's actually a bit concerned about the news here. All the, you know, 'animal attacks'." She air-quoted the phrase, a note of sarcasm in her voice.
Scott's heart sank. The 'animal attacks'. The deceptively scripted cover story the Sheriff's department was issuing. A painful reminder that his new, tenuous normalcy was predicated on a foundation of perilous secrets. He compelled a casual shrug. "Yeah, Beacon Hills has plenty of. wildlife.
Their dialogue came easily after that, meandering from topics of school to music. Scott forgot about the Darach for a precious few minutes, about the unseen Alpha, about the brooding werewolf now stalking the town. He was simply just a guy talking to a girl, and it felt impossibly good.
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At the same time, deep in the Beacon Hills Preserve, Derek Hale was closing in. He'd spent days following the potent Alpha scent, a mix of ancient power and something raw and primal. He'd pursued its evasive trail, through heavy underbrush, over old logging roads, his Alpha senses going into overdrive. He'd caught a whiff of it at the site of the latest Darach victim, a chilling indication that this Alpha was somehow implicated, perhaps even behind the mayhem.
His search took him to the crumbling Hale House, the blackened remains of his family home. The Alpha's smell was overwhelming here, laced with something else. something human, yet deeply wrong. It was a smell Derek knew, but twisted, corrupted. His eyes narrowed.
As he walked through the burned-out mansion, his senses caught a faint, barely audible noise: a low, raspy chuckle coming from the charred basement. Derek stalked down there like a predator, silent and deadly, into the shadows.
He discovered him there, among the wreckage and darkness, feeding a foul, improvised fire. The man was shrouded, stooped over, alone. But the smell, the unmistakable *Alpha* smell, was overpowering. It was Peter Hale's smell. But not the broken, unconscious Peter Derek had known. This Peter was alive, intact, and exuding massive, awe-inspiring power.
Peter glanced up, his eyes a mean malevolent red, a horror-surprised smile spilling across his face. "Well, well, Derek. Took you long enough. Did you finally get it that your looney uncle wasn't so … *vegetable*… as he appeared?"
Derek's breath caught. Anger, hard and pure, roared through him, drowning out all other thoughts. His sister, Laura. His family. All of them. The treachery. The deception. It had been Peter the entire time. He had been tracking the Alpha, and the Alpha had been his own uncle, brought back from the dead and living among them in disguise.
You," Derek snarled, his voice low and menacing, his eyes blazing red. "You're the Alpha. You murdered Laura.
Peter laughed, a dry, rasping noise that resonated through the empty basement. "And I released you, little wolf. Gave you a purpose. Don't tell me you're not relishing the benefits of your inheritance. The sensory heightening, the strength, the. camaraderie." He waved his hand vaguely, in reference to Scott. "Though that Beta of yours is still a bit. rough.
Derek charged, a flurry of teeth and claws, driven by years of agony and a rage so sharp it blinded. The battle was brutal, fierce, and highly personal. Peter was resourceful, driven by his own return from death, and unexpectedly powerful. The collision of their basic power rattled the foundations of the shattered house, a raw scream resonating throughout the Preserve.
The open conflict had commenced.
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