MC's POV
I arrived at the dealership fifteen minutes later. The chrome gleam of new cars felt jarringly normal after the supernatural chaos of my life. A salesman in a cheap suit materialized, oozing false enthusiasm. An hour of haggling, paperwork, and forced smiles later, I walked out, keys to a sturdy Ford Ranger 4x4 in my hand. Solid. Dependable. Something that wouldn't flinch when the real monsters came out to play.
I drove towards the gas station opposite the Beacon Hills Police Station – a little irony I appreciated. Pulling up to the pump, I killed the engine. The sudden silence was a relief. Whistling a low, aimless tune, I leaned against the warm hood, the cool evening breeze a welcome caress against my skin. For a fleeting second, it felt almost peaceful.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The peace shattered. Three gunshots ripped through the quiet, sharp and deafeningly close. Behind me. Agony exploded. One bullet tore into my lower back, shredding my left lung with brutal efficiency. The second punched through my right shoulder blade, spinning me halfway around. The impact slammed me forward into the truck's grille. Gasping, tasting copper, I pushed myself upright, my vision swimming. Who? Why? Argent? Hunters?
CRACK!
A different sound. Sharper, harder. Like the world's largest whip snapping inches from my ear. My head snapped sideways. A searing white-hot line scored across my temple, followed by an immense pressure… then nothing but suffocating blackness.
Sara's POV (Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital)
The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to everything. Erica shifted beside Sarah, her usual restless energy muted as thry stood outside Malia Hale's room. Through the glass, they could see the girl sleeping, pale but breathing steadily. Rescued from years as a coyote by their Alpha. By Jacob.
"She looks… fragile," Erica murmured, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She traced the glass with a fingertip. "Hard to believe she ripped through three Hunters last week."
"She's strong," Sarah said, feeling the faint, reassuring thrum of the pack bond beneath her own anxiety. It was steady, but distant. "Like he said she'd be." Sarah squeezed Erica's hand. Their bond, deeper than just pack sisters, flared warm and solid. Mates. Both of Them. To him. It wasn't conventional, but it was theirs, fierce and undeniable. "He should be back soon."
Erica nodded, leaning her shoulder against mine. "Yeah. Still… feels weird him being out alone after the Argents sniffing around again." A low growl vibrated in her chest. "Especially with Kate back in town."
A sudden, sharp tug deep in her chest made Sarah gasp. Not pain, but… wrongness. A chilling void where the Jacob's warm, anchoring presence in the bond usually pulsed. Her hand flew to her sternum. Erica stiffened beside Sarah, her eyes wide and flickering gold.
"Sara?" she breathed, fear edging her voice. "Did you…?"
"Something's wrong," Sarah whispered, the hospital corridor suddenly feeling icy. "Erica… something's very wrong."
Melissa McCall's POV (Nurse's Station)
Paperwork. Always more paperwork. Melissa rubbed my temples, trying to focus on the discharge forms for Mr. Henderson. Her mind kept drifting back to earlier. To him.
Standing so close by the hospital entrance after he'd visited Malia. The raw concern in his eyes for the girl, the easy way his girlfriends – Erica and Sara, both fiercely protective and looking at him with… more – hovered near him. The tension that crackled between Melissa and Jacob when everyone else had stepped away for a moment.
That breathless moment when he'd leaned in, his gaze dropping to her lips, the air thick with unspoken attraction… and she hadn't pulled away.
Not fast enough. Melissa, was after all still a woman and after years of being single, she felt excited and turned on when a boy the same age as her son looked at her with such intensity , leaving a confusing mix of relief and regret.
A commotion at the ER entrance snapped me back. Raised voices. Police radios crackling. Melissa's nurse instincts kicked in. Dropping the pen, she hurried towards the triage area.
MC's POV (The Woods)
Dirt. Darkness. Pressure. Suffocating.
Panic, raw and primal, surged through the blackness. My lungs screamed, but there was only earth. Buried.
Instinct took over. Claws – hard, sharp, real – ripped from my fingertips. I tore at the damp soil above me. Scrabbling, kicking, fighting against the crushing weight. Soil filled my mouth, my nose. No air! A feral growl, muffled by earth, ripped from my throat. Move! Dig! LIVE!
With a final, desperate heave, my hand broke through. Cool night air rushed over my filthy skin. I hauled myself out of the shallow grave, collapsing onto the forest floor, gasping in huge, ragged breaths that burned my healing lung. Vile-tasting dirt spewed from my mouth. Moonlight filtered through the trees.
Rage, cold and absolute, replaced the panic. I rolled onto my knees, then stood, swaying slightly. My body hummed with unnatural energy, knitting bone, sealing tissue, expelling foreign objects. A wet plop as the mangled sniper round dislodged from my skull and landed at my feet.
A moment later, the lung bullet followed, expelled with a sickening cough. The shoulder wound was already a fading ache.
Who. Did. This.
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. Blood (mine, old). Gunpowder residue. Cheap aftershave. Sweat – male, nervous. Diesel fuel. And… her. A scent like expensive perfume over cold steel. Kate Argent.
A snarl ripped from my throat, low and vicious, echoing in the quiet woods. My wolf surged forward, eyes burning gold in the darkness. Bitch doesn't learn. She signed her death warrant this time.
My hand went to my pocket. Phone gone. Wallet still there. I flipped it open. Credit cards, license… cash stripped clean. Amateur hour. Or a message? Kate wouldn't bother with petty theft. Her hired help, then. Ditch the tech, take the walking-around money.
The rage crystallized into a deadly calm. They thought they'd killed an Alpha. Buried him like trash. Mistake. Huge mistake. They'd see what crawled out of their shallow grave.
They'd smell the fear when the Hunter became the hunted.
First step: find a phone. Warn the pack. They'd have felt the… disruption. The sudden silence in the bond, followed by the violent resurgence as I clawed my way back. Sara… Erica… they'd be frantic.
And Melissa… the image of her worried face flashed in my mind, adding another layer of fury. Kate had touched my pack. My town.
Time to go home. Time to make the Argents regret the day they decided burying me was an option.
------------------
About an hour later,
The scent of damp earth, my own congealed blood, and Kate's lingering perfume clung to me like a shroud. Rage wasn't just an emotion; it was a living thing coiling in my gut, sharpening my senses until the rustle of a leaf a hundred yards away sounded like thunder. The cool night air did nothing to soothe the inferno inside. They'd shot me. Buried me. Stolen from me. And they thought it was over.
Fools.
My first priority was communication. My pack would be tearing Beacon Hills apart by now. That chilling void in the bond when the sniper round hit… they'd have felt it like a physical blow. Sara's sharp gasp, Erica's instinctive snarl echoing faintly across the miles – the memory alone tightened my jaw. I needed to reassure them, warn them, and then unleash hell.
The woods were unfamiliar, but the distant thrum of a highway guided me. Moving silently, a shadow among shadows, I pushed my healing body. Ribs knitted with audible pops, muscle fibers wove back together under torn skin, the headache from the bullet's kiss already fading to a dull throb. Werewolf regeneration was a beautiful, terrifying thing.
Especially when fueled by pure, unadulterated fury.
It took nearly an hour of loping through dense undergrowth before I stumbled onto a neglected logging road.
Another twenty minutes, and I saw the flickering neon sign of a roadside dive bar – 'The Howling Moose'. Perfect. Seedy enough for payphones and patrons who wouldn't ask questions about a guy covered in grave dirt and dried blood.
The bouncer, a mountain of a man with a neck thicker than my thigh, eyed me suspiciously as I approached the entrance.
The stench of cheap beer, stale smoke, and desperation rolled out. My eyes flared gold, just for a split second. A low, subsonic growl vibrated in my chest, not loud, but felt. The bouncer's eyes widened minutely, a primal fear flickering in them. He took an unconscious step back, his hand falling away from the door handle.
"Bathroom," I rasped, my voice rough from swallowed earth and rage.
He just nodded mutely. I pushed past, ignoring the curious and repulsed glances from the handful of late-night drinkers. The men's room was a symphony of neglect – cracked tiles, grimy mirrors, the reek of urinal cakes fighting a losing battle. Locking the stall door, I assessed the damage in the filthy mirror. My clothes were ruined – dark jeans shredded at the knees from digging, my shirt a stiff, blood-soaked rag clinging to healing wounds. My face was streaked with dirt and dried blood, hair matted. I looked like something that had clawed its way out of hell. Which, technically, I had.
Focus. Phone.
I needed cash. My wallet was useless. I scanned the stall. Nothing. Frustration warred with the simmering rage. Then, my gaze fell on the metal toilet paper dispenser. Ancient, heavy-gauge steel bolted loosely to the wall. With a grunt and a surge of strength that made the bolts shriek in protest, I ripped it free. Inside the hollow cylinder? A crumpled five-dollar bill and three ones. Jackpot. Someone's emergency stash. Tonight, it was mine. Survival justified theft.
The payphone outside the bar was a relic, coated in grime and dubious stickers. I fed it the stolen bills, the coins clattering like teeth. My fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer effort of containing the wolf howling for release. I punched Stiles' number first. He'd be the most frantic, his brilliant mind likely spinning worst-case scenarios.
It rang once. Twice. Then a breathless, terrified voice: "Hello?! Who is this? If this is a prank, I swear to god–"
"Stiles." My voice cut through his panic, low and steady despite the chaos inside me. "It's me."
Silence. Then a choked sob. "Jacob? Oh shit man! Where are you?! We felt… we felt you die! Sarah screamed, Erica shifted right in the hospital corridor, Danny and I ran out of school and broke like twenty traffic violations trying to get to to the girls, what ha–"
"I'm alive, Stiles," I interrupted, injecting as much calm Alpha command as I could muster. It resonated down the line, a tangible wave of reassurance. I heard his shaky intake of breath. "Listen carefully. I was ambushed. Gas station opposite the precinct. Shot. Multiple times. Point blank and a sniper."
"Jesus Christ!" Stiles' voice cracked. "But… how? You're…"
"I'm not easy to kill, Stiles," I said flatly. The words tasted like grave soil. "Woke up in a shallow grave in the woods. Kate Argent's scent was all over it. Along with two others."
"Kate?!" Stiles' voice shot up an octave. "She's did that in broad daylight? And she… buried you?!"
"Thought she did," I corrected, a feral edge creeping into my tone. "She was wrong. Now listen. I'm okay. Healing. But she's here, active, and she's got hired muscle. That means the pack is in immediate danger. Especially you guys at the hospital with Malia."
"We're on it, Jake," Stiles said, his voice hardening instantly, the strategist kicking in. "I'll get Danny, we'll lock down Malia's floor. Erica and Sara are already on high alert. They felt the bond snap back, but… god, it was bad, man. Sara's claws are out, Erica's pacing like a caged tiger."
"Tell them I'm whole. Tell them I'm coming. But tell them to be careful. Kate's not playing. These weren't warning shots. They were execution attempts. Assume any unfamiliar faces are hostile. Danny?"
"Right here, Jake," Danny's calm, tech-savvy voice came on the line. Relief washed through me. Danny was our rock, our eyes in the digital sky. "Stiles put you on speaker. We're in the parking garage, moving the cars."
"Good. Danny, I need you to pull every camera feed you can hack within a five-mile radius of that gas station from about an hour ago. Look for a vehicle leaving the scene shortly after the shots – probably heading towards the preserve. Kate's scent, two unknown males. Also, see if you can find footage of them moving my… body." The word felt alien. "Look for anything suspicious near Beacon Hills Memorial too. Kate knows Malia's there."
"On it, dude," Danny replied, keys already clacking in the background. "I'll triangulate cell pings in the area around that time as well, look for burners. Give me ten minutes."
"Stiles," I continued, "once Danny has something, coordinate with Erica and Sara. Take Malia and get to the loft… I have a couple of weapons stashed away in my room, it's behind the mirror, in a secret compartment" I informed him. "Keep an eye on your surroundings, and sniff the air for any malice. Get them home, arm yourselves, and wait."
"Got it. Protect Malia, get girls home, arm up and don't piss myself. " Stiles summarized. "What are you going to do?"
A slow, predatory smile touched my lips, unseen over the phone. "What Alphas do, Stiles. I'm going hunting. Put Erica on."
There was a fumbling sound, then Erica's voice, thick with unshed tears and barely leashed fury, growled down the line.
"Jake?" The single word was a plea and a promise of violence.
"Erica." My voice softened fractionally for my mate. "I'm here. I'm whole. The grave wasn't deep enough."
A shuddering breath. "We felt you go dark… Sarah almost collapsed. It was… empty. Cold." Her voice hardened. "Where is she? Where's the bitch?"
"Close. And I'll find her. But first, I find the hands that dug my grave. You and Sara. Guard Malia. Protect each other. Feel the bond. Feel me. I'm not going anywhere." I poured reassurance, strength, and a sliver of my own simmering rage down the pack bond. I felt it hit her, a tangible warmth and a shared snarl. "Stay safe, and watch each others backs."
"Always, Jake," she breathed, the fear replaced by fierce determination. "Bring us her head."
"Sara next," I ordered.
Sara's voice was quieter, but the storm beneath was just as potent. "Jake." Her relief was a physical wave. "The emptiness… I've never felt anything so terrible."
"I know, love," I murmured, the endearment slipping out naturally. "I'm sorry you felt it. But I'm back. And I need you strong. Keep Erica focused. Watch Stiles – his panic makes him brilliant but reckless. Malia needs your strength now. She's pack, Sarah. Protect her like you'd protect Erica. Like you'd protect me."
"With my life," Sara vowed, her voice trembling but resolute. "Come back to us. Whole."
"I will. Keep the home den safe, Sara." I let the connection linger for a second, feeling the tether of our mate-bond, strong and vital again, before forcing myself to break it. "Danny? Anything?"
"Working, dude," Danny replied. "Cameras near the gas station are crap, but I've got a traffic cam half a mile down the road. Got a dark-colored, older model Ford F-150 speeding away from the gas station direction about ten minutes after the 911 call logged for shots fired. Two figures in the cab, couldn't get plates. Heading northeast, towards the old quarry access roads."
"That's our start," I said. "Keep digging. Stiles, coordinate. I'm off-grid until I find a better phone. Assume this line is compromised the second I hang up." I paused. "One last call to make."
I hung up, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. The stolen cash was gone. I needed more. Time for Plan B. I turned back towards the bar's entrance. The bouncer was still there, looking decidedly less imposing after our last encounter. I walked straight up to him.
"Wallet," I said, my voice devoid of inflection, my eyes holding his. Crimson flickered deep within them, not a flare, but a banked ember of power. The command in my voice was subtle, Alpha power woven into the words. Obey.
He paled, his hand trembling as it dipped into his back pocket. He pulled out a worn leather wallet and handed it over without a word. I took it, extracted forty dollars in crumpled bills, and shoved the wallet back into his chest.
"Forget this," I commanded, layering the compulsion thicker this time. His eyes glazed over slightly. He nodded dumbly.
Back at the payphone, I fed it more coins. This number was etched in memory, a lifeline and a challenge rolled into one.
It rang. And rang. Just as I thought it would go to voicemail, a gruff, sleep-roughened voice answered. "Hale."
"Derek."
A beat of silence. Then, sharper: "Where the hell are you? Stiles just blew up my phone with seventeen texts that made zero sense except for 'Alpha down' and 'grave' and 'Kate'. What happened?"
"Kate happened," I stated coldly. "I got ambushed. Gas station opposite the precinct. Three shooters. Took two handgun rounds and a high-powered rifle round to the head point-blank. Woke up buried in a shallow grave in the woods near the old quarry access. Kate's scent was there. Along with two hired guns. They took my phone, my cash, and tried to take my life."
Another, longer silence. I could practically hear Derek processing, the gears turning, the old wounds Kate Argent represented tearing open. When he spoke again, his voice was a low growl, vibrating with a fury that mirrored my own. "She buried you?"
"Thought she did," I repeated. "She was mistaken."
"Where are you now?"
"Near the Howling Moose bar. Just warned the pack. They're securing Malia at the hospital."
"Malia…" Derek's voice softened infinitesimally. Another life Kate had ruined. "Is she…"
"Safe. For now. But Kate knows she's there. She's making moves, Derek. Big ones. This wasn't a warning. This was an execution. She's escalating."
"She always does," Derek snarled. "What do you need?"
I smiled, a cold, predatory thing. "What I always need from you, brother. Back-up. I'm going to find the men who pulled the triggers, who carried my body, who dug that hole. I'm going to find out everything Kate knows, everything she's planning. And then I'm going to send her a message she won't survive."
"Hunting hunters," Derek stated, no question in his tone. Just grim understanding.
"Hunting hunters," I confirmed. "Starting with the hired help. They're mine, Derek. But Kate… she's family business. Our family business. You in?"
There was no hesitation this time. Just the sound of sheets rustling, a zipper, the clink of keys. "Give me the location. I'm on my way. Don't start the party without me."
A grim satisfaction bloomed in my chest. "Northeast of the Howling Moose. Old quarry access roads. Danny spotted their truck heading that way. Dark Ford F-150. Two males. Kate was probably in a separate vehicle."
"I know those roads," Derek said, his voice tight with purpose. "I'll find you. Don't get shot again before I get there. Dying once in a night is bad form."
"Tell that to Kate's goons," I replied, hanging up.
I left the payphone, the stolen bills spent, the path ahead clear. The rage hadn't diminished; it had crystallized, cold and sharp, a honed blade ready to cut. I inhaled deeply, filtering the bar stink, the highway fumes, the damp forest air. Beneath it all, faint but distinct, was the fading trail: gunpowder, cheap aftershave, sweat, diesel, and beneath that, the coppery tang of my own spilled blood. My blood. On their hands.
I melted into the tree line beside the logging road, becoming just another shadow. My senses expanded, painting the world in scents and sounds. Distant engine noise. Rustling rodents. The sigh of wind through pines. And there – fainter now, but undeniable – the trail of the F-150, the scent of the men who'd handled my corpse.
My pace quickened, not a run, but a relentless, ground-eating lope. The forest blurred around me. The wounds were fully closed now, new skin tight and pink beneath the grime and blood. My stolen cash bought me anonymity, Derek was incoming, my pack was warned. The hunt was on.
Time to meet the grave diggers.
---------------------------
The quarry access road was a scar on the landscape, winding through increasingly dense woods, the asphalt cracked and weed-choked. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting long, dancing shadows. My senses were dialed to eleven.
Every snapped twig, every shift in the wind, every rustle in the undergrowth was cataloged and assessed. The scent trail was stronger here, layered over the older smells of damp earth, pine resin, and the faint, acrid tang of whatever mining operations had once scarred this place.
The F-150's tire tracks were visible in patches of soft earth, confirming Danny's sighting. Two distinct male scents clung to the vehicle's imagined metal: one smelled of stale tobacco, cheap beer, and unwashed anxiety; the other carried the sharper notes of gun oil, synthetic motor grease, and a cold, detached focus. The scent of my blood, dried but potent, was a dark thread woven through both. Kate's perfume was absent here. She'd likely directed them and left them to the dirty work. Smart, but not smart enough.
I followed the road for another mile, the scent intensifying, mingling now with woodsmoke. A campfire. They were close, arrogant enough to think their job done and their location secure. Idiots. Didn't they know what they'd tried to kill?
I left the road, slipping into the trees, moving with preternatural silence. The crackle of the fire grew louder, accompanied by the low murmur of voices. I crouched low behind a thicket of thorny blackberry bushes, peering through the leaves.
A small clearing opened up ahead, dominated by a dying fire. Parked haphazardly, half off the road, was the dark Ford F-150 Danny had spotted. Two men sat on logs dragged near the flames. The first matched the anxious scent – mid-forties, thinning hair, a paunch straining against a stained flannel shirt. He nursed a bottle of cheap whiskey, his hands trembling slightly. Tobacco/Beer/Anxiety. The Grave Digger.
The second man was leaner, harder. Late twenties, buzz cut, military posture even while sitting. He meticulously cleaned a large-caliber handgun – the one that had punched holes in me – under the firelight. His movements were economical, precise. Gun Oil/Grease/Detachment. The Shooter. The sniper rifle, broken down, lay in a case beside him.
"–still gives me the creeps, man," Tobacco/Beer was saying, taking a shaky swig. "Dumping him like that. In the woods. Just… just like garbage."
Buzz Cut didn't look up from his weapon. "He was garbage. Monster. Kate said put it down, we put it down. Paid to follow orders, not have feelings." He snapped the slide back onto the frame with a sharp clack.
"Yeah, but… shooting him in the head? Point blank? After he was already down? Seemed… excessive." Tobacco/Beer shuddered.
"Standard procedure for vermin," Buzz Cut stated flatly. "Double tap. Make sure. Kate was specific. Wanted no chances. Said these things are hard to kill. Guess she was right about that part, at least." He finally looked up, his eyes cold and empty in the firelight. "Relax. Job's done. We got paid. Ditch the truck tomorrow, split the cash, disappear."
"What about the phone?" Tobacco/Beer asked. "And the cash we took off him?"
"Phone's crushed under the truck tire back near the gas station. Burner anyway, probably. Cash is ours. Hazard pay." Buzz Cut smirked, a cruel twist of his lips. "Easiest grand I ever made. Dumb animal didn't even see it coming."
Dumb animal. The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. The cold rage in my core ignited into white-hot fury. My claws slid out, silent and lethal. My fangs pressed against my lower lip. The urge to burst from the bushes and tear them apart was overwhelming. Patience, the Alpha part of me counseled, warring with the feral wolf. Information first. Then vengeance.
I needed to know Kate's plans. Where she was. Why Malia?
Why now?
Taking a slow, silent breath, I focused my will. I focused, let it seep out, not a roar, but a slow, chilling pressure, like the air thickening before a storm. I directed it into the clearing, focusing on Tobacco/Beer. The weaker link.
He stiffened abruptly, dropping his whiskey bottle. It thudded on the soft earth, spilling its contents. "W-what was that?" he stammered, eyes wide, scanning the dark tree line. He couldn't see me, but he felt it. The primal fear. The sense of being watched by something dangerous and hungry.
Buzz Cut frowned, instantly alert, his hand tightening on the reassembled pistol. "What? Hear something?"
"N-no… just… felt…" Tobacco/Beer stammered, shrinking in on himself. "Cold. Real cold suddenly."
Buzz Cut stood up, pistol raised, scanning the perimeter with practiced efficiency. "Probably just a coyote. Or your conscience finally kicking in." He snorted derisively but didn't lower the weapon. "Sit down. Drink your courage back."
I pushed harder. The pressure intensified, becoming a tangible weight. The fire seemed to dim. The sounds of the forest hushed. Tobacco/Beer whimpered, drawing his knees up to his chest. "It's him," he whispered, voice cracking with terror. "It's gotta be him. She said… she said he was dead!"
"Shut up!" Buzz Cut snapped, but a flicker of uncertainty crossed his stony face. He took a step back towards the truck, keeping his gun trained on the trees. "Nothing's there! Just shadows!"
Time to make the shadows move.
I picked up a fist-sized rock from the forest floor. With a flick of my wrist, imbued with supernatural strength, I sent it hurtling not towards the men, but towards the F-150's windshield on the far side of the clearing.
The impact was deafening in the stillness. Safety glass exploded inwards with a spectacular crash.
"FUCK!" Buzz Cut yelled, spinning towards the sound, pistol barking twice into the darkness near the truck. Muzzle flashes lit the clearing for an instant.
Tobacco/Beer screamed, scrambling backwards, tripping over his log and landing hard.
In the split second Buzz Cut was distracted, firing at the decoy, I moved. A blur of motion, silent as death, I crossed the twenty yards separating me from the clearing. Not towards Buzz Cut, but towards the panicked, fallen man.
I materialized out of the darkness behind Tobacco/Beer, my hand clamping over his mouth before he could scream again, my other arm snaking around his chest, pinning his arms. I hauled him backwards into the deeper shadows at the edge of the clearing with irresistible strength. His eyes bulged with terror, muffled screams vibrating against my palm. He stank of pure, unadulterated fear and cheap whiskey.
Buzz Cut whirled around, gun sweeping the now-empty spot where his partner had been. "Lenny?! LENNY! Where the hell–?"
His voice died as he saw the empty space, the scuff marks on the ground. His eyes darted wildly. He fired two more shots randomly into the trees opposite me. "Show yourself, freak!" he shouted, his voice tight with a fear he was trying desperately to mask.
I ignored him. My focus was on Lenny. I dragged him deeper into the woods, behind a massive, moss-covered boulder. I removed my hand from his mouth, replacing it with claws resting lightly against his jugular. My eyes blazed crimson, illuminating his terrified face inches from mine.
"Scream, and you die before the sound leaves your throat," I growled, my voice a low vibration that resonated in his bones. "Nod if you understand."
He nodded frantically, tears streaking through the dirt on his cheeks. A dark stain spread on the front of his jeans.
"Good boy," I murmured, the words cold. "Now, you're going to answer my questions. Quickly. Honestly. And if I smell a single lie…" I pressed the claw tip just enough to draw a bead of blood. He whimpered. "Kate Argent. Where is she?"
"D-don't know!" he gasped. "S-swear! She met us, gave us the guns, the location… p-paid us cash upfront. Told us to wait at the gas station, described your truck… said shoot to kill, then dump the body deep. She left! In a black SUV. Didn't say where she was going!"
"Her plans. Why Beacon Hills? Why now? Why Malia Hale?"
"M-Malia?" He looked genuinely confused. "The girl? I dunno! Kate didn't mention no girl! Just you! Said you were the Alpha, the biggest threat. Said taking you out would send a message, make the rest easy pickings!"
Easy pickings. My pack. Rage simmered. "The other man. Who is he?"
"M-Mark Vance. Ex-Army. H-hired gun. Kate found him. Said he was reliable." Lenny was babbling now. "P-please… we just did what she paid us! We didn't know… didn't know you were…"
"A monster?" I finished for him, my voice icy. "You shot me in the back. You dumped me in a hole. You took my money." I leaned closer, my breath hot on his face. "Did you think there wouldn't be consequences, Lenny?"
He sobbed. "Please… I have a family…"
"So did the people you helped Kate hunt before me," I snarled, the memory of Derek's family, of Laura, flashing in my mind. "Where is Kate meeting Vance after this? Did she say?"
"N-no! She said she'd contact him! Burner phone! That's all I know! Please!"
I believed him. He was a small-time thug, terrified out of his mind, reeking of truth and piss. He'd outlived his usefulness. But killing him now would alert Vance. I needed the sniper.
A low growl rumbled in my chest, a sound that made Lenny freeze, his eyes wide with primal terror. "Sleep," I commanded, layering this was one of my more obscure powers, compulsion. Sure came in handy, I pushed my compulsion into his mind like a spike. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped bonelessly to the forest floor. He wouldn't wake for hours.
I stood, wiping Lenny's blood and tears from my claw. Vance was still in the clearing, shouting Lenny's name, firing the occasional shot into the trees. Panic was setting in. Good.
Time to change the game.
I picked up another rock. This time, I threw it high into the trees behind Vance. It crashed through branches, sounding like something large moving.
Vance spun, firing two more shots towards the sound, his back now partially to me and the boulder where Lenny lay unconscious.
I didn't use the gunshots as cover. I used the echo. In the fractional silence after the second shot, I moved. Not a blur this time, but deliberately, making just enough noise – a rustle of leaves, the crunch of a small twig underfoot.
Vance whirled, gun snapping towards the sound near the boulder. He saw movement in the shadows. He fired.
The bullet sparked off the granite surface inches from where I'd been. I was already moving laterally, silent again, circling him like a wolf circling prey. I let him see glimpses – a shadow detaching itself from deeper shadow, the faintest glint of gold eyes in the dark, gone before he could aim.
"Come out, you bastard!" Vance yelled, his voice tight. He fired again, wildly this time. "I know what you are! Bullets work! I put one in your skull!"
You tried, I thought, cold fury a mantle around me. I darted forward, low and fast, staying outside the direct firelight. My foot snapped a larger branch.
Vance spun, firing. Missed.
I was behind him now. I reached out and snatched the empty whiskey bottle Lenny had dropped. With a flick, I sent it sailing over Vance's head to shatter against a tree trunk on the far side of the clearing.
He flinched, firing at the sound, expending the last round in his magazine.
Click. Click.
The sound of the empty chamber was deafening in the sudden quiet.
Vance froze, the reality hitting him. He fumbled for a spare magazine in his pocket.
He was too slow.
I stepped fully into the edge of the firelight. Not rushing. Walking. Deliberate. Unhurried. Covered in dirt and blood, eyes burning like blood, claws extended, fangs bared in a silent snarl.
Vance dropped the fresh magazine. It landed in the dirt. He stared at me, his face a mask of disbelief and dawning, abject terror. The detached professionalism was gone, replaced by the raw fear of a man facing something beyond his understanding. Something he knew he couldn't kill.
"You…" he breathed, taking a step back, hitting the side of the F-150. "You're dead…"
I took another step forward, the firelight casting monstrous, shifting shadows around me. "You buried me, Mark Vance," I said, my voice a gravelly growl that didn't sound entirely human. "But the ground rejected me." I raised a clawed hand, the tip still glistening with Lenny's blood. "Now, we talk about Kate Argent. And you're going to tell me everything."
Before Vance could react, the roar of a powerful engine cut through the night, rapidly approaching down the access road. Headlights speared through the trees, illuminating the clearing in stark white light. A sleek, black Camaro skidded to a halt just beyond the F-150, engine idling with a predatory growl.
The driver's door opened. Derek Hale stepped out, his eyes already burning electric blue in the darkness. He took in the scene – the wrecked F-150 windshield, the dying fire, Vance pinned against his truck, frozen in terror, and me, standing like vengeance incarnate in the flickering light.
A slow, dangerous smirk touched Derek's lips. He slammed the car door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. "Took your time digging yourself out, little brother," he rumbled, his gaze locking onto Vance. "Looks like you started the party without me. Need a hand interrogating the trash?"
The hunt for Kate's helpers was over. The hunt for Kate Argent had just begun. And the Hale brothers were back in business.