Chapter 22: The Alpha's Haunted Past
The prank had been a smashing success. The town, for a brief, glorious moment, had forgotten its collective trauma. But for us, the pack, the emotional hangover was just beginning. We were all at Scott's house, a sprawling, ridiculous house with a view of the entire town. We were sitting around a table, a blur of muscle and rage, and we were trying to figure out what to do. Scott, a worried look on his face, was a quiet, brooding presence. Stiles, a frantic bundle of nervous energy, was a blur of motion and chaos. Lydia, a quiet, contemplative presence, was a blur of intellectual deduction. And Malia, a silent, feral presence, was a blur of primal intuition.
"Okay, so the town is back to... whatever you call this," Stiles said, his voice a frantic whisper. "Normal? Normal-ish? A little more unicorn-y, a little less dead-y. So, what's next? Do we just wait for the next monster to show up? Because, honestly, I'm a little tired of that game. It's a game with no winners, and a lot of dead people."
"We need to figure out what's going on with Derek," Scott said, his voice a low, worried grumble. "He's been... different since the Kanima thing. He's more quiet. More broody. More... Derek. But, like, a level 10 Derek. And that's saying something."
I just smiled, a low, conspiratorial chuckle escaping my lips. "I have a plan. It's a little crazy, it's a little dangerous, and it's a little stupid. But it's my plan, and it's a good one."
Derek, a blur of muscle and rage, was a silent, brooding presence. He wasn't glaring at us, wasn't threatening us. He was just watching. He had been following the Kanima, and he had seen the whole thing. He had seen my agility, my speed, my ability to outsmart a powerful Alpha.
"I need to talk to you," I said, a quiet, serious presence in a world of chaos. "About the Hale fire. About what happened that night. About the new monster. About the truth."
Derek, a blur of muscle and rage, just stared at me. "What about it?" he said, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "It's in the past. It's over. It's gone."
"Is it?" I said, a small, knowing smile on my face. "Because I don't think so. I think it's still here. I think it's still haunting you. I think it's still a part of you. And I think it's about to be a part of us."
Derek, a blur of muscle and rage, just stared at me. "What are you talking about?" he said, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "What do you know?"
"I know a lot of things," I said, a quiet, serious presence in a world of chaos. "I know that a fire is not just a fire. It's a metaphor. It's a symbol. It's a promise. And it's a very, very big problem."
I had a plan, a convoluted, glorious plan. It was a "supernatural scavenger hunt," as I so cleverly called it. I had a series of clues I had planted all over town, clues that were designed to be noticed by a very specific type of person: a werewolf. They were subtle, almost imperceptible to a normal person, but to someone who knew what they were looking for, they were a blaring siren in the night.
The first clue was a small, crudely drawn wolf on the side of a building, a subtle nod to the Alpha. The second was a single, silver bullet casing left in the middle of the school parking lot, a clear sign of a hunter. The third was a cryptic poem, a limerick I had written about a werewolf, a hunt, and a betrayal. I had taped it to a tree, a silent, knowing gesture to a very specific type of person.
I was watching them from a distance, a ghost in the night, a silent observer in a world of chaos. I was watching Derek Hale, a blur of muscle and rage, and I was watching him. He was a silent, menacing presence who was always a few steps behind her.
I was walking through the school hallway when I saw it. Derek, a look of confusion on his face, was looking at the crudely drawn wolf on the side of a building. He didn't just glance at it; he studied it, a furrowed brow on his face, a flicker of something in his eyes. It was a flicker of recognition, a flicker of understanding.
Bingo. We have a winner. I wasn't wrong. They're hunters. This is going to make things a lot more complicated. And a lot more interesting. It's like a TV show, but with more drama, more stakes, and a lot more homework.
I walked past them, a casual, unassuming presence in the hallway. I didn't say anything, I didn't look at them. I just walked past, a small, knowing smile on my face.
Later that night, I saw them again. They were standing in the middle of the school parking lot, a silent, serious presence in the dark. They were looking at the single, silver bullet casing on the ground, their faces a mask of intense concentration. They were talking in hushed tones, a quiet, conspiratorial conversation that I could only guess at.
They're hunters. I wasn't wrong. The subtle clues, the hidden messages, the cryptic poems—they're all for them. They're not just a normal family; they're a family of killers. And now, I have to figure out how to stop them. Without revealing my secrets. Without getting myself killed. It's a classic Adam Smith problem. And a classic Adam Smith solution.
The final clue was a cryptic poem I had written about a werewolf, a hunt, and a betrayal. I had taped it to a tree, a silent, knowing gesture to a very specific type of person.
I saw Derek and his family, a silent, serious presence in the dark, looking at the poem. They were talking in hushed tones, a quiet, conspiratorial conversation that I could only guess at.
The prank of misdirection was a success. I had confirmed my suspicions, and I had done it with a series of cryptic clues and a very, very good lie. Now, I had to figure out how to stop them. Without revealing my secrets. Without getting myself killed. It's a classic Adam Smith problem. And a classic Adam Smith solution.
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