The Wolcott family lived in the historic part of Beacon Hills where the houses had all been made before the 1930s, all of them passed down from generation to generation, and permission was needed in order to do renovations of any kind. And even if you gained approval from the city board, the owners still had to stay within code and not change the actual layout of said home or alter the building too drastically.
This home in particular was a two-story brick one with an unfinished basement. Four steps lead up to the front door, the iron railing on either side covered with bushy garland intertwined with white lights. A sizable wreath decorated with pine cones and a red bow stood out against a burgundy door and a full Christmas tree decorated with tasteful white lights and gold balls was visible through the front bay window.
Deputy Derek Hale might've been scowling at it. There was no proof really.
Except the odd look his partner Jordan Parrish was giving him, but that was easy to ignore. The red bows on either side of the mailbox by the driveway, however, were not. Not because they were big or gaudy, oh no. Derek was sure there were neighborhood codes and standards all the homes on that street had to adhere to when it came to decorating for the holidays. No, they were hard to ignore solely because of what they meant.
Christmas was four only days away.
Shit.
It wasn't that Derek was anti-Christmas or anti-any holiday for that matter, he just wasn't too thrilled about the reminder that came along with it. Mainly the one event that had taken place three years ago that he did his best to pretend never happened the other three-hundred-sixty-four days in the year. Coming up on the anniversary of it made it a little harder to ignore. And the fact that it coincided with the biggest holiday of the year meant that his usual habit of acting like it hadn't taken place was practically impossible.
So yeah, Christmas was fine by itself. Christmas Eve and what had happened on it a couple years prior sucked ass though.
Stamping feet brought him back to the present and he turned his head to his right to witness his partner blowing air into his cupped hands. Cocking an eyebrow, he folded his arms over his chest, the nylon fabric of his department issue windbreaker rustling with the action.
Parrish noticed the questioning look he was being given and dropped his hands, choosing to rub them together roughly and create friction to warm them. "What?" he asked innocently, shrugging a lean shoulder under his own jacket, his thicker and zipped all the way to the top while Derek's hung loose and open. "Not all of us are Supernatural creatures with high internal body temps and an ability to stay warm no matter the weather."
Derek bobbed his eyebrows in concession, knowing his partner had a point. Being born a Werewolf and raised around them, he sometimes forgot that not everyone was able to regulate their temperature as easily as him. It had led to a lot of grumbling reminders from a certain human that had been in his life when he showed up to a loft without heat turned on or when said human had burrowed further under the covers, ice-cold toes pressed against warm calves in what he called revenge for being so damn warm all the time and how it was Derek's job to make sure the human was warm and happy and sated.
"It's what a good boyfriend would do, Der. What a good Mate would do."
He swallowed hard against the memories, shoving the familiar voice out of his mind, rubbing his eyes as though that could get rid of the mental image of cupid's bow lips turned into a wicked grin because he knew exactly what he'd been doing by using the "M-word" with his Werewolf partner.
Turning his head back to the front door, Derek watched as it swung open and two EMTs carted out a stretcher holding an occupied body bag. That was the whole reason why they were there in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. The other two were probably still being put in their own body bags.
Sean Wolcott, age seventeen, had shown up at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital with bloodied hands and feet, panting wildly. He'd managed to gasp out that his family had been killed before passing out due to exhaustion, having run the fifteen miles to the emergency room in order to get away from the murderer who was still in his home. The Sheriff's Department had been called to investigate, leading to Derek and Parrish being ordered to check out the Wolcott home and discovering the dead bodies of Micheal, Christina, and David Wolcott. Mom, Dad, eldest son, all with multiple stab wounds, all having bled out in their respective bedrooms.
Parrish had called it in while Derek tried to catch a scent of the killer, finding nothing but a dead end through a copse of trees out back and down another street, where the perp had obviously gotten into a car and sped off. When he'd arrived back at the Wolcott's, CSU was there, as well as the medical examiner and the sheriff himself. The entire property was roped off with crime scene tape and a sizable crowd had gathered on the street despite the late/early hour.
Derek stifled another yawn at the realization that it was now past three am, reminding himself that he'd pulled all-nighters in college and at the academy, not to mention on full moons, so really, staying up late was no big deal. He was a Werewolf. He could handle running on little to no sleep.
He refused to think about other times when he'd been up late and who he'd been up late with and why. Last time they'd done that, the guy had bolted, stuttering and stammering and reeking of anxiety. He'd disappeared the next day with just a letter saying he was sorry and not to look for him.
Shaking his head rapidly to rid himself of the thought, he watched as the third stretcher was carefully lowered down the steps, the sheriff following with the ME, nodding at whatever the examiner was saying. Derek focused his hearing and listened in, catching the tail end of their conversation.
"—full report on your desk by the end of the day tomorrow. Or rather today, I suppose," the ME stated, ending it with a sigh. The guy had obviously been dragged outta bed, hair still mussed from sleep, the shirt beneath his own nylon windbreaker clearly part of a pajama set, no socks on underneath his sneakers. But when the sheriff calls you about a multiple homicide, you drop everything and go, no matter what you were up to beforehand. Socks were easily forgotten and unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
At least he'd remembered his glasses though.
The sheriff nodded, shaking the guy's hand, grim expression on his face. Not that anyone could blame him. Aside from the occasional minor offense—speeding, shoplifting, teenagers fooling around at the Look-Out, a break-in here and there—Beacon Hills was a quiet town, low on crime. Sure every now and then they'd have a rogue Werewolf in the area, but that happened pretty much everywhere and their town hadn't seen one since Scott McCall and Jackson Whittemore had both been Bitten six years ago. A B&E with a triple homicide attached—and a possible attempted homicide, depending on what Sean Wolcott would say when he woke up—was miles beyond what they usually dealt with and it was obviously taking a toll on the man in charge of protecting the citizens of their fine county.
Not to mention all the personal shit the sheriff had been through, Derek realized. The holiday had to be just as hard, if not worse, for his boss than it was for Derek.
Sheriff John Stilinski stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the ground as the ME walked off, heaving a great sigh of his own. His blue eyes flipped up to the house and if Derek didn't know any better, he'd swear the older man was staring at that damnable Christmas tree in the front window. The Werewolf listened as his boss' heart skipped a beat then thudded a little slower, watched as he checked his cell phone then slumped his shoulders in disappointment before sliding it back into his pocket. No new messages, Derek supposed.
Shoring himself up, Stilinski turned and headed over to where his two deputies were waiting on the driveway, Parrish with his arms wrapped tightly around his torso to stave off the cold, Derek with his own limbs crossed in a more authoritative stance. It wasn't that he thought he should be more dominant over Stilinski. No, his human mind recognized the other man as his elder, as his superior, as his work Alpha for all intents and purposes, not to mention the guy had multiple personal connections to the Werewolf, including being an old family friend. But the Werewolf part of him still felt a little superior to the human male, knew it was higher on the food chain, and despite laws saying humans and Supernatural creatures were equals, his wolf still felt a little cocky and above the sheriff at times.
He rolled his shoulders and assumed a more business-like stance, telling his wolf to get a grip and reminding it of its place, of the sheriff's place and the role he had in their lives. Shutting off that part of himself was a little difficult, but he did so, focusing on his boss and their newest case, eyes narrowed as he watched the other man stop in front of his two deputies.
"ME says the wounds were created by a weapon, no claws or fangs," the sheriff stated, his voice gruff with lack of sleep and hard with authority. He was in full Sheriff Mode, evident from his tone and his stance, the way he held his body high and tight, the way his jaw ticked and clenched. His blue eyes held a sympathetic sadness that Derek had seen countless times when the law enforcement official was dealing with a crime of any description, the look one that made him more personable and constantly re-elected to his position. The Werewolf knew this case in particular was gonna weigh heavily on his boss, would most likely add another wrinkle to his face and more gray to his hair. He'd seen a lot more of those show up over the past three years, another thing Derek couldn't blame him for.
He shoved that thought aside just like all the rest, hating himself for thinking so much about that. It was the upcoming holiday, he figured, the reminder that it was almost three years to the very day.
"So we're looking for a human perp?" Parrish double-checked, catching Derek's attention and bringing him back into the present and the conversation.
The sheriff bobbed his head to the side in a "maybe" fashion, bottom lip pulled tight and revealing his teeth. "Most likely," he agreed, not sounding entirely convinced. "But there's always the possibility that it is a Supe, maybe a trickster leading us to believe it was human." His eyes flicked over to Derek at the slang-term for his kind, a reflex to make sure the Werewolf wasn't offended by the word. Which he wasn't, and the sheriff knew that. Besides, Derek had heard and had been called worse. Hell, he even used the term "Supe". Was just easier really.
Derek shook his head, more in response to the sheriff's theory than anything. "The scent was human," he pointed out, scrubbing a hand over his whisker-covered jaw, thinking back to the scent trail he'd followed. "And there was more than one."
Stilinski let out a sigh that seemed to take everything out of him, his head hanging as he nodded. The Werewolf could smell the anxiety ratchet up in his boss, could practically taste the aggravation and the fatigue rolling off the human. "Great," he muttered sarcastically, rubbing the back of his neck in a move that was achingly familiar. "Just wonderful." He lifted his head at that, folding his arms over his chest as his face closed off and tensed up. "So, not only do we have three more bodies to add to our growing list of recent homicides, but we're looking for more than one do-er."
Parrish flicked his eyes over to his partner, the move too quick for their human boss to pick up on, and Derek felt himself shrinking slightly at the weight of the sheriff's narrowed gaze. He looked and smelled completely annoyed and just done with the whole thing, yet knew he had no choice but to do his job, to find the perp—well, perps now—and get justice for their growing list of victims. Which after that night, was now up to five.
Assuming they were all connected, of course. So far, there was no evidence linking any of the cases, aside from the fact that all five victims were stabbed to death.
But identical causes of death aside, there was no real correlation between them all. The first victim was a beer delivery guy in his early-thirties known for selling kegs to teenagers for a small fee. The second was a seventeen year old girl who attended a private school on scholarship. Now the Wolcotts, a well-off family who came from old money and lived on opposite sides of town as the other two vics. Nothing in common between any of them, nothing linking them, aside from a feeling in Derek's gut that it was all somehow related.
Yet despite this gut-feeling, he knew he couldn't say anything. There was nothing to back it up and therefore nothing to investigate and the sheriff would state that he wasn't about to waste the department's time on a wild goose chase simply because Derek had a feeling. It wasn't how things were done.
So instead he pressed his lips into a hard line and flicking his eyes down, nodding and feeling like crap for adding to the sheriff's already full load. Not that any of it was his fault. He didn't kill anyone, he didn't hire anyone to kill the Wolcotts or DeMarco Montana or Carrie Hudson. He also wouldn't kill those of his kind—not without a good reason anyway—which were what DeMarco and Carrie were: other Werewolves.
The Wolcotts didn't smell like Weres though, ruling out that link.
He lifted his head to see the sheriff nodding distractedly, rubbing the back of his neck once again. His blue eyes were distant, lower lip pulled tight and displaying his bottom teeth once again, seemingly thinking something over. Derek turned away to watch as the ambulances pulled off, corpses of the Wolcott family loaded in the back and being taken to the ME's office for further investigation and analysis. Some of the crowd dispersed, having decided here was nothing else interesting that they were gonna see that night and that they might as well get some sleep. Derek felt a slight twinge of jealousy at their ability to do so, wishing he could head to bed and snooze himself. Preferably for several days. Maybe even years. Pulling a Rip Van Winkle sounded damn good at that point.
Footsteps on his left caught his attention and he focused on another deputy, Vernon Boyd, making his way over. His features were as stoic as ever, although there was a slight frown pulling at his eyebrows, tensing up the corner of his eyes. He paused between Derek and the sheriff, towering over them both, his windbreaker nowhere to be found.
"Sheriff," he began respectfully, waiting until the mentioned male looked up at him before continuing. "There's a young lady here demanding to speak to you. Says it's urgent and that she can help."
The sheriff frowned in confusion, turning to the crowd, Derek and Parrish doing the same. The Werewolf scanned the thinning assemblage, noting the recent arrival of a news van, camera crew already set up, reporter readying her microphone and fiddling with her in-ear. But the blonde wasn't whom Boyd had been referring to and the elder Werewolf knew it the second he inhaled and caught the scent of jasmine, sage, and Chanel perfume.
Lydia Martin.
He smeared a hand roughly over his face, hearing Stilinski order Boyd to bring her over, ignoring the way Parrish's scent seemed to light up with joy and his heart began pounding at the sight of his crush. Derek barely resisted the urge to mutter out a few choice swears, choosing instead to roll his eyes at his partner's reaction. It wasn't that he didn't like Lydia or thought there was anything wrong with Parrish having a thing for her. He just wasn't too keen on the reminders that Lydia unintentionally brought along with her.
Not that he could really blame her for that. It wasn't really her fault that her best guy friend had up and abandoned Derek without a word to either one of them aside from a pathetic goodbye.
At least Derek had gotten a note. As far as he knew, Lydia hadn't gotten anything. Made her a good person to rant with though. Although really it was more of her ranting, having more balls than he ever could to show up at a barely known acquaintance's house to yell about his pathetic and idiotic excuse of an ex-boyfriend. Still, it made the Werewolf glad to know he wasn't the only one cursing the guy out in his mind, only to turn around and start crying about how much the jackass was missed. Granted he never cried in front of anyone else about it and he still had no clue how to react when Lydia would cling desperately to him, bawling in a way that would've been ugly on anyone else yet she still managed to pull it off.
His ex had complimented her on that fact several times, seemingly awed by every single thing Lydia Martin did. Derek pretended he wasn't jealous of that and denied any insinuations otherwise.
So while he had nothing against Lydia as a person and was fully capable of exchanging cordial pleasantries whenever she stopped by the sheriff's department because she "happened to be in the neighborhood and wow, Parrish, I had no idea you were on shift right now, what a coincidence", he wasn't too thrilled with her appearance at that moment, solely due to the fact that he was having enough issues focusing and trying not to think of his ex without having his best female friend and former crush showing up.
Lydia practically jogged over to the khaki-clad group on the driveway, nude pumps clicking on the tarred ground, hand holding her trench closed over what appeared to be a nightgown judging by the peeks Derek got through the openings of the pink wool. Her red—"strawberry blonde," a familiar voice mentally corrected him—hair was tangled from her rush out of her house—a lot like the ME—and her green eyes were wide, a wild look in them as they focused on the sheriff to her left.
"Lydia," Stilinski gently greeted her, his own eyes softening a bit at the female. Derek tried to ignore the bitter taste the sight brought to his mouth, tried to ignore the more self-conscious thoughts he had and the self-deprecating belief that maybe at one point the sheriff had thought maybe Lydia would be his daughter-in-law, reminding himself that everyone reacted the same way to the beautiful female, that the sheriff reacted that way to a lot of his son's friends.
Besides, Derek was the one Stilinski still called "son" at times, even if his scent did take on a sad edge a second or two after when he noticed his slip.
Stilinski turned fully to the petite newcomer, relaxing his arms slightly, conscious of being polite and easier with the fairer sex, especially one who had a talent for predicting one's death. Derek still had nightmares about Lydia showing up at his loft and screaming for his death or staring at him with dead eyes as she delivered the news that his ex hadn't just left Beacon Hills, but the planet as a whole.
He shuddered against that reminder, earning a curious look from Parrish that he ignored. He was ignoring a lot of his partner's glances that night.
"I'm afraid you're a little late," the sheriff told Lydia softly, pointing to the house behind him with a thumb. "We already found the bodies."
Lydia shook her head vehemently, full lips pressed together in a hard line. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears and Derek recognized the look in them. She knew something about a death somewhere and was hating the cold feeling she got from it, the way her body and mind were out of her control as she felt the pull towards another horrific crime scene. Chances were if Sean hadn't made it to BH Memorial and told the attending nurses there about his family, she would've found it all on her own.
"No," she whispered, voice harsher and huskier than when Derek had first met her, years of screaming having taken its toll on her vocal cords. "There's something else here. I just know it." She gave the sheriff an imploring look, her volume never raising, begging him with a look to just believe her.
Stilinski let out a long, heavy sigh, shoulders slumping in fatigue and defeat. "All right," he caved without much cajoling, clearly too tired to argue that it was against protocol and she was a civilian and not authorized to investigate or go within the boundaries of a crime scene. He turned to his deputies, stiffening his posture once again, Sheriff Mode back to "on". "Parrish, you go with her, make sure nothing is disturbed and report back to me as soon as you two find something."
Parrish nodded, face all business but scent giving away his excitement at being alone—more or less—with the woman he was gaining feelings for. He gently placed a hand on Lydia's back and led her to the house, soon moving it so she could hold onto it as she stepped across the uneven lawn in her heels. Ever the gentleman.
"Hale," the sheriff continued, drawing the other deputy's attention. "I want you to go back in there, see if you can sniff anything else out, maybe find something CSU missed. They should be done canvasing by now."
Derek nodded and headed off after his partner, listening as Stilinski put Boyd back on crowd control and growled in his own way at Haigh informing him that the press wanted a statement. Hale didn't envy the sheriff in that aspect of the job. He hadn't ever been much of a public speaker himself, and over the past couple years, he'd become more and more anti-social, to the point where several of his co-workers had pointed out that his resting face looked like a serial killer's. The sheriff had politely stated that he wouldn't be using Derek for any press conferences or public statements, even if it was to just stand in the background, unless it was a super serious case and he needed some muscle and severity to point out just how much the sheriff's department wasn't fucking around with things.
The Werewolf had a feeling that would be happening soon enough when they made the connection between all these murders. It was just a matter of time.
Smearing a hand over his face, he entered the Wolcott house, nose assaulted with the scents of blood and death, latex and chemicals, powder for finger-printing and the sterile scent of the stretchers. The bodies were gone, but the place still had an eerie aura about it, making his hackles rise and his wolf pace about.
But beyond all that, were the unmistakable scents of the Wolcott home itself: of family and togetherness, their own unique smell that accompanied each of them and their house, the dinner they'd eaten together earlier that evening. He could smell wrapping paper and tape from recently purchased presents, the cinnamon and gingerbread scents of candles they'd burned, the pine from their tree and the ozone and electricity of the lights decorating it.
He focused on that the most, staring at the nine-foot Douglas fir, ignoring his distorted reflection in the golden balls. He didn't have any decorations in his loft, no tree, no wreaths, no bows. The only presents he'd purchased were a couple mall gift cards he'd mailed to his sisters and cousin Malia—despite still living in the same town as them—Home Depot one for his dad, one for Parrish for Bass Pro Shops, a restaurant one for Boyd and his fiancée Erica, and a bottle of Rem Oil the sheriff had mentioned he'd been running low on. He'd only wrapped the sheriff's gift and even then it was in a discarded page of newspaper he'd grabbed out the station's break room.
He hadn't bothered getting his mom anything. Hard to wanna get something for someone you were still pissed at three years later.
Shaking his head, he snapped himself out of his revery and focused on work. That stupid holiday and the reminders it brought had taken enough of his time that evening. He had a job to do and he'd be damned if he let anything deter him from it, including Christmas, its Eve, and the then-eighteen-year-old who'd bailed on him during their first time having sex.
Happy fucking holidays.
"A game locker?" the sheriff double-checked, sounding as dubious as ever.
After an hour of sniffing out the residence and finding nothing new, Derek had reconvened with his boss and his partner in the family room of the Wolcott house, discussing what they'd found—or hadn't found, in Derek's case. The three of them stood together and if anyone noticed that the Werewolf had moved so he was purposely standing with his back to the giant Christmas tree, then they didn't say so. They also didn't mention the glare he'd given the mistletoe hanging from the large archway between the den and the kitchen, but more than likely, they figured he was more put off by the fact that the plant could be used for more heinous purposes against Supes.
Parrish nodded, green eyes flicking over to check on Lydia as she stood in the corner with Boyd, clasping a paper cup of tea between her hands that Haigh had been sent to fetch. Derek hoped it was something calming and not just warming, noting the slight tremble in her petite frame and the despair and disgust tainting her usually flowery scent.
"Yeah," the other deputy spoke up, pausing to lick his lips. "Like the kind hunters use to string up deer or other large game in order to preserve it before they carve into it and turn it into food."
"But it wasn't deer," the sheriff repeated Parrish's earlier words as they went back over his and Lydia's discovery. "There were humans inside those bags?"
"Yes, sir." His voice and tone were flat, but his scent still carried the shock and repulsion he'd felt upon finding that particular scene. He'd obviously been affected more than he was letting on, yet his military and police training were both allowing him to keep a good poker face going and remain professional in regards to his job. Pretty damn respectable.
Derek shifted his gaze to the still open panel of wainscoting on the far wall, the dark hallway that was revealed, one he'd traveled down himself. According to Parrish, Lydia had walked over to it as though in a trance and just pushed on the wood paneling, revealing a secret door and a passageway that led to the previously mentioned game locker, which was essentially a giant fridge. CSU had been called back in and were documenting the scene, cataloging the butchers tools on the table to the side, photographing the hanging body bags. Another team was in the kitchen bagging up kitchen implements, meat tenderizers and grinders. The knives had been taken earlier for testing to see if any of them were the murder weapon, but Derek had a feeling they'd all show up clean.
Well, clean of Wolcott blood at least.
Stilinski nodded his head, eyes distant as he took the whole thing in, analyzing every detail, not needing to say what they were all thinking: their case had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. But on the plus, a possible motive had been discovered.
Silver lining, Derek figured.
Folding his arms, the sheriff narrowed his eyes in focus, bottom teeth on display once more. "So our perps are human, but our vics aren't?" he half-stated, half-questioned, turning more towards Derek for confirmation.
The Werewolf shrugged a shoulder, feeling like it was as good an answer as any. "Certainly seems that way," he agreed, noting in the back of his mind how his gut was appearing more right about the cases all being connected.
More nodding from his boss, brow furrowing in thought. "Okay," he drawled. "But what Supe keeps a game locker full of human bodies to serve up for dinner every night?"
Derek glanced back and forth between the two human males, taking in their similar grimaces and their matching scents of revulsion and fear. His own mind was drawing a blank at the moment, too full of other bullshit in order to properly sift through the endless list of Supes he knew of, rendering him unable to answer his boss.
"I could call my sister," he suggested, out of any other options. "I'm sure she'd know. And if not, she works in the SRB's Research and History Department and could easily find out."
Stilinski nodded even more, lips twisting to the side, considering it. The ME stepped into the room and the sheriff gestured for him to hold on for a moment before returning his attention to his two deputies. "Hale, you call your sister, figure out what exactly we're dealing with here," he ordered, hand pointing towards the mentioned male before shifting to the other. "Parrish, I want you to take Lydia home, make sure she's alright and that we aren't gonna find any more bodies tonight. I've already got a deputy sitting with Sean at the hospital in case he wakes up and says anything, but I want someone watching him 'round the clock in case the killers find him and decide to finish the job."
"I'll arrange a schedule, sir," Parrish volunteered, ever the sheriff's pet. Not that Derek was gonna stop him. Really just meant the Werewolf wouldn't have to do it, saving him a task.
The sheriff gave him an appreciative smile and a pat on the shoulder for it before ordering them to go about their duties then head home. With nods of acknowledgment from both deputies, the group split up and headed their separate ways, Parrish telling Derek to use the department SUV they'd been given before they exchanged goodbyes. With a final wave, the Werewolf headed down the front hall and out the door, glad to be getting some fresh air and to clear his nose.
The wintry air pricked at his skin as he stepped outside, his breath clouding in front of his face with every exhale as he made his way to the SUV parked at the edge of a lawn across the street. The crowd had thinned even more, the late hour and the low temperature driving more folks inside. But the media was still there, immediately jumping Derek for details the second he slipped under the crime scene tape barricade. He shook his head at all their questions, giving a gruff "no comment" while making his way past them and into his assigned vehicle.
The SUV was just as chilly as the game locker had been and Derek had to shove aside the comparison, refusing to let his mind rest on those images. He was gonna be haunted enough by the scene, by the bodies strung up by hooks through their ankles, the lifeless expressions on all those faces, the overwhelming scent of death and ice.
A shudder raced through him and he quickly switched the ignition on, blasting the heat despite the engine not being warm enough. He slipped his phone out the pocket of his slacks, dialing up his sister's number by heart, preparing himself for the ass-chewing he was about to receive.
It took about three rings—which was typical of Laura to make someone wait if she was pissed at them for calling—but she finally answered, growling a gruff "are you aware of what time it is, baby bro?" as a greeting.
Derek narrowed his eyes at the nickname, glaring through the windshield at an imagined version of his older sister. She only had about two years of age on him, yet constantly insisted on treating him like he was five. At least when it came to that annoying ass moniker. The only time she used it was when she was purposely trying to tick him off, which was clearly her goal here. Revenge for being woken up so early.
"It's nearly five am," he informed her, knowing damn well she didn't actually want an answer, just like he knew it would tick her off that he did it. "But I need your help."
A loud, aggravated groan sounded out down the line, followed by the shuffle of bedsheets and a male letting out a similar—if not more quieter and less animalistic—noise to Laura. Her Mate, Chris Argent. A part of Derek felt a small sense of satisfaction at having disturbed the human male, never really having one-hundred percent approved of their union. Nothing against the guy, Derek was sure he was a great man otherwise his sister wouldn't have Mated him. But it was hard to be okay with your Werewolf sister marrying a guy who was part of a family who were notoriously anti-Supe. And yeah, he turned his back on his family, but it took his wife's death caused by a rogue Werewolf and his daughter dating a Bitten Were to make him see the light on how fucked up his relations really were. If he was such a great guy, wouldn't he have noticed that sooner?
Whatever.
"And this couldn't have waited until the morning?" Laura grumbled down the line, reminding him that he was still on the phone with her.
"'Fraid not," he replied, having the decency to sound at least halfway remorseful. "It's for work."
A long-suffering sigh came from his sister, followed by the shuffle of more fabric and the creak of a mattress. She murmured to her Mate that she'd be right back before shuffling out the room, closing the door behind herself. "This better be important," she warned, slight hint of a growl in her words.
Derek glanced out the driver's side window at the house across the street, at the ambulances that had returned to pick up more dead bodies, at the news crews still parked outside hoping for a good shot, at the morbid curiosity drifting off neighbors and random denizens who'd decided to try and get a peek themselves. "Yeah, it is."
He heard the sounds of her creaky stairs, the squeak of another door, the squeal of a drawer being open then shut, the flop of her sinking into a chair. "Alright, what's up?"
The deputy turned away from the scene across the road, reaching over to cut down the heat, shuffling about himself as he attempted to get his windbreaker off one-handed. "What kind of Supe eats people?"
There was a pause before Laura scoffed down the line in disbelief. "Uh. All of them. Genius."
Tossing his windbreaker into the backseat, Derek suppressed an annoyed growl. He was far too tired and far too agitated for his sister's sarcasm and snark, but unfortunately for him, it seemed to be a Hale family trait. If he wanted her help, he was gonna have to just suck up and deal with it. But her being sarcastic and vaguely insulting was better than the alternative: calling his mom.
"I meant," he began then paused, gripping the top of the steering wheel, thumb rubbing along the seam in the leather. His mind flashed back to the game locker room, the strung up bodies, the butchers equipment, the meat scales and grinders and tenderizers. "These people had humans strung up like meat, with cleavers and hacksaws. They don't just eat humans out of blood-lust or some fucked up animal instinct. It's like they carved them up into steaks and chops, ate them for meals."
A few creative swears left his sister in a rush of breath and he could perfectly picture her smearing a hand over her face the same way he did. "And you're, what? Gonna arrest these people?"
Derek grimaced, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, knowing he was toeing a fine line. It was still an ongoing investigation, meaning he couldn't discuss it with civilians or give any details for fear they'd be leaked to the media and their entire case would be blown. But he needed the info she could possibly provide, needed to know who these victims were in case it was motive for their murders. Besides, she worked for the government, knew exactly how sensitive cases could be and knew when to keep her mouth shut about the more confidential aspects of them.
Still, he wasn't about to compromise anything or get in trouble with his boss. He was already crossing a line seeking her help.
With a sigh, he sank down into his seat, knee knocking the bottom of the steering wheel. "Can't say," he settled on, scratching his jaw. "Just know that it's part of an ongoing investigation."
Laura made a non-committal noise, but the sounds of a pencil on paper meant she was jotting it down so she could research it for him. He felt his entire body relax, muscles loosening up as they released the tension he wasn't aware they'd been holding. He'd been so afraid she'd say no, tell him to go fuck himself, remind him that he had access to the family library just as much as she did and that Google was a thing that existed, so his lazy ass could look it up himself. Yet she hadn't.
He sometimes forgot just how much he loved and appreciated his sister.
"It sounds familiar, but I'll look it up later just to make sure," she stated as the scribbling slowed to a stop. "That being said, you could always call Mom. I'm sure she'd know it off the top of her head."
That had Derek's body tightening up once again, eyes flashing gold inside the dark SUV, grip on the steering wheel tightening so much he heard the leather creak and the metal groan. A low rumble could be heard over the engine and it took him a moment to realize he was growling, anger washing out his awareness of everything else.
"Or not," Laura sighed and he could practically feel the eye roll that always accompanied his reactions to her suggestion that he actually speak to their mother. "Seriously, Der, don't you think it's time you got over this grudge?"
He snorted, entire body rocking with the noise, cutting his growls off. "How 'bout you wait 'til Mom helps Argent disappear off the face of this planet and then see if you still want me to talk to her?"
His sister didn't say a word, probably couldn't really, most likely knew he'd made a damn good point. All Derek could hear were the scratches of her pencil as she idly drew something on her paper, the smack of her lips as she licked them, the gulp she made as she swallowed.
"It's been three years, Der," she pointed out softly, voice barely a whisper, yet Derek still felt the blow of her words, eyes closing against the impact. She no longer argued that it was an unfair comparison, no longer tried to belittle his feelings for his ex or the nature of their relationship. He wasn't sure if it was because she realized that that wasn't gonna help her get her way or if she'd accepted that maybe Derek was actually right when he said he believed his ex was his Mate. Probably the first, knowing her. But whatever the reason, she'd now shifted tactics to pointing out the time that had passed—not that she really needed to—and her belief that Derek needed to just get over it and move on.
No matter what, it still hurt like a splintered spear of mountain ash being stabbed through his chest every time she said it.
"I'm aware," he grit out through clenched teeth, cutting the heat back up to get rid of the chill that seemed to have seeped into every inch of his being, straight through to his core. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and covered them with his hand, keeping his phone to his ear. "Just like I'm aware that it's been a long fucking night and I'm tired and I really don't wanna talk about this or talk to Mom or any of that shit." His voice was rough and he was speaking around a lump in his throat, but he didn't care. He wanted her to hear it, wanted her to know that he was just done with everyone's bullshit and really, truly was not talking about this.
"Fine," she sighed again, the sound of a pencil being laid against the pad barely audible down the line. "I'm gonna get some sleep. I suggest you do the same, Grumpy Wolf." She hung up before he could respond, meaning he was more than likely gonna hear about his shit attitude the next time they spoke.
Derek locked his phone and dropped it into the cup holder on the console, all without opening his eyes or dropping his other hand from his face. It was his shield, his guard, his useless armor against memories that came rushing in anyway, a cheery yet aggravated voice haunting him from years gone by.
"No, I will not stop taking selfies of us, so just deal and smile, Sour Wolf."
Fuck, he hated Christmas.