Chapter One.

Warm blood feels good -

I can't control it anymore

-Carly Rae Jepsen, Warm Blood

She woke to a car horn blaring, her heart racing like it was trying to break free from her chest. One glance at the clock on the nightstand told her it was a quarter after two in the morning, making that a full two hours of uninterrupted sleep. A new record.

Malia pushed herself up in the bed, slowly, even though she knew that even the slightest of movement would not wake the sleeping boy next to her. Arm tucked under the pillow, chest rising and falling with even breaths, mouth hanging open slightly, she would not hear a word from him till morning. She tilted her head, running her fingers through the mess of bedridden curls that framed her face, sighing. He did not know how lucky he was. And she would never tell him, not even when he asked her, like he did every morning, "How'd you sleep?"

She turned away from him and grabbed the leather-bound journal from the table next to the bed in one motion, padding across the room and slipping out into the hall without a sound. Malia found herself in the bathroom across from the bedroom, flipping on the light and setting the journal down on the countertop, allowing her eyes to adjust and find herself in the mirror. Staring back at her was the pale, red-eyed face of a sleep-deprived eighteen year old, but that was far from surprising. Six months. It had been six months since her first nightmare, and they had not let up, not for a moment. She saw it every time she closed her eyes, like a bad movie set to replay – the frantic swerve of the wheel, the glaring headlights, the shadow of a woman, the bang, bang of a gun. She saw them die, over and over again, but still was no closer to figuring out who or why or what it all meant.

That's why she kept the journal. Her therapist had insisted that it would help, and then when she'd stopped going, Stiles had insisted, too. She'd listened to Stiles, told herself that maybe he was right, maybe it would help to write down each dream – or nightmare – she had in as much detail as she could and then go over them in the morning. Put the pieces together. But her dreams weren't a picture-perfect puzzle. Every time they went over them it was like someone had taken a hammer to them, broken them into thousands of pieces, and shuffled them around again.

Malia turned her back to the mirror, coming to sit on the floor, opening the journal to the last page she had written. The words 'WHO IS THE DESERT WOLF' were scrawled dead center, taunting her, wishing she had the answers, wishing someone would just give them to her already. But she blew her hair out of her face with a frustrated exhale, and her frustration went with it as she picked up the pen and started writing.

"You weren't in bed this morning," Stiles said, filling a mug with coffee and pushing it across the counter towards her. "How'd you sleep?"

Malia cringed slightly at the question, though she wasn't surprised he'd asked it. It was more of a reflex now. "Fine," she lied. "I got up early to write my journal" – she pointedly brandished the book, accepting the mug with her other hand – "must've lost track of time."

Stiles didn't acknowledge the lie, but she knew that after all this time, he had to know. He wasn't able to hear her heartbeat the way she was, but he had his ways. He frowned slightly. "Same dream?"

"Same dream," she echoed, before shoving the journal into her backpack and taking a swig of her coffee, signaling the end of the conversation. "We'd better get going. Don't you have a Calculus test today?"

During her free period, Malia spent her time in the library trying to catch up on some homework she had missed the previous week. It hadn't been for any other reason than the fact that she had neglected to do it, but since she had only just made it to senior status, she did not need to be back on the school's radar again. However, her hope for peace and quiet was short-lived – it seemed that the pack had a lot to talk about as of late.

"…been two weeks since the last chimera," Scott was saying from across the table. "Don't you think that's a little weird?"

"Maybe the Dread Doctors gave up?" Kira offered.

"Yeah," Theo quipped, leaning his forearms onto the table, his elbow too close to Malia's hand. She stared at it for a long moment, willing it to disappear, but Theo didn't seem to notice. "They probably got tired of all of their experiments failing and decided to move on."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Likely story," he countered, clearly not believing a word the guy said. "Scott's right. The fact that there haven't been any chimeras is weird. Like, really weird." He pulled a crumpled up piece of newspaper out of his pocket then, smoothing it out on the table. "But what's weirder is that there have been a string of disappearances since then. Three teenagers."

Scott picked up the newspaper clipping, brows furrowing. "Do you think it's the Dread Doctors… making new chimeras?"

"I don't know," Stiles replied, rubbing the back of his neck as he paced next to the group, the way he did whenever he was really thinking. Malia could practically see the cogs turning in his head.

"Do you guys smell that?" Theo asked suddenly, his head turned slightly in Malia's direction. "It smells like…"

"Blood." Scott finished, his frown deepening.

Malia's eyes raised then, meeting Theo's, and that was enough. "Okay, seriously, I need to finish this paper," she announced, tone thick with annoyance, as she packed her books up and grabbed her bag, turning to leave in search of a new table. "I'll see you guys later."

Knowing that when she was in a groove with her schoolwork, it was better not to disturb her, Stiles did not wait for her at the end of the day. She could imagine him floundering on the idea, waiting in his Jeep for a few extra minutes, phone in hand, itching to text her, "Are you sure you don't want me to stick around? I can wait." But when the bell rang two-thirty and she still had not heard from him, or heard him approaching her in her secluded corner of the library, Malia knew he had forced himself to leave her to her work and gone home.

Or perhaps on a wild goose chase with Scott for the person behind the disappearances.

Three teenagers. Malia wondered if she had known them.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard of her computer, a present from her father for doing so well in the past year, click-clacking as she typed up her essay on Brave New World. It was a wonder that she had learned to type so quickly, but after watching Stiles do it for so long, it had grown on her. Besides, it was a lot easier than writing (her teachers still had trouble deciphering her handwriting, which was not unlike that of a fifth grader).

She was halfway through her second paragraph when she heard movement. Malia froze, the way she always did when she was focusing, tracking the footsteps of the intruder. At this time, the only people that would still be around would be the athletes, and they would not have come all the way up to the library unless they were trying to sneak a make-out session. But even then the library was a stretch. She heard the shuffle again, and then saw a flicker, ever so slightly, accompanied by the garbled noise, like a radio that had lost signal. Her brows furrowed and she started to stand, a low growl rising in her throat, ready to strike. She had encountered the Dread Doctors before, knew what they were like, knew what they wanted.

But they hadn't been around for two weeks, she remembered at the very second a man came into view, rolling a cart with an old radio on it. The custodian.

"Hey, you shouldn't be here," he told her, looking only mildly surprised to find her hiding out up there.

Malia instantly relaxed, blinking and nodding quickly. "Right. Sorry, I'll just finish up at home," she said, gathering up her books and shoving her laptop into her bag before hurrying towards the stairs. As she was about to leave, she heard that garbled, staticky noise again, accompanied by the creak of metal, heavy breathing.

But when she looked back, she found herself alone.

She pushed the door to the library open, barely paying attention to where she was going until she ran headlong into another body. "Watch it –" the person started to warn angrily, before stopping, clearly realizing who it was. "Malia? I thought you went home with the others,"

Malia looked up, eyes landing on a sweaty, smug-looking Theo Raeken. He had a towel hanging over his shoulder, and was busy removing his weight lifting gloves as she knelt down to pick up the books she had dropped in the collision. "What do you want, Theo?" was her impatient reply. He went to hand her the journal that was lying next to his foot and she started ever so slightly. But even the slightest movements were clear as day to a werewolf.

"Is something wrong?" He asked. She could feel his eyes on her, cold, calculating, as she took the journal and piled it on with the rest of her things. "Is that blood?" He gestured toward the pile in her arms, the journal she had just added to it.

"What is it with you and…" She looked down, trailing off as she saw what he was talking about. On the edge of the pages of her journal was, in fact, the deep red coloring of blood. And suddenly she could smell it, too.

Blood.

Undeniably human blood.

It wasn't hers, and it wasn't Stiles' either – she knew his scent, and she knew he would never touch her journal without her consent.

So whose was it?

Whose blood was it?

AN: So there was the first chapter of the story I promised to you tumblr-folks! What did you think? And for those of you not on tumblr... well I guess you'll just have to find out what happens (although I don't think I've been very subtle). Leave a review, share with your friends, and hold on tight for the next installment! xoxo