Notes: This exists in the same universe as my Strange Lives series, but it's not necessary to read that in order to read this. Beta'd by Dusty, whose input I value more than I value most things.
Spellbound
Chapter One: "Finders, Keepers"
It's said that werewolves have little aptitude for magic.
This is technically true, in the same way that fish have little aptitude for sailing.
o
Imagine a forest, green and untamed. Imagine the perfect, muffled solitude of the deep wood.
Imagine old trees with thick trunks, perfect for climbing. Imagine streams and gullies, rocky hills, caves and hollows; a paradise for any child lucky enough to call it their backyard.
Imagine a little girl, walking with practiced ease through the trees, scrambling over rocks and balancing on logs.
Imagine—
"Cora!"
Cora groaned and hopped down off the end of the log. There was no point trying to hide. Her brother always found her eventually.
She'd never been this far into the woods before. Cora was supposed to stay close to the house. It wasn't exactly a rule. More like a warning. Bad things happened to young werewolves who strayed too far from their packs.
"Found you," said a voice by Cora's ear.
Cora startled, but clamped down on the urge to snarl and leap away. Derek only did that to get a reaction out of her.
"Go away," she said.
"Mom told me to come find you," Derek replied. He smelled like lots of other people; he must have come right out here after he got home from school.
Cora said, "I wanna be alone," and kept walking.
"You can't stay out here forever," Derek said, following along behind her.
"Can, too."
"What are you gonna eat?"
"Rabbits."
"Really?" Derek said, obviously trying not to laugh. "You'd eat a cute little bunny rabbit?"
"You're a bunny rabbit," Cora shot back.
"Look, just come back to the house."
"It's too crowded now," Cora said. "And it's full of stupid kids."
"They're your cousins, and you're nine."
"It's so loud, Derek! At least you get to go to school. You're not stuck in the house all day with them."
"They're not gonna be here forever," Derek said. "Just until Uncle Teddy and Aunt Liz get back on their feet."
"Cool. I'll just stay out here until then."
"Cora—"
And then they found the cottage.
There wasn't much left of it. Only two of the four walls remained standing, so badly overgrown that they looked like a natural extension of the forest floor, and the roof was long gone.
Cora said, "Oh, cool," and ran straight toward it.
"Cora, wait—"
She stepped through what used to be the front door and looked around. The cottage was old, really old, every surface covered in moss or lichen. A sapling grew out of what was, at one time, a fireplace.
Something went crunch under her shoe.
Cora looked down and moved her foot. She'd stepped on an old picture frame, breaking the mud-caked glass. Something pale peeked through the cracks.
She bent down and let her claws extend, using them to carefully pull the glass out of its frame. There was some kind of paper under the glass. Cora grabbed the edge and pulled it free.
It smelled like cow. Not paper, then. Parchment or something. It was about a foot square, and half of the page was covered in writing. A detailed illustration of a tree occupied the other half.
"Cora?"
Cora turned around and waved the parchment at Derek. "Look what I found!"
"Put that down, it's not yours."
"It is now." Cora peered at the parchment again. Some of the words looked familiar, but Cora couldn't understand any of it. "What language is this?"
Derek looked at the parchment, cocked his head to the side, and said, "I think it's Latin."
"Cool." She rolled up the parchment and tucked it into her sleeve. "I wonder what else is here."
"No. It's getting dark. Please come home."
"Ugh, fine."
o
smoke heat fire pain screaming dead dead they're all dead she's all alone—
Cora comes to all at once.
The seatbelt cuts into her shoulder. Her ribs hurt from the steering wheel digging into them. The windshield's been shattered. The world outside it looks wrong, and it takes Cora a second to realize that this is because the car landed on its roof.
She hears people shouting, far above her.
Cora extends her claws and slashes through the seatbelt. It takes some twisting to crawl out of the broken window, and at the last second she remembers and reaches back through, snagging the strap of her backpack and pulling it out of the wrecked car.
Her breath mists in the air, but there's no snow. She's further south than she thought.
Someone shouts, much closer this time. Cora cranes her head back, ignoring the rush of nausea, and sees people moving around at the top of the cliff.
She slings the backpack over one shoulder and runs into the woods.
o
The offices of the Institute for the Study of Inscrutable Phenomena occupy an old red-brick tower in downtown Baltimore.
The building has a debatable number of floors and was designed by three consecutive architects, two of whom killed themselves before they could complete the project. When the Institute moved in, a few of its employees combed the building and put a sticky note on every window they could find. Afterward, they went outside to assess the results.
There were six windows with no sticky note on them.
First Assistant Lead Analyst Lydia Martin is not a tall woman, by any stretch of the imagination, but she discovered years ago that there are two major advantages to wearing high-heeled shoes. Not only do they increase her height by a considerable margin, but the noise they make on hardwood floors is also an excellent intimidation factor. The clack-clack-clack of her stride as she walks to her office every morning is usually enough to dissuade anyone from bothering her.
Not today, however.
"Congressman Pollard called," Kyle says, jogging every few steps to keep up with Lydia. "He wants to know if it's absolutely necessary to learn the speech you sent him. Apparently he's been having some trouble with the pronunciation."
Lydia sighs. "The ceremonial greeting has to be recited by any visiting official. It's traditional. The Court will be horrifically offended if he doesn't at least try. And we do not need a bunch of offended fairies on our hands." The clack-clack-clack comes to an abrupt halt when Lydia spots the woman waiting outside her office. "Oh god, what's she doing here?"
The woman's classically beautiful, wearing a pencil skirt, pumps, and stockings. It's impossible to look at her without the words 'sexy librarian' coming to mind.
Kyle looks at the woman, then back at Lydia. "Who's that?"
"Jennifer Blake," Lydia says, with no small amount of venom. "I gave her goddamn picture to security. Excuse me."
Blake smiles as Lydia stalks down the hall toward her. "Hello, Miss Martin," she says.
Lydia replies, "How did you even get in here?"
"A clipboard and a confident wave. Can I ask you a few questions?"
"No. Get out."
Blake crosses her arms. "You know, I wouldn't have to do this if the Institute's press office—"
"You're not press," Lydia snaps. "You blog about Mothman." She reaches for the doorknob.
Blake says, "Who's 'Deucalion,' Miss Martin?"
Lydia glares at the door. "Once I'm inside, I'm calling security. If you're smart, you'll be gone by the time they get here."
She pushes the door open and slams it shut behind her.
It's not a large office, but Lydia likes it. She doesn't have to walk through anyone else's office to get to it, and there's a window and just enough room for a couch.
A couch that, right now, contains a sleeping eighteen-year-old girl.
Lydia stands over the couch and clears her throat.
The girl startles awake, reaching for a knife under her pillow that isn't there. She blinks a few times, then says, "Hi, Lydia."
"Allison. Why are you sleeping in my office?"
"Because there's a Russian hitman waiting in my hotel room, and I really don't want to deal with that right now."
Lydia settles into her chair, firing up her computer, and says, "More importantly, how did you get in here? Can anybody walk into this building?"
"Your security really sucks," says a tinny voice from Allison's pocket.
Allison pats down her pockets, then reaches into her jacket and pulls out her phone. "Matt, I need you to send Lydia the photos from Atlanta."
"Sure," says the phone.
Lydia shakes her head. "Can't you use flash drives like a normal person?"
"Matt's faster. And more secure."
This time last year, Matt Daehler was a federal agent who could control machines with his brain. Then Allison shot him, and he wound up stuck as some kind of digital ghost.
It's not the weirdest thing Lydia had to deal with that year.
A folder appears on Lydia's desktop. Lydia dutifully opens it up and starts paging through the photos.
"These look like werewolf attacks," she says.
"Four of them," Allison agrees. "One a day, until two days ago, when they suddenly stopped."
The first twenty pictures or so are crime scene photos, probably stolen from the case files, but the next few—
"Did you sneak into the morgue to take these?"
"The autopsy guy doesn't get enough angles," Allison replies, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
Lydia keeps scrolling through. "This looks like way more damage than the other werewolf maulings I've seen."
Allison nods. "The coroner's report also said that victims two and three were missing organs."
"What does a werewolf need human organs for?"
"No idea."
Lydia closes the folder. "I think I need a second opinion."
"From who?"
"Our werewolf expert."
o
The day after Cora's tenth birthday, her mother knocked on her bedroom door and said, "Cora? Can we talk?"
Strictly speaking, it wasn't Cora's room anymore. Laura and Uncle Peter got their own bedrooms, since they were older. But Cora had to share with Sophie and Amber, and Derek was bunking with Max, because Uncle Teddy and Aunt Liz still hadn't moved out.
Cora kept the weird parchment with the Latin writing on it in a wooden box on her nightstand. She found the box in an antique store when she was out running errands with Dad, and he bought it for her as a birthday present.
The box, and the parchment, were the only things Cora had that were hers alone.
Mom sat on Amber's bed, facing Cora, and said, "You're starting school next month."
"I know," Cora said. All the werewolf kids were home-schooled until fifth grade. Until they were old enough to control themselves in public.
Every time Max came home bubbling with stories from school, Cora ran into the woods and stayed there for a few hours.
"The hunters don't go after children, usually," Mom said. "They have a Code."
"Yeah, I know," Cora said. "You told me all this already."
"What I didn't tell you is that some hunters don't follow the Code," Mom said. "Cora, if you're ever scared, or you think you might be in danger, you hide, okay? You hide from them, and you wait for us to come get you. Tell me you understand."
"Yeah," Cora said. "I understand."
o
A twig snaps underfoot. Cora wakes up.
She resists the urge to shrink further into the hollow she's been sleeping in; the sound and movement will just make her easier to find. Instead, she stays perfectly still, arms wrapped tightly around the backpack.
Outside, voices call to one another. The subtle, persistent noise of people trying to move silently through the forest filters down to her hiding spot.
A shadow passes over the gap of light next to Cora's head. A foot sidles into view.
Cora slows her breathing as much as she can, and waits.
Another call echoes through the trees. The man standing on top of Cora's hiding spot shouts back. After a second, the foot disappears.
She doesn't move until the voices fade away and the forest is utterly silent.
Cora wriggles out of her burrow and stands, stretching. Then she looks down at the backpack.
She can't be caught with it. She'll have to hide it.
o
Lydia's flight lands in Sacramento a little after 4 PM. Database Coordinator Stilinski, First Name Withheld for Reasons of Personal Dignity, is waiting for her at the Arrivals gate. He's holding a cardboard sign with 'PRINCESS LYDIA MARTIN' written on it in pink glitter. There are hearts and butterflies around it.
"You're the most embarrassing person I know," Lydia says.
Stiles grins. "Thanks. It was an honor just to be nominated." He grabs Lydia's bag and leads the way to the luggage carousel. "How have you been? I haven't seen you in months. I ran into your mom at the drugstore and she kept asking about you."
"I've been avoiding her," Lydia admits. "And my dad."
"What, are they fighting again? I thought getting divorced was supposed to fix that."
"Worse," Lydia says. "They're getting crazier the closer we get to my sister's wedding. Mom keeps sighing about how I'm not in a 'serious relationship,' and Dad's midlife crisis has hit critical mass. He's dating a twenty-year-old."
Stiles shudders. "God, that's creepy."
"I know."
"That girl is younger than you."
"I know!"
"I'm actually kind of flattered now," Stiles says. "You came all this way and braved your insane family, just to talk to me."
"Not you, actually," Lydia says. "Your boyfriend."
o
Lydia takes one look at the loft and says, "Oh, god."
"What?" Stiles says, mildly offended.
"Stiles, you live in a shitheap."
"The Beacon Hills Historical Society declared this building an Official Heritage Site, you know."
"It's still a shitheap."
"A historical shitheap." Stiles walks over to the kitchenette and opens the fridge. "You want anything? Beer?"
Lydia settles onto the couch. "Water, thanks. Not tap water."
"Yes, ma'am."
Lydia looks around. Stiles' laptop sits on the other end of the couch, all his papers and notes scattered across the coffee table. There's a nice view out the enormous, wall-to-ceiling window, but the place is still kind of a shitheap.
"Does anyone else even live in this building?" Lydia asks.
"There's Mrs. Motkova downstairs," says a voice from behind her, "but she's spending the winter in Phoenix."
Lydia doesn't jump and keeps her expression neutral, but Derek probably heard her heart rate jump. "Derek. How's the pack?"
"Somehow, they remain alive."
"Is Isaac home?"
"He's at Erica's." Derek Hale walks around the couch and sits in a chair across from her, perching on the edge, elbows on his knees.
Derek looks more at ease than the last time Lydia saw him. At some point between then and now, he grew what could be considered either a really short beard or really long designer stubble, and developed a fondness for sweaters. It's a far cry from the scowly angst-ridden leather-clad werewolf Lydia met last year.
Lydia pulls her tablet out of her bag, brings up the photos Allison sent her, and hands it to Derek. "Could you take a look at these for me?"
Most people would flinch when handed a tablet full of gruesome murder photos, but Derek just starts scrolling through. Considering that damn near his entire family died in a fire seven years ago, and Peter, his one surviving uncle, killed Laura, his one surviving sister, after which Derek was forced to rip Peter's heart out, he's probably desensitized by now.
Stiles hands Lydia a glass of water, then peeks over Derek's shoulder. "Yeesh. Werewolves?"
"We think so," Lydia says. "But there's a lot more trauma than usual. And missing organs."
Derek stops scrolling, turns to Stiles, and says, "How do I zoom in?"
Stiles grabs the tablet, fiddles with it, and hands it back.
Derek peers at the screen, moving the picture around a bit. "Which organs?"
Lydia says, "Victim number two was missing most of his intestines, and victim three had no liver."
Derek looks up at Lydia. "He ate them."
"What?"
"Your mystery werewolf. He's eating his victims." He turns the tablet around and points to a huge wound in the victim's thigh. "See that? He grabbed a handful of meat and ripped it out with his claws."
Stiles says, "Does this happen often?"
"No," Derek says. "Preying on humans is a bad idea, for a lot of reasons."
Lydia takes the tablet back. "Interesting. Do you—"
This building is fairly close to the preserve, which means that when a single wolf's howl echoes through the forest, all of them hear it.
Derek leaps to his feet.
Stiles says, "Is that—?"
"Someone's calling for help," Derek says.
o
Cora arrived home from the last day of school before Christmas break to discover her bed was missing.
There was simply a gap between Sophie and Amber's beds, the floor where it had been slightly dustier than its surroundings. Her nightstand was missing, too.
Where her headboard should have been was a folded piece of paper with Cora's name on it. Cora picked it up and unfolded it. It said:
Come to the attic.
And below that was a drawing of what Cora guessed was supposed to be a reindeer, but it looked more like a dog with a candelabra on its head.
This was probably Uncle Peter's doing. For April Fool's last year, he'd stolen every piece of furniture out of Laura's room and arranged it neatly on the roof. Cora rolled her eyes and headed for the dusty old staircase that led to the attic.
She would've gone and complained to Derek, but Derek had been really weird lately. He didn't come right home after school like he used to, and he snuck out of the house at night. And he never hung out with Cora anymore.
The dusty old staircase wasn't as dusty as expected. Somebody had tried to clean it up, although there was still one stubborn cobweb above the door to the attic. The web's resident sat right out in the open, regarding Cora with deep arachnid disdain. Cora ignored the spider, opened the door, and stared.
Someone had moved all the boxes and old furniture out. Her bed sat near the window, along with her nightstand and a thick, round rug. Laura and Derek sat on the bed, grinning smugly.
Cora said, "What."
Derek said, "Merry Christmas!"
Cora said, "What."
Laura said, "Crap, she doesn't like it. Okay, you grab the nightstand, I'll start moving the mattresses."
"Like what?" Cora said. "What's going on?"
"Well," Derek said, "Laura and I figured you should have your own room again, so we—"
Cora liked to think she was pretty quick on the uptake for an eleven-year-old, which was why she felt a surge of embarrassment once everything clicked into place. "This is my new room?"
"If you want it," Laura said. "It gets kind of cold up here, and there's this bird that keeps getting in, so if you don't we can move everything right back down."
"I love it," Cora blurted out. "I love it, I love it, oh my god—"
She ran up and tackled them both in a hug.
o
Cora's lungs burn. Her joints ache. The rain soaks her to the bone, and she can barely see. But she doesn't dare stop running.
Too late, she sees the figure hiding behind the tree ahead of her. He throws something in her face. Some kind of powder. Cora gasps and coughs. Tears stream down her face. She shoves the man aside and keeps running.
The urge claws its way up out of her throat again, even though it won't be any good. She knows where she is, now. There won't be anyone to answer her call.
There aren't any werewolves in Beacon Hills. Not anymore.
Cora gives in to instinct anyway. She throws her head back and howls.
o
The windshield wipers aren't doing much good. Lydia can barely see Derek's car ahead of her, and the forest on either side of the highway is a dark, indistinct blur.
There's another howl, loud and close, abruptly cut off.
Ahead of her, Derek's Camaro screeches to a halt. Lydia sees the brake lights just in time and slams down on the brake pedal.
The driver-side door of the Camaro opens, and Derek dashes into the woods.
Lydia fumbles with the seatbelt and leaps out of her car. She sees Stiles emerge from the Camaro and shouts, "What the hell was that?"
"No idea!" Stiles shouts back. "You packing?"
Lydia nods, realizes Stiles probably can't see it, and says, "Yeah!"
"Go after him!"
Lydia grabs her holster and follows the path Derek broke through the trees.
There's a commotion up ahead. Derek has someone by the neck, and slams him face-first into a tree. The guy drops. Derek keeps running. Lydia sprints to catch up with him.
They burst into a clearing. There's a girl on the ground, and a guy with a knife to her throat.
"Where is it?" the guy hisses. "Where'd you hide it?"
Derek snarls a challenge. His eyes glow red.
The guy's head snaps up. The hand holding the knife jerks—
Lydia draws her gun and puts two bullets in his chest.
The guy drops. Derek rushes forward, kneeling over the girl.
Lydia hears him say, in a shaking voice, "Cora?"
The girl's bleeding from the neck. Heavily. The knife slashed her jugular vein. Derek fumbles at her neck, trying to stop the bleeding.
Lydia says, "Derek, move."
He goes when she pushes him aside. Lydia yanks off her jacket, folds up the sleeve, presses it to the slash across the girl's neck and clamps down as hard as she can.
"What's her name?" Lydia says.
"Cora."
The girl's hyperventilating, choking on her own panic, her face pale. Lydia says, "Cora, you need to stay calm. You're gonna be okay. Just calm down. You're safe."
To Derek, she says, "Help me get her to the car."
o
"The wound healed, but she's lost a lot of blood," Stiles says, leading Lydia through the hospital's corridors. "Her doctor's having an existential crisis, and I don't think he'd believe me if I told him his mystery patient is a werewolf."
Lydia says, "Has she woken up yet?"
"Nope. And we don't know when she will. Or if."
"Who is she?"
"Cora Hale," Stiles says, and at Lydia's raised eyebrow, he adds, "Yeah, she's Derek's little sister. He had no idea she was even alive."
"Him and everyone else."
They reach the right room, and Stiles quietly nudges the door open.
Cora Hale is thin, the kind of thin that comes from eating irregularly and poorly. The hospital bed makes her seem even smaller. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow and steady.
There's a stuffed chair in the corner of the room, the kind that looks comfortable but isn't. Derek's managed to fall asleep there, neck twisted at a painful angle and legs dangling over one of the chair's arms.
Stiles lets out an exasperated sigh and walks over to the chair.
Lydia nods at Derek and says, "How's he doing?"
"Not great," Stiles says. He reaches out and brushes some of Derek's hair away from his forehead; Derek stirs, but doesn't wake. "He's been here ever since we brought her in."
Lydia stands at the foot of the hospital bed and watches Cora for a while.
It's been seven years since the fire. Cora's eighteen now. She grew up, had a life of her own, and nobody knew.
Lydia murmurs, "Where have you been, Cora Hale?"
o
"We lost her," says the voice over the phone. "She's in Hale territory now. We can't—"
The phone's owner ends the call and drops the phone onto the desk. "Useless."
"I'm not afraid of Hale," says a voice from across the desk. There's a low growl in it. "Let me go after her."
"Yes, I think that's for the best."
The scrape of a chair. A door opens.
"Make it messy," adds the figure behind the desk. "Remind everyone what happens to those who defy Deucalion."
Next: "Where The Heart Is"
