Prologue

The first thing you need to understand is that I never meant for anyone to get hurt.

First and foremost, it's important to remember that to keep things in perspective. The reality of the situation was that I, as well as all of my friends, had a terrible secret that no one would ever believe. Every day, we had to deal with things like murder. Stalking and arson, and corrupt families. Terrible, tragic things that were happening all around us! Yeah. Imagine it! It sounds awful, doesn't it? But throw in the small detail of a werewolf and suddenly it's not a big deal anymore. We all knew about every disaster that made the headlines in Beacon Hills, and we also knew that those articles fell just short of the truth because they missed one huge part of the story.

And these things traumatized us! We all carry the scars in our own ways. We all bear the brunt of everything that happened the best we can. It might not be healthy, but it's the best we can do.

The police didn't know what to do, because they could never figure out who was really behind everything. And even if we told them they'd never believe the truth of who was responsible. A werewolf? Get real! We'd be shipped off to the loony bin for sure—that, or pumped full of medication.

Because werewolves aren't real. I mean, come on. There was one time I actually did try to tell my mom, and to borrow the phrasing of her response: be serious. As far as our parents were concerned—as far as the police were concerned, werewolves were characters that writers throw into stories to make tragedies seem less tragic, and more fantasy. Stories. Fabrications used to placate children. Because while these stories are told to scare others with horrific tales of monsters and evil creatures, at the end of the night you can always turn the lights back on and tell them that they're not real. None of that could really ever happen because it's impossible. They don't exist.

The bitter irony was that we all knew the truth, and we could do nothing about it. Not legally, anyway. And all the while, we were children. Still, it fell to us. I was doing the best that I could possibly do in the circumstances I was under. Every decision I made, every choice I chose, was all with the belief that that was the best way to handle the situation to where everyone would come out of it alright. Or, at least, they'd come out of it alive—if a little worse for wear.

Sure, I made some mistakes. I made plenty of mistakes. I should've been honest from the very beginning; I should have come clean from day one. But every time a new secret came along, it seemed like it was the most important, most scary thing I'd ever had to deal with, and that was a lot of pressure for a fifteen-year-old kid!

The saddest part of the whole thing is that by the end of it, I came out a totally different person. I feel like someone completely unrecognizable now. The others make it look easy, they make it look like typical, every day teenage drama—and in some ways, I hate them for that. It sickens me to admit it, but I do. I hate how easy they can roll with the punches, because all of this dragged me so far down that when it was over, I'm not sure who came back up!

When I look back on this year, oftentimes I have to remind myself that it isn't all a hallucination. I have to go pull up the floorboard in my room and touch the cool metal of the chains I keep there, just so I can remember that it's all really true. That there really was a time when I had to use them on Scott, and that I'm not just living a delusion.

I guess the most frequent consequence to all of this would be the nightmares. They happen just about every night now. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, and I can swear I hear something moving around in the yard.

This is one of those nights. I jerked up in bed; my throat raw and dry as if I'd been screaming, and the first thing I do is check Scott's room. Every night. I check to make sure he's okay, that he's there and he's not in danger anymore.

I stand there in my oversized sweater and shorts, with my sleeve pulled over my fingers and my hand pressed to my mouth, and I watch his still form for a few moments. Long enough to watch the blankets rise a bit—to see the breaths he takes lift the covers—and that's enough to calm my racing heart. That's enough to chase the itching fear away.

Sometimes, when it's really bad and I'm feeling super paranoid, I'll call Stiles. He doesn't always answer, but most of the time just hearing his voice through his voicemail is enough to calm me down. I worry about him the most.

Then, after I leave a message explaining that I had another nightmare, I'll go downstairs to grab a glass of water and go back to bed. Tonight, I was just reaching into the fridge when I heard what sounded like a loud crash on the porch. My heart jumped in my throat and I froze, straining my ears to hear anything else.

For a long moment there was nothing. But then it came again—a sort of rustling, just outside the front door. I stepped away from the fridge, the empty glass on the counter glinting in its light. The all too familiar sensation of adrenaline trickled through my body as I quietly crept down the dark hall. Someone was walking across the porch; I could hear the thuds from their footfalls.

I rushed forward and pressed my nose into the glass of the front door, my eyes darting through the night. At first I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but then a bright orange shard caught my eye. One of the flowerpots had been knocked off its post—shattered and ruined and lying on the floor of the porch.

I grabbed the bat from the coatrack by the door, and as quietly as I could manage, I opened the front door. My eyes darted from side to side as I stepped barefoot onto the cement porch, the chill from the night barely registering in my mind. I looked down at the ruined plant and clenched my jaw in frustration. Looks like I'd have to replace that—again.

Gripping the bat tightly in my fingers, I turned my attention to the yard. Something was rustling off to the side, and I raised the bat up and quietly tiptoed to the steps. I leaned around one of the hedges and held my breath.

A figure came out from behind the bush, and I screamed and swung the bat out as hard as I could. Raising my arms back up, I let out a battle cry and prepared to swing again when a flash of pink caught in my vision—and then I heard my mom's voice.

"Audrey, what the hell are you doing!?"

I froze, blinking widely at her as my grip on the bat hesitated. I looked at her shocked face, then down at the bag of groceries that lay scattered at her feet. The bag had been torn and I could see a few eggs that were smashed into the sidewalk. Immediately I dropped the bat and gasped, horrified at what I'd done.

"Mom!" My voice was raspy and trembling with shock. "Oh, my god! I'm so sorry!"

"Audrey, what is going on with you?" She snapped, bending over to try and salvage the groceries. "Oh," she grunted, sighing heavily as she shook some egg slime off her fingers. She looked up and tutted at me. "And where are your socks? Get inside! God, it's after midnight, Audrey! Why are you awake?"

I knelt down to pick up a few groceries with her and cleared my throat. "Sorry, I thought you were a burglar or something!" I gripped a bag of bread a little too tightly.

She sighed at me again and snatched the bread from my hands, shaking her head. "So you call the police!" I blinked dumbly in surprise and watched as she stood up and stepped around me. "You don't grab a bat and attack! What if I had a gun, Audrey?" She stomped up the stairs and shook her head at the broken plant. "You need to use your head! I can't always be around to tell you what to do."

I used to think like her. Logically; playing by the rules instilled in every American from a young age. If you're in danger, the first thing you do is call the police. It's their job to take care of you. They'll keep you safe.

But I can't think like that anymore. I can't call the police when a werewolf tries to kill me; I have to call Scott, and if that fails—Stiles. And if that fails, Allison, and then Derek, and so on.

But the police? They are strictly a last resort. Or else they're used as a strategic pawn to get someone to back off.

I sighed and picked up the bat, trailing behind my mom. I gave the potted plant and smashed eggs one last glance before going inside.

Mom had waited for me in the foyer, her shoulders slumped and face tired. "I'm sorry for yelling." She gave me that sad, puppy-dog look that Scott does so well. Well… he had to learn it from someone. "You're just scaring me lately. I know you're still having nightmares. Is this about your father?"

My eyebrows shot up and I almost dropped the bat again. Using it as an excuse to look away from her, I set it back in its spot by the coat rack. For some reason, mom's first instinct is to lay the blame with our absent father. It's never true, but I've been known to use him an excuse from time to time. Shouldering him with the blame is a lot easier than trying to explain homicidal werewolves. Not like he's here to defend himself.

I turned back and gave her a shrug, and she sighed and shook her head for the hundredth time since coming home. She made her way to the kitchen—taking my absent father excuse and running with it. I nodded at some points, apologized at others, and trailed behind her.

"We're doing just fine without—ugh," She looked between the open fridge and my face, throwing her head back with a loud sigh. "Audrey! What am I going to do with you? Now I have to tell you to close the fridge when you're done? What do you kids think, I'm made of money?"

And so it went.

But I guess the best place to start all of this would be the beginning of my freshman year. That's when everything changed.