Lazarus Taxon Chapter 1: The Crossroads of the World, a teen wolf fanfic

Notes: This AU is starting to get out of hand. I apologize in advance. Beta'd by the adverb-hating Dusty; heckled by resident shit-disturber Poicephalus.

Lazarus Taxon

Chapter One: "The Crossroads of the World"

"Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee."

-Herman Melville, Moby Dick

At 8:43 PM, paramedics arrive at the site of an automotive collision in Aeolia, California. One survivor is rushed to Aeolia General Hospital and is admitted at 8:51 PM under the name "Jane Doe."

At 8:56 PM, Jane Doe flatlines on the operating table.

At 8:58 PM, Jane Doe is successfully resuscitated.

Her scream shatters every window in a one-mile radius.

Six hours later, a black SUV pulls up outside of Aeolia General. A man and a woman, both in suits, get out and lean against the side of the car, waiting.

Half an hour after that, a large, windowless van pulls in behind it. Another man and woman get out of the van.

"Chloe Grandpre," says the woman from the van. "This is my partner, Matt Daehler."

"I've heard of you," the woman from the SUV says. "The new guy. What is it you do, again?"

"I talk to machines," Daehler says.

"Do they talk back?"

"Cute. And you are?"

"Rebecca Harlowe," says the woman from the SUV.

"Caine Marsh," says her partner. "Any idea why they called in two field teams?"

"They evacuated the whole hospital and put an entire wing on lockdown," Grandpre says. "Frankly, I'm surprised more agents haven't been brought in."

Harlowe chews her lip and looks over her shoulder, toward the hospital. "We need eyes in there."

"I'll see what I can do," Daehler says, circling around to the back of the van.

The van is packed with equipment, most of it held together with gaffer tape and prayer. Daehler spends a few minutes tapping at a keyboard before he shakes his head. "No good. Whatever broke the windows also shattered the lenses in the security cameras. I can't get anything from the surveillance system."

Marsh checks his watch. "There should be a department satellite in position over California right about now. See if you can get something from that."

"Yeah, sure, let me just—whoa."

"'Whoa'?" Harlowe says.

"The satellite sent me an alert just as I logged in." Daehler says. "It's picked up some kind of radiation."

Marsh climbs into the van and peers over Daehler's shoulder at the display. "Bleed energy. Trace amounts. Not enough to be harmful."

Daehler looks at Marsh over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. "I have no idea what that means."

"The Bleed is the space between realities," Marsh says. "Anything that passes through it tends to pick up this energy signature."

"Jesus. What the hell's in there?"

"Whatever it is, it's not local."

Someone, somewhere down the line decided Aeolia General needed state-of-the-art counter-terrorism measures. Why is anyone's guess, but the system works perfectly. Upon activation, the metal shutters over every door and window close, leaving one, small staff entrance as the only point of access. Even then, a keycard is needed to get in or out.

"And we're sure there isn't some kind of supervirus in there?" Harlowe says, adjusting her earpiece. It feels like it's about to fall out any second now.

"The lockdown was manually triggered," comes the reply, Daehler's voice crackling a bit as Harlowe fiddles with the earpiece. He and Grandpre are still with the van. "In the event of a biological attack, the lockdown activates automatically. But all that means is that a biological agent wasn't detected, so there could still be—"

"Matt, stop helping," Grandpre says. "Marsh, Harlowe, it's clear. Breach the perimeter when you're ready."

Harlowe takes a deep breath, shaking the tension out of her limbs. Marsh smirks at her and taps the keycard against the reader. The lock beeps, and Marsh pushes the door open. "We're in."

"Copy," Daehler says. "Make sure the first camera is pointed at the door."

Harlowe pulls a wireless video camera from the duffel slung over her shoulder and sticks it to the wall, just inside the door. The cameras are small—about the size of a cheap webcam—and connected to the van's wireless network, where Daehler will monitor the feeds. "First camera's up."

"Yep, I see you."

Marsh clips the keycard to his belt, next to his holster and the KA-BAR Harlowe got him for his birthday. "We're moving in."

"Acknowledged. Try to put at least one camera at every corner and intersection."

There's no blood splattered on the walls, no occult symbols drawn on the ceiling. Marsh and Harlowe move through the abandoned wing, guns drawn, checking every corner and setting up cameras, but nothing jumps out of the shadows.

It's almost worse, like this.

They're approaching the ER when Daehler says, "The camera by the exit just crapped out. Can somebody go fix it?"

"I'll go," Marsh says, turning and jogging the way they came. Harlowe continues down the hall and pushes the door to the ER open.

Whatever prompted the lockdown, it happened in here. Gurneys and equipment were knocked over in the rush to evacuate the wing. A doctor lies face-down on the floor.

Harlowe holsters her gun, kneels by the doctor, and checks for a pulse. There isn't one. She turns the body over. There are deep fingernail scratches on the doctor's face and a pen stabbed through his trachea.

"Marsh, I've got a body here. No sign of his attacker. Did you see anything on the way back?"

No response.

Harlowe taps the earpiece. "Daehler, is this thing working?"

"I can hear you," Daehler says.

Harlowe stands. "Marsh, come in." Nothing. "Caine!"

Daehler's voice comes back over the line. "His comm's working. I'm still getting ambients from his end."

Harlowe draws her sidearm and dashes back to the exit.

The broken camera is on the floor, next to the body of Caine Marsh. A shard of glass juts from his neck. The knife is missing from his belt, as is the security pass.

"Daehler. Grandpre. Marsh is down. Whatever did this, it's loose and headed your way!"

Grandpre leaps out of the van and holds up a hand to keep Daehler from following. "Stay here."

"You're going out there alone? Are you insane?"

"Stay here," Grandpre repeats, and slams the door shut.

Daehler slumps back into his chair, knee bouncing.

Something slams against the doors. Daehler jumps to his feet. "Chloe!"

No answer.

Daehler draws his gun and throws one of the doors open. There's nothing there.

He looks down. Chloe Grandpre lies on the pavement, her throat slashed ear to ear.

Stiles has never been to Greece before. His understanding of it, as a country, is that at any given moment it is either A) experiencing some sort of civil unrest, or B) literally on fire.

The chapel is about four miles out of Megalopoli, almost in the shadow of Mount Lykaios. There's a set of stone steps up the hill to the front door, and Lydia stops at the foot of them, puts her hands on her hips, and looks up at the modest stone building. "I don't know, Stiles. It doesn't look old enough."

"No, the chapel was built in the twelfth century," Stiles says. "But it's built on the foundations of a temple that stood in old Lycosura."

"Your ancient werewolf city?"

"It wasn't a werewolf city. It was a city that, very likely, had werewolves in it."

Lydia shakes her head and pushes past Stiles, heading up the stairs. "If this turns out the same way your Roman wolf cult did..."

"You keep bringing that up. Stop bringing that up. I said I was sorry."

When Stiles knocks on the door, the priest appears almost instantly and waves them inside. Lydia holds a quick conversation with him in Greek while Stiles waits patiently by the door and tries not to touch anything.

Lydia eventually concludes her business with the priest and strides back to Stiles. "He says what we're looking for is in the cellar."

The "cellar" turns out to be less accessible than Stiles anticipated. They have to climb down the other side of the hill—the steep other side of the hill—to get to the entrance, and it takes the both of them working together to open even one of the cellar doors.

The chamber is huge and nearly empty, lit by industrial string lights looped back and forth across the ceiling. Apparently the priest enlisted some help in preparing for their arrival; a space in the center of the room has been cleared, and the floor's been swept, revealing the huge, wheel-like design etched into the stone.

Lydia crouches at the edge. "Stiles, this is a lunar calendar."

Stiles can't help the grin that sneaks onto his face. "They had their own calendar," he says. "They had temples, and they had a calendar."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Lydia says.

"But it's fun." Stiles circles the calendar, following the progression of the phases. Waxing crescent, half, waxing gibbous, full...

Something under his foot goes click.

Behind Stiles, a panel opens in the floor, revealing a stone staircase wide enough for three men to walk side-by-side.

Stiles turns halfway and says, "Oh, that is cool."

Lydia stands directly across the calendar from Stiles, arms crossed. "No."

"Aw, come on."

"No. We don't know what's down there. It could be trapped."

"This was a temple, Lydia. You know, where people gathered. In large groups. A lot. They wouldn't build traps in it."

Lydia huffs out a breath and reaches up to tighten her ponytail. "Fine. But if something horrible happens, I'm blaming you."

"Noted."

Stiles digs a flashlight out of his shoulder bag and starts down the staircase. Lydia follows close behind.

The stairs are simple and unadorned, but the flashlight beam catches the edge of something painted on the walls and Stiles pauses, passing the light over them.

The walls aren't stone, but plaster, and the frescoes painted there mostly feature wolves and lightning bolts. At the center of each is a depiction of a raven perched on the back of a throne: on the left side, a man is seated on the throne, and on the right, a wolf.

"I think this is supposed to be the turning of Lycaon," Stiles says.

"Okay."

Stiles knows that "okay." That "okay" from Lydia means, "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I don't want to admit it."

"Seriously?" Stiles says. "All our work with werewolves, and you never bothered to look this up?"

"Stiles, remember how I was giving you such a hard time about not knowing that Brontosaurus isn't a real dinosaur?"

"Point taken." Stiles shines the light over the throne on the left side. "Lycaon was a king of Arcadia. A tyrant, by most accounts. There's a few different versions of the story. In some of them, a human child is sacrificed on the altar of Zeus; in others, Zeus comes calling at Lycaon's palace and is served human flesh. Either way, human blood is spilled in Zeus' name, and he gets pissed. Zeus curses Lycaon, and the king becomes a wolf."

"The first werewolf," Lydia says.

"Exactly."

Stiles continues downward. The room at the foot of the staircase isn't large; maybe two dozen people could fit in here, if they weren't too hung up on personal space. At the end of the room, furthest from the stairs, stands a stone altar adorned by a single carving: three sharp Vs, rotating around a central axis.

"I know that symbol from somewhere," Lydia says.

"It's a triskelion. They show up all over the place. Derek actually has a version of this as a tattoo."

Lydia gives Stiles a curious look. "A tattoo where?"

"On his back," Stiles says. There's a pause. "What?"

"Nothing." Lydia slowly turns, shining the flashlight around the room. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Nobody's been down here in a very, very long time. "So we've got a temple that used to be part of a city named after a werewolf, with paintings on the walls depicting the transformation of the first werewolf, and a symbol that can be traced to modern werewolves. Sounds pretty definitive."

Stiles bounces on his feet a little. "Yep."

"Okay, so where did all these werewolves go?"

Derek can't remember much of the nightmare. Just the sensation of a weight on his chest, and a sharp pain in his shoulder. He's been dreaming more, in the weeks since he killed Peter.

He lies on his back, slowly coming back to reality, and stares at the ceiling of the train car. It isn't safe to sleep in the house right now. The hunters are looking for him again; Derek saw them setting traps in the woods.

The old train depot isn't much of a step up from a condemned house in the forest, but he has a roof that isn't in danger of collapsing on his head and he's less likely to be killed in his sleep.

Derek rolls onto his side, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a slightly battered business card. Special Agent Stilinski (the name between "Agent" and "Stilinski" furiously blacked out with a pen), an e-mail address, and then two phone numbers: office and mobile.

He called the mobile number a week ago, from a payphone at the gas station. It went straight to voicemail.

"Hey, this is Agent Stilinski. My phone's off while I'm out of the country, but I'll be checking my voicemail, so leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Derek hung up before the tone.

Even if he did call again, what would he say?

I had a bad dream.

They're watching my house.

I miss you.

Derek tucks the card back into his wallet and tries to go to sleep.

A wolf howls, mournful and long.

Derek sits bolt upright. That wasn't Scott. They're not pack (Derek asked; Scott refused), but Derek knows what Scott's howl sounds like, and that wasn't it.

There's another werewolf in Beacon Hills.

"The funeral is this weekend," Allison says. "The police finally released her body."

Of all the school counselors Allison's had to go see over the years, she likes Ms. Morrell the best. Mostly because Ms. Morrell's never uttered the words, "And how does that make you feel?"

Instead, Ms. Morrell says, "You miss her, don't you?"

"I do. That's not good, is it? I mean, she was a psychopath who killed ten people."

"You miss her because you loved her," Ms. Morrell says, in that soft, soothing voice of hers. She doesn't talk like this when she's teaching Allison's French class. She must practice with a tape recorder or something. "She was family. And I know your Aunt Kate must have loved you, in her own way." When Allison doesn't reply, Ms. Morrell adds, "I heard you broke up with Scott."

"Yeah," Allison says. She doesn't say, "My father tried to kill him." She doesn't say, "The only reason Scott's still alive is because I promised not to see him anymore."

She definitely doesn't say, "We aren't really broken up."

Allison does say, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," Ms. Morrell says. "How are things with your family?"

"My parents are trying to pretend like Kate never existed, unless they're talking about the funeral."

"So they haven't talked to you about what happened?"

Allison shrugs. "Sometimes they try. Then they change the subject. They really want me to get into the family business."

"Is that what you want to do? Join the family business?"

"Not really," Allison says.

"What do you want to do with your life?"

"I don't know."

Stiles takes back everything he ever said about Greece. They serve beer at McDonald's in this country.

He sits cross-legged in the grass under a tree in Syntagma Square, passing the time playing Solitaire with a deck of truly pornographic cards he bought from a newsstand.

Lydia's off doing... something. The point is, she's not here. Diviners freak her out.

"Agent Stilinski, yes?" he hears from above him. "I'm Celene. We spoke on the phone."

Stiles looks up from the cards. Celene sits on the grass in front of him, carefully arranging her legs beneath her long skirt. She's older than him, though still a young woman, and there's a faraway look in her eyes that won't go away.

"Interesting place to meet," Stiles says. "Not exactly Mount Parnassus, is it?"

Celene gives him a wry smile. "Times change."

"You're not wrong."

"So," Celene says. "You want to know the future, Agent Stilinski." Her English is good, if a little formal.

"Actually, right now I'm more interested in the past," Stiles replies.

"Oh?"

Stiles gathers up the cards and puts them away. "I want to know what happened to Lycaon's pack."

"The answer to that question is not a short one."

"I've got time."

Celene steeples her fingers in front of her mouth. "Very well. You are familiar with the Papal Inquisitions?"

"A bit."

"After Lycaon was turned, the wolves prospered and spread through Europe for centuries, but the Inquisitions culled their numbers. Lycaon's direct descendants remained in Greece, where the Pope had little influence."

"Okay," Stiles says. "So why'd they leave?"

Celene sighs. "First, you must understand that the wolf does not think as you or I do. His loyalty is not to his country, but to his pack. And while the Inquisition did not come to Greece, this does not mean the wolves were not hunted." A flash of distaste passes over Celene's expression. "So, when Constantinople fell, a deal was struck. Lycaon's children joined the Turks, and by their side, conquered Greece."

"And afterward?"

Celene lowers her hands into her lap. "Have you ever heard of the Imperial Hounds?"

Derek's been tracking the interloper for days, now. It never stays in one place for long, and it's alone. An Omega. No den, and no pack.

He finally catches up with the Omega at the cemetery. Oblivious to Derek's presence, the Omega digs, muttering as he does:

"... out of the deepest depth that the highest must come to its height... it is out of the deepest depth..."

The Omega is digging up a grave. Scavenging.

Not twenty feet from the Omega, an overturned backhoe lies atop a half-dug grave. Someone's trapped underneath it, panting in fear.

Derek's howl isn't a call, but a warning: get out.

The Omega yelps and leaps away from his dig site, fleeing into the woods. Derek lets him go and approaches the backhoe. He knows—in theory—that becoming the Alpha made him stronger, but he hasn't had an opportunity to test that strength.

No time like the present.

He grabs the edge of the backhoe's undercarriage and pulls. The metal groans in protest, but moves. Slowly and inevitably, the backhoe is levered back onto its treads.

There's a boy in the grave, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees. If Derek had to guess, he'd put the kid's age at about sixteen. He looks up at Derek in awe; he's got one hell of a black eye.

Derek says, "Need a hand?"

The boy nods, shaky with adrenaline.

Derek kneels by the edge of the grave, extending his hand. When the kid takes it, Derek hefts him out of the pit.

A name catches Derek's eye as the boy brushes the dirt off his clothes. The headstone by the half-dug grave reads, "Kate Argent. Beloved Daughter. 1983-2012."

Sometimes, Derek forgets she's really dead.

"Thanks," the kid says. He stares at the righted backhoe. "Did you do that?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

Derek grins. "I'm a werewolf."

He doesn't know why he says it. Kate's right here, reminding him what happens when he isn't careful enough.

The kid chokes out a nervous laugh, then stops when he realizes Derek isn't laughing too. "What, seriously?"

"What's your name?"

"Isaac," the kid says.

"You hang out in graveyards a lot, Isaac?"

Isaac crosses his arms, defensive. "I work here. What's your excuse?"

The corner of Derek's mouth quirks up. Instead of giving an answer, he starts to gesture at Isaac's face but stops when the kid flinches. "How'd you get that black eye?"

"Lacrosse practice."

He's lying.

Derek says, "You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Isaac reeks of fear, but he's not afraid of Derek. Not really. He's been afraid so long, so constantly, it's become part of his normal scent.

"Someone's hurting you," Derek says. "And you're protecting them." Isaac bristles, but Derek barrels ahead, like the words are being pulled out of him. "I don't care who it is or why. I just want you to know that I can make that go away. Make it so nobody has the power to hurt you like that ever again."

Isaac's eyes narrow at him. "How do you expect to pull that off?"

Derek lets his eyes glow red.

Isaac stumbles away from Derek. "Holy fuck."

"I'll give you time to decide," Derek says, stepping back.

"Decide what?"

"If you want the bite. Come find me at the old train depot if the answer is 'yes.'"

And then Derek walks away, his self-preservation instincts screaming at him the whole way.

Dr. Reis is already seated at a table by the windows when Stiles and Lydia arrive at the Galata Tower restaurant. Stiles grabs Lydia's wrist and checks her watch. "He's early."

"He's nervous," Lydia replies, easing her wrist out of Stiles' grip and breezing past the hostess headed in their direction to sit across the table from Reis.

"You must be Special Agent Martin," Reis says, because everyone in the Mediterranean speaks English better than Stiles will ever speak any language in his entire life.

"Dr. Reis," Lydia says, offering her hand to shake. "This is my partner, Agent Stilinski."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," Reis says. "I am curious as to why you've come to Istanbul, though. I could have easily answered your questions in an e-mail."

"E-mails can be lost or forgotten, Dr. Reis." Lydia crosses her ankles and automatically drapes her napkin over her lap. "Or waylaid. Our department likes to conduct business like this in person as much as possible."

"Of course." Reis reaches into his bag and pulls out a folder, placing it on the table beside him. "I gathered as much information on the Imperial Hounds as I could, although there wasn't a great deal to find. Not much was known about them. They were mostly a rumor."

"We'll take anything you can give us," Stiles says.

A waitress comes by to take their drink orders. Lydia politely declines for both herself and Stiles, while Stiles fiddles with a napkin and waits for the waitress to leave.

Once she's gone, Reis says, "Urban legends of the Imperial Hounds first began circulating in the late fifteenth century, shortly after the Ottoman conquest of Greece. It was said each of the Hounds was as strong as ten men, and could smell a lie from a hundred paces."

"Sounds familiar," Stiles mutters.

Lydia steps on his foot. "Please, go on."

"Rumors aside, there are financial records that indicate the Hounds actually did exist, and served the Ottoman government. Although 'served' may be too strong a term. The stories about them suggest a large degree of autonomy."

"So they were... what?" Stiles asks. "Some kind of secret police?"

"Most likely. The stories say they hunted fugitives from justice."

Stiles circles the rim of his water glass with a finger and ignores the face Lydia makes at the sound. "What happened to them? Did they fall with the Ottoman Empire?"

"Sooner than that," Reis says. "The Imperial Hounds disappeared from the records in the late nineteenth century. I found reports of a massacre of some kind, around that time. There were rumors for a while concerning a single survivor, but the Hounds never reappeared, on paper or in legend."

"Is that it?" Stiles says.

"I'm afraid so."

Lydia picks the file up off the table and stands, tucking it under her arm. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Reis."

"Should I be anticipating further inquiries from your department, Agent Martin?"

"I wouldn't rule out the possibility."

Derek parks his car at the edge of the preserve, then steps outside and strips, folding his clothes and leaving them in the car. He walks a few paces from the car and rolls his shoulders, letting the change come over him.

He hasn't shifted since he became an Alpha. If Derek is honest with himself, he's been putting it off.

It's different from shifting as a Beta. Deeper, more intense, and more painful. Bones shrink, grow, and reposition themselves. Thick black fur covers his body. Eventually, the increased weight in his neck and torso becomes too much to support on two legs, and he drops to all fours.

Derek catches the scent of the Omega and charges into the woods. It's time for the trespasser to leave.

It isn't long before he comes across the Omega in person. Derek chases him down, now too fast for the Omega to evade, and knocks him to the ground, pinning him.

"It's you," the Omega breathes. "It's really you. The new Lycaon."

Derek's ears flatten to his skull and he backs away, confused.

"She chose you." The Omega lurches to his feet. "You will bring salvation. You teach us the Overman. 'Mankind is something to be overcome!' You will show us the way."

The Omega takes a step back.

The snare snaps tight around his ankle, wrenching the Omega into the air.

Derek can hear the hunters coming. He rears onto his hind legs, looking for a weak spot in the trap. His claws might just be sharp enough to cut the wire...

"Go," the Omega says.

Derek growls. Like hell.

"Go," the Omega repeats. "Without me, nothing changes. Without you, we're lost."

The hunters are getting closer. Derek whines and looks up at the wire. There isn't enough time.

With a last, apologetic look at the Omega, Derek drops to all fours and runs.

He stops at the top of the ridge, hidden among the rocks and undergrowth, as the hunters approach. Chris Argent is there, along with his usual gang of drop-outs and delinquents.

An old man is with them. Derek knows better than to underestimate him; any man who lives to seventy while hunting werewolves for a living is more dangerous than he looks.

The Omega is strung up like a piece of meat. The old man speaks to the assembled hunters, as if delivering a lecture. Argent calls him "Gerard."

Then one of the hunters steps forward, and Gerard draws the broadsword the hunter carries.

Chris protests. Derek catches the words, "we have a code."

"Not when they murder my daughter," Gerard says. He swings the sword.

The smell of blood fills the air. The upper half of the Omega's body drops to the ground.

Back at the train depot, Derek finds himself staring at the card again. He can think more clearly when Stiles isn't here, when Derek isn't wrapped up in his scent and the sound of his voice and the fact that someone actually seems to care what happens to him. Derek can think about all the reasons it's a bad idea to get involved with a cop who hunts people like him for the government.

It doesn't change the fact that he wishes Stiles were here, waving his badge around and threatening to arrest people who could kill him in a heartbeat.

But Stiles isn't here. Derek is alone.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears someone coming down the stairs.

"Yes," Isaac says. The black eye is almost gone; there's a firm set to his mouth. "The answer is yes."

Derek takes a shuddering breath as he stands, tucking the card into his pocket. "There are some people you should know about, first."

Next: "A Friend for the Lonesome"