Notes: Clearly, I have made some bad decisions. Beta by the lovely Dusty, who for some reason puts up with my crap.

The Forgotten Predator

Chapter One: Autumn Moon

It's coming up on three in the morning when the jeep pulls into the diner's parking lot. The car's a big black official-looking beast with Virginia plates and a bent front bumper from where the minotaur hit it last week.

Two suits—a man and a woman—walk into the diner and settle into one of the booths by the windows. Their waitress is a Lamia: her makeup is starting to wear off, iridescent scales at the edge of her jaw glimmering under the fluorescent lights, and a sticker on her name tag explains that she's mute but will be happy to take your order.

The guy in the suit smiles at the waitress and orders a coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs. His partner doesn't look up from her phone and asks for water.

The guy shakes his head at her after the waitress leaves. "Water? Seriously?"

"We're going to be scouring the woods for a days-old dead body, Stiles. I don't want anything in my stomach for that."

Several minutes later, a pickup pulls up outside. It's one owner away from new, and that owner piles into the diner with three of his buddies, all of them bored rich kids. The waitress drops off the coffee, eggs, and a glass of water, then strides toward the teenagers as they park themselves in front of the bar.

Stiles digs into the eggs. His partner puts the phone down and rolls her eyes at him, elegantly-manicured nails drumming against the Formica tabletop.

"Special Agent Stilinski," she says, as part of her eternal campaign to become his mother, "you're eating all-night diner eggs at 3 AM. I want you to look back on the decisions that led you to this moment."

"Oh, fuck off, Lydia." He's about to say more, but one of the teenagers starts yelling.

"Hey, what is your problem?" the truck's owner snaps, looming over the waitress. She flinches away, bringing her notepad up as a barrier between them.

Stiles drops the fork and stands.

His partner sees the look on his face, sighs, and picks up her phone again. "Paperwork, Stiles."

"I'm just gonna talk to him." Stiles steps up behind the kid and taps him on the shoulder. "Hey, buddy, I think maybe you should stop scaring the waitress."

The kid spins around. He's taller than Stiles, and significantly wider. Also, he's wearing a polo. Stiles hates him instantly. "Back off, man," the kid says. "This is none of your business."

"Yeah, well, if I didn't stick my nose in everyone's business I'd be out of a job. I think you and your friends should leave. You're causing a disturbance."

"Go fuck yourself."

Stiles considers pulling his badge on the guy, but then he sees the waitress' face. She doesn't look so scared anymore.

A high, sharp whistle rends the air, loud enough to rattle the windows in their frames. Stiles winces. The kids yelp and cover their ears. The waitress' eyes are bright green, pupils split like a lizard's, and she glares at the pack of teenagers like she's trying to explode their brains inside their heads.

It doesn't take long for the kids to leave after that. Stiles can smell burning rubber as the pickup peels out of the parking lot.

The waitress' eyes return to normal and she gives Stiles an apologetic smile.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her. She whistles happily at him and goes to brew another pot of coffee.

ʘ

Beacon Hills is a Californian industrial town that, in the early '90s, became inexplicably attractive to middle-to-upper class families looking to get away from "the city." It's just big enough to warrant its own police department, and at mid-afternoon a black jeep pulls up outside the police station.

The sheriff's in his office when two feds in suits breeze past his secretary. One of them drops into the chair in front of his desk. "Hello, Sheriff."

"Agent Stilinski. What can I do for you?"

Stiles sprawls in the chair, every inch the insolent little shit. "That bisected human body you found out on the preserve caught the interest of my department. We're just going to conduct a routine assessment, make sure there's no need for the FDSI to intervene."

"Is that so?" The sheriff stares him down for a few more seconds before he finally cracks a smile. "You could've told me you were coming, Stiles."

"But then it wouldn't be a surprise!" Stiles steps around the desk and pulls the sheriff into a hug. "Dad, this is Special Agent Lydia Martin. You might remember her. Lydia, this is Sheriff Stilinski."

"Sheriff," Lydia says, offering her hand.

Sheriff Stilinski shakes it. "Agent Martin. I remember ticketing a few of your boyfriends back in the day. I hope you've been keeping my son out of trouble."

"Oh, I've been trying."

Stiles claps his hands together. "Right, okay, let's break this up before you two start conspiring against me. Dad, what's the status of this Jane Doe case?"

Sheriff Stilinski settles back behind his desk. "Not much more than was in the report. Two joggers found the lower half of a woman's body in the woods yesterday. We organized a search for the upper half, with no results. You two got here awful fast."

"We were in the neighborhood," Lydia replies with a shrug.

"Anyway," Sheriff Stilinski continues, "that's about it. Medical examiner found wolf hairs on the body, so we're considering the possibility that this was an animal attack. I don't see what's got the FDSI so interested."

Stiles rocks on his heels and says, "FDSI files designate Beacon Hills as an 'area of interest.'"

"Why?"

"Classified," Lydia cuts in, with a glare in Stiles' direction.

"Besides, there's so few murders around here anyway. I wanted to be absolutely sure," Stiles says.

Sheriff Stilinski chuckles. "You sure you didn't just want to pay your hometown a visit?"

Stiles scoffs. "My crappy little hometown where nothing happens and everyone's weirdly obsessed with lacrosse? Yeah, no, totally business."

"Sure, sure."

ʘ

That afternoon, Stiles pulls into the parking lot of Beacon Hills High and parks by the bike rack. A few minutes later, lacrosse practice lets out, and a 16-year-old who vaguely resembles a lost puppy makes a beeline for the bike rack.

Stiles steps out of the jeep and yells, "Scott!"

Scott looks around, confused, then grins as he spots Stiles. "What are you doing here?" he yells as he runs over.

"I'm in town, figured I'd check up on you. Jesus, you're huge. Whatever happened to the scrawny little Scott McCall who used to follow me around everywhere? What have you done with him?" Stiles reaches over and ruffles Scott's hair. Scott grumbles and ducks away.

"Are you here because of the body in the woods?" Scott asks. He looks nervous.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Try to keep secrets in a small town, see where that gets you. "You heard about that, huh?"

"So you're doing an investigation, then?" Scott hasn't stopped looking nervous. It's a little disconcerting.

"Assessment, actually."

"What's the difference?"

"The assessment determines whether there's going to be an investigation. Listen, are you okay?"

Scott jumps a little. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little excited."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Uh huh."

"No, really. I made first line on the lacrosse team."

"That's my boy!" Stiles says, and claps Scott on the shoulder. He doesn't get lacrosse, or the importance of high school sports in general, but he's happy for the kid. "Now stop trying to distract me. What's got you so jumpy?"

He can see the gears turning in Scott's head. Slowly, because while he likes Scott, the kid isn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Finally, Scott says, "I was out in the woods last night."

"What?"

"I just... I remembered all your stories from when you used to follow your dad around while he did police stuff, and I heard about the search party, and I figured..." Scott shrugs. "Nothing happens around here anyway."

"Jesus, couldn't you have gone to the arcade or something?"

"I know, I know, but..." Scott takes a breath. "Stiles, this is important. I think I found the other half of the body."

Stiles immediately turns Scott around and steers him toward the jeep. "Show me where."

ʘ

"But it was right here!"

Stiles looks around. Sun. Trees. Dead leaves. No body. "Are you sure?"

"I remember falling down that hill," Scott insists. Of course he does. "This was right where I found it."

"Okay," Stiles says, kneeling and brushing at the leaf litter. He can see dots of blood on the leaves, and scores in the dirt. "It's possible an animal grabbed the body and moved it somewhere else to snack on. You couldn't have told someone about this earlier?"

Scott looks like a kicked puppy. "I didn't want to get in trouble."

Stiles stares at him for a moment. "... You are such a teenager."

"What are you doing?" someone yells.

There's a guy standing further up the hill: dark hair, dark clothes, pissed-off look on his face. He looks familiar.

"Police business," Stiles says, more out of habit than anything else. "Nothing to see here, move along."

"This is private property," the guy growls, and now Stiles recognizes him.

"Not anymore it isn't," Stiles replies, trying not to be smug and failing. "State sold it to the county last year. That's what happens when you don't pay your property taxes, Mr. Hale."

The guy glares even harder, then digs something out of his pocket. He tosses it at Scott, who catches it easily. Then he turns and storms off, leaves crunching underfoot.

Stiles looks at Scott, who's turning a small plastic object over in his hands. "Dude, is that your inhaler?"

Scott looks down at the thing like he's never seen it before. "... Yeah. I must've dropped it last night."

"How did you not die at lacrosse practice without your inhaler?"

Scott shrugs. "I don't need it anymore."

"You don't... what? Since when? Last night?"

"It's not important!" Scott snaps. "Who was that guy?"

Stiles looks back in the direction the guy went. "Derek Hale. Remember that house fire, about six years back? Almost everyone inside burned to death. Derek and his sister only survived 'cause they were in school at the time."

"Shit," Scott says quietly.

"Yeah. I thought the Hales left town years ago, though. I guess Derek's back." Stiles considers for a moment, then starts walking. "Come on, let's get back to the car. I don't think we're gonna find any dead bodies today, and you're late for work."

ʘ

The next night, after continued fruitless searching for the other half of the body, Lydia moves them from the motel they'd been staying at to another hotel, closer to the center of town. It's one of those adorable faux-bed-and-breakfast places right on Beacon Hills' main street.

"Why can't we stay at the Motel 6 again?" Stiles asks as he drags his suitcase up the stairs. No elevator, naturally, and it's late. The other guests are probably going to file complaints about the racket he's making.

"If we're running around the woods all day looking for body parts, then I am not staying in a crappy motel on the edge of town," Lydia hisses. She's already had the hotel staff move her bags up. "You've seen what happens to my hair when we do that."

"Louisiana did some pretty horrible shit to your hair, and I don't remember you being this prissy about it."

"Nobody knew me in Louisiana, Stiles. I didn't have a reputation to maintain."

Stiles smirks and takes a break from suitcase-wrangling. "What, you didn't want to look pretty for the swamp monster? Not even after he tried to have weird, hallucinogenic sex with you?"

Lydia sighs. "I don't know how it mistook me for its girlfriend. My hair isn't even the right color."

Stiles finally reaches his room and dumps the suitcase on the bed. Lydia's got the next room over, and they have an adjoining door. The room itself is... well, "quaint" is probably the best word for it. It's kind of a refreshing change from cheap motels and sleeping in the car.

"So Derek Hale," Lydia says, gracefully folding into a chair.

"What about him?" Stiles asks, glaring at his suitcase. Why did he put it on the bed? He'll just have to move it again. Fuck.

Lydia twirls a lock of hair around her finger. She's set it free from the regulation ponytail. "Angsty orphan shows up in town around the same time as dead bodies. What do we think?"

"We think based on evidence, Lydia," Stiles replies. "Although there might be a connection there. Let's make sure Mr. Hale doesn't slip under the radar."

Stiles' phone rings. He answers, not bothering to look at the Caller ID. "Agent Stilinski."

"Stiles?"

"Scott? What's up? You don't sound too good." Lydia rolls her eyes and leaves, walking through the door to her room and closing it behind her. She is apparently not in the mood for teenage shenanigans.

Scott sounds wrecked, his voice rough. "I think I need you to come get me."

Oh, shit. "Where are you?" Stiles asks urgently, already grabbing his keys.

"At a party. Something's wrong. I don't... Please come get me." Scott rattles off the address, and Stiles dashes down the stairs at top speed.

Yeah, he's definitely going to get some noise complaints.

ʘ

The house is on the edge of the woods, one of those big, obnoxious McMansions that seemed to appear out of thin air during the population boom. The party's in full swing, the air filled with chirpy pop music and drunk teenagers yelling. Stiles charges up the steps, rings the doorbell, and flashes his badge at the kid who answers.

"Oh, shit," the kid says.

"Yeah," Stiles replies.

The party clears out almost comically fast after that, especially once Stiles starts shouting.

"And if I catch any of you drunk shitheads behind the wheel of a car, you're all going straight to Guantanamo Bay!" he barks at the retreating teenagers, then heads up the stairs. He can hear running water.

He finds Scott huddled shirtless in the shower, flushed and shaking. The dial's spun all the way to "cold." Stiles turns the water off and kneels next to his friend.

"What did you take?" he asks quietly, careful not to startle the kid.

Scott shakes his head, still braced between his knees. "Didn't take anything," he mumbles. "I don't know what's happening to me..."

Stiles sighs and grabs a towel from the rack. He bundles Scott down the stairs, past a confused-looking kid eating string cheese in the living room.

"I thought I told you assholes to clear out. What are you still doing here?" he snaps at the kid.

"I live here," the kid says.

"... Okay, fair enough." He pushes Scott out the door and towards the jeep. "Scott. Did you drive here?"

Scott nods, then freezes. "Allison," he says.

"Who's Allison?"

"I'm here with her. Where is she?"

Scott's agitated, looking downright panicky as Stiles settles him in the passenger seat of the Jeep. "Listen, stay here," Stiles says. "I'm gonna go check, okay? Just calm down."

The kid with the string cheese is still there when Stiles gets back to the house. "Hey, listen, do you know a girl named Allison? She came here with Scott."

The kid nods. "Yeah, she got a ride home. Some dude with a leather jacket."

There's a downright god-awful noise from outside, like a pit bull and a wolverine had a baby and somebody hit that baby in the balls with a cattle prod. Stiles runs back out to the jeep.

Scott's gone.

He can see someone running into the forest, hunched over and snarling. Someone missing a shirt.

Stiles grabs his sidearm out of the locker in the trunk and follows Scott into the woods.

ʘ

Stiles' job requires that he do a lot of running. It never stops being fucking horrible.

Scott's leaving a hell of a trail behind him, kicked-up leaves and dirt and... are those claw marks on the trees? Jesus Christ.

He's been at this for almost fifteen minutes when he sees a flash go off in the distance. Not gunfire, it's too bright. Some kind of flare. Stiles hears Scott scream. He puts his head down and runs faster.

Scott's arm is pinned to a tree; there's an arrow through it. Three guys are advancing on him, armed with what Stiles really hopes are not crossbows but probably are. He draws his gun.

"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!"

One of the guys turns his crossbow on Stiles. Stiles fires a warning shot over their heads. Fuck. He really didn't want to file a Weapons Discharge Report tonight.

The guy standing closest to Scott says something to the others, and as one they turn and run off. Stiles considers chasing them down, but Scott makes the most pathetic noise he's ever heard and Stiles figures he's got more important things to do right now.

Scott flinches as Stiles steps closer. "Easy, Scott," Stiles says. "It's me."

The arrow's pierced through Scott's forearm and buried deep in the tree behind him. It's fiberglass, so he can't just break the thing. Stiles really hopes the tip isn't barbed.

"Get it out," Scott whimpers. Stiles wonders what kind of sick bastard shoots a 16-year-old kid with a crossbow.

"I'm going to try, okay?" Stiles says, stepping closer. He pulls a latex glove from his pocket. That arrow is evidence. "We might have to wait for a—"

"Get it out!" Scott howls, deep and inhuman, and Stiles experiences a brief moment of pants-shitting terror.

In a series of quick motions, he braces Scott's arm against the tree, grabs the arrow as far down the shaft as he can with the glove covering his fingers, and yanks, hard. The tip, thank god, isn't barbed, and slides free of the tree and Scott's arm.

Stiles drops the arrow and pulls off his tie, pressing it to the hole in Scott's arm. "Okay, Scott, I have a first aid kit in the car, we just have to keep the pressure on until—"

"I think it's okay," Scott mumbles.

"Yeah, well, I'm not taking any chances, there's all sorts of really important arteries—"

"No, really," Scott says. "I think it's okay."

Stiles lifts the tie. The wound has stopped bleeding. He can actually see the edges of the hole close up and start to knit together.

"Scott," he says. "I think we need to talk."

ʘ

Stiles tightens his hands on the steering wheel and doesn't look at Scott. If he looks at Scott, he'll start yelling.

"So let me get this straight. You were bitten by a wild animal out in the woods, you work for a vet, and you didn't think to get the bite checked out?"

"I didn't want to get in trouble for sneaking out," Scott replies.

"Fucking teenagers," Stiles hisses. "Okay, so you're out looking for the other half of the body, and... something... bites you. The wound heals the next day, all of a sudden you don't need your inhaler any more..."

"... I start to be really good at lacrosse..."

"Okay, fine, you're awesome at lacrosse out of fucking nowhere, then you're at a party on the full moon, you freak out, grow claws, and run off into the woods looking for this girl you were at the party with..."

"Only Allison's not there. Just her jacket," Scott says. "And then Derek showed up."

Stiles nearly crashes the jeep. "What?"

"Derek was there. He took Allison's jacket." He can hear Scott fidgeting. "He says the bite is a gift."

Stiles takes a few deep breaths. "So how do we get from Derek being a creeper in the woods to you getting shot at with crossbows?"

"Those guys showed up while I was talking to Derek. He ran."

"Right." Stiles runs a hand over his eyes and finally looks at Scott. "Did you get a good look at any of them? Do you think you would recognize them again?"

Scott thinks for a moment, then nods. "I think so."

"Okay, good."

They drive in silence for a few moments.

"... Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"What's happening to me?"

"Well, if I had to guess, Scott, I'd say you're a werewolf."

"... What?"