Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. They belong to MTV and the virtuoso – infuriating as he can be – that is Jeff Davis. I just own my OCs (although you can't really "own" a person, but you get the point.) *Re-edited and quite re-done.*

Prologue

The child is bad magic.

Slumped in the large, dark brown leather chair in his dimly lit study, Hektor Kosta pored over the letter in his calloused hands, hoping stupidly that the hastily-scribbled words on the worn page had miraculously changed now that he was rereading them for the twelfth time that night. But the twelfth time would not be the charm, and each inspection of the grim letter made his stomach plummet impossibly further. He felt more alone, more defeated, than he'd ever thought a man could feel. And all because of the five-year-old girl who was sound asleep in her bedroom just one floor below.

Hektor's left leg shook with an overwhelming urgency, and red-colored spots appeared suddenly in front of his eyes, momentarily blinding him. In a fit of rage, he crumpled the letter and hurled it across the room, angry enough not to care that it had landed where anyone who might've walked in could've seen it.

As far as Hektor knew, his wife and two children were blissfully preoccupied by frivolous dreams, unaware of his mounting panic. He envied them their happiness, wanted nothing more than a night of uninterrupted sleep after the last three weeks he'd had filled with persistent nightmares. It wasn't right that his daughter, an annoyingly chatty and foolish child who had been spoiled rotten by her own mother, had taken away his sole respite. It wasn't right.

Hektor had been exhausted for quite some time but never as furious as he was in the moments preceding the worst mistake he would ever make.

He snatched his great-grandfather's brass trench knife out of a hidden compartment in his desk drawer, rationalizing that he needed to punish Mallory for stealing his sanity from him. The brat would grow up thinking she could get away with doing all manner of evil things if he didn't put a stop to her wickedness quickly. Resolved to end the madness, Hektor roughly shoved his fingers through the holes of the knife's knuckle guard and padded down the stairs.

He slipped into Mallory's room, his stare glued to the vaguely child-shaped lump under the green comforter but his mind completely focused on the knife he was clutching behind his back. A sliver of moonlight peeked through the curtains in front of the two ajar windows on either side of Mallory's pirate ship bed, providing a meager amount of light. Hektor was grateful for the darkness, afraid that the sight of his sleeping daughter would dissuade him from meting out his preemptive punishment. Even now, he was unable to see her properly, but he was still beginning to feel the guilt poking at the back of his mind. He ignored it, though, and glided toward Mallory. But then –

"Hektor," a voice murmured from the right-hand corner of the room, and Hektor's heart – if that's what a person would actually call it – nearly leapt out of his chest. "I was wondering when you'd finally come down. I've been waiting a few hours."

Hektor's eyes widened in terror. He was positive he'd been caught, and by his wife, no less. Irritated with himself for having forgotten to check their bedroom first, Hektor bit down on his lip so hard, he drew blood. Idiot, he scolded himself mentally.

"Elaine, let me explain – " Hektor requested, frighteningly unruffled considering he had absolutely no explanation at all.

" – Explain what?" Elaine interrupted less calmly, hands planted firmly on her hips. "How you prevented our daughter from going to school this morning, on what was supposed to be her first day of kindergarten in Beacon Hills, all because you're a selfish bastard? Were you really so terrified of her being out in the world?"

Naturally, Hektor was confused, and what followed Elaine's questions were not answers but a pause so pregnant, it might have been in its third trimester.

"She said she stayed home because you were scared of her leaving you. You came in here so you could tell her truth, didn't you?" Elaine asked, the worry almost undetectable in her steady voice.

Hektor remained silent, unsure how to answer.

Elaine sighed. "I don't want to do this in front of her. She wakes at the slightest noise." Hektor assumed Elaine was gesturing toward Mallory, who amazingly seemed not to have woken up in the midst of her mother's rather loud accusation. "We'll discuss this in your study."

Elaine strode out of the room, and Hektor traipsed after her obediently, but not before quietly sliding the trench knife underneath Mallory's dresser. He would come back for it later.

Hektor returned to his study with an icy sensation spreading through his chest. Of course Elaine wouldn't want to shout at him about his attempt to "punish" their daughter right in front of the child. But if he knew Elaine the way he was certain he did, she would scream at him, throw things at him, and maybe even order him to leave under threat of his own death. His heart started beating furiously at the idea. Elaine was a force to be reckoned with.

"Sit," she commanded, perched on the edge of his mahogany desk.

Keeping his gaze fixed to his wife, Hektor slowly sank down onto the leather sofa across from her, wary of her apparent calmness.

Elaine wasn't going to scream or throw things, however. In fact, she had no knowledge of what Hektor had been preparing to do to their daughter three minutes ago.

"I'm only going to ask you this once, understood?" Elaine said sternly, and Hektor hesitantly nodded, the knife under Mallory's dresser flitting through his mind. "I want you to say nothing to Mallory. You've told me why we moved here, but if she knew…She's too…young to understand. We're her parents, and it's our job to protect her for as long as we can. You know that, right?"

Hektor swallowed. Once and then once more when the lump in his throat wouldn't go away. He was half-relieved his wife hadn't figured out his true intentions, but now the prickle of guilt he'd felt before was steadily developing into full-blown regret. Elaine always had this effect on him; she had mastered the ability to manipulate his emotions with just a few, simple words. It was simultaneously mind-boggling and infuriating.

Elaine continued, "You can't go down to her room in the middle of the night and think you're helping anyone by – warning her about something even you haven't grasped the full extent of yet."

"I'm as up to speed as I need to be, Elaine. And I'll tell my daughter any damn thing I please," Hektor immediately hissed, his fists clenched on his lap. He had no plans to do any such thing, but Elaine was insulting his intelligence, and that simply couldn't stand. "As a matter of fact, I'm so up to speed, I haven't had a wink of sleep in weeks. Were you aware of that?"

Elaine lifted an eyebrow challengingly. "You don't want to test me, Hektor. I know you too well."

Fuming, Hektor murmured menacingly, "You know exactly what I permit you to know. Nothing more, nothing less. You'd do well to remember that."

For a moment, Elaine looked like she'd been slapped, her eyes taking on a sort of fearful sadness. But the expression vanished before Hektor could be sure it had been there at all, and Elaine stormed out of the room, fiercely muttering to herself.

Thoroughly livid, she dashed into Mallory's room and roused the slumbering girl, declaring firmly, "Your father and I have talked it over, and you're going to school tomorrow."

Her word was final.

Mallory loved her new school. She loved chattering with the other kids while they colored together. She loved her teacher, Miss Rosiello, who read stories to her students whenever they asked politely. She loved swinging on the swing set during recess. But most of all, she loved Show-and-Tell.

She never brought anything in. The one time she snuck into her dad's study to find something, he yelled at her until she cried and then stomped around the attic for an hour, looking for a suitable hiding place his daughter wouldn't be able to crawl or climb into. (And he never apologized to her for his viciousness.)

No, Mallory loved Show-and-Tell for another reason.

"Miss Rosiello, can I go now?" a boy asked one Friday, about two months into the school year. He bounced up and down in his seat, eager to present his object to the class. "I've got something really awesome!"

"Of course, dear," she encouraged, absolutely positive that what he had would be interesting. "Go right ahead."

The young child didn't disappoint. He swung a pair of handcuffs around his skinny index finger and wiggled his eyebrows for dramatic effect. He got carried away, however, and they were hurled across the room a few seconds later. "Sorry. Sorry!" he cried, giving his classmates a sheepish grin.

He retrieved them from where they'd landed under a table in the back of the classroom but bumped his head against it as he was trying to stand up. All of the children laughed except for Mallory, who glared at them with as much contempt as a five-year-old could actually muster. They always found an excuse to ridicule this boy.

"Oh honey, are you alright?" Miss Rosiello asked concernedly, checking his scalp for a bump.

The boy nodded, splotches of pink covering his normally pale cheeks. He looked down at the handcuffs, willing his embarrassment to disappear. He'd only wanted to show the class something cool. "I don't think I wanna go anymore," he mumbled.

"I wish you would," Miss Rosiello urged. When he wouldn't look up, she backed off. "But you don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, wait!" Mallory interjected, studying the boy and his handcuffs with acute interest. "I wanna see those!"

Once one of the other girls' giggles had subsided, she called out, "Yeah, me too!"

"Show them! Show them!" a boy in the front row chimed in.

Emboldened by their persistence, the lively child stood up straight, strutted to the front of the classroom, and started babbling away. "My dad said he's a deputy at the Beacon Hills Police Department and that he stops bad guys from getting away with these. They're called, 'Han Coughs'," he mispronounced, and Miss Rosiello had to contain her mirth. Oblivious to this, he continued, "His job is really cool and he gets to drive around in a car with a siren that he lets me play with sometimes. I wanna be just like him when I grow up!"

Mallory listened avidly as he spoke. Most of the kids were disappointed that Miss Rosiello wouldn't let them wear the handcuffs when the young boy passed them around, but she asked him anyway, "Can I put those on?"

He nodded vigorously, producing a key from the pocket of his small khakis and unlocking the cuffs. Mallory peered over his shoulder to make sure Miss Rosiello was occupied with the other kids before putting the handcuffs on and clicking them shut. She didn't tighten them but rather tugged her hands apart to test their capacity to restrain and snickered when they slipped off her petite wrists. The boy moved to catch them, but they clattered to the floor. He sniggered this time, thoroughly at ease with the girl who seemed to be more fascinated by the handcuffs than he was.

"These are so cool! But – doesn't your daddy need them?" Mallory wondered what he was using in their place.

"They have extras at the station." Then the boy whispered conspiratorially, "My mom bugged him for a whole hour just so I could have them for Show-and-Tell. She can make my dad do anything, even let me eat curly fries for breakfast on Saturdays!"

"Wow. Your mom's awesome, Stiles!" she praised with a bright smile, and the boy named "Stiles" grinned back.

"Yeah, she – You know my name?" he interrupted himself to ask incredulously. He hadn't spoken to Mallory before; he'd wanted to on numerous occasions because she seemed so nice, but he'd never quite plucked up the courage.

"Yeah, silly. I've only heard it, like, a bazillion times," she laughed. "It's an awesome name! I wish 'Stiles' was my name!"

"Nuh-uh. 'Mallory' is so pretty," he complimented, making her redden ever so slightly. "Besides, 'Stiles' isn't even my real name."

This piqued Mallory's interest. "Oh yeah? What is?"

Stiles averted his eyes and scratched the back of his neck. "You'll make fun."

"No, I won't," she promised sincerely.

"Everybody else did. On the first day of school," he admitted, thinking about the agonizing ten minutes he'd spent listening to the other kids mocking him. Mallory was already friendlier than he predicted she'd be, but he was fairly confident his real name would be a deal breaker. If she'd be his friend, Stiles was perfectly willing to go his whole life without telling her.

"Everyone else is a butthead, then."

"It – it's hard to say it right," he stalled, even though she seemed genuine enough.

"I can do it!" she assured him, and he hesitated for a moment, but ultimately shook his head. "Why don't we trade? If you tell me your name…" She paused, tapping her chin and thinking of what would make the deal fair. "I know! If you tell me your name, I'll lick anybody that ever makes fun of you again."

"You'd really do that?" His eyes twinkled hopefully. It almost sounded like she didn't care about getting in trouble with the teacher, as long as it meant someone was standing up for him.

"Sure! I'd do it anyway, since they're mean to you all the time. But I think a trade's better." She nudged him playfully, and Stiles simply couldn't resist. He leaned over and whispered it in her ear, causing her to blurt out, "Whoa! That's the best name ever!" followed by "Oops! Don't worry, I won't say it."

They pinky swore to make the deal official and then spent the afternoon playing and chatting. They swung on the swing set during recess, talking more about Stiles's dad and then about his mom, a pediatric surgeon at Beacon Hills Hospital ("a doctor who puts kids' insides back together" were his exact words, though). He told Mallory about Claudia's warm hugs and how her floral perfume was his favorite smell in the whole world and that she never discouraged his sadness by saying things like, "Boys don't cry." They discussed their favorite colors (his was blue and hers was green), their mutual love of puzzles and curly fries, and how the Kostas had only moved to Beacon Hills a little over three weeks ago.

"Oh! So that's why you weren't here before," Stiles remarked. "Where'd you come from?"

"A place called 'Cuneticut'. We had to leave 'cause of my dad's job. He's a teacher like Miss Rosiello," Mallory answered boastfully.

"Does he teach here?" Stiles asked, twisting his swing around as if he'd find Mr. Kosta somewhere on the playground.

"Nuh-uh, I wish. He's at the big kids' school down the street," she stated, referring to Beacon Hills High School. Beaming proudly, she started raving about her father. "He's the smartest guy ever! And it's nice 'cause he's always here to pick me up on time. You can meet him today if you wanna. You'll like him. He says everyone's name right on the first try!"

Stiles wondered briefly if he was imagining her, but then her soft laughter rang through the air, giving him the loveliest goosebumps. And later, when Mallory licked three other kids, she got in trouble with Miss Rosiello and had to sit quietly in a corner during snack time. That was definitely real.

Stiles couldn't believe his luck: everybody liked what he'd presented for Show-and-Tell that day, and the girl he'd been too shy to talk to until just a few hours ago was surely now his friend.

When the school day was over, they waited dutifully for Hektor, both of them keen on Stiles meeting him. He had to be great if he was her dad.

But forty-five minutes passed and he still hadn't arrived. He hadn't called ahead to let Miss Rosiello know he'd be late, either, so Mallory began making excuses, trying to hide her unease. "He's probably helping one of his kids and just…forgot."

"Yeah, sure," Stiles agreed half-heartedly, unable to picture anyone forgetting Mallory, let alone her own father.

Miss Rosiello called the high school asking for Mr. Kosta, but the principal's secretary told her that he never came back from lunch. It was 4:15.

Stiles waited patiently the whole time, but it made him sad how unmistakably worried Mallory was, staring at the ground and gnawing away at her upper lip. He rested his hand on her forearm the way he'd seen his mom do with his dad when he was upset and delicately mentioned his house being a few blocks from the school. Ten minutes later, she took him up on the offer to have his mom pick them up, when it became clear Hektor truly wasn't coming. She left Beacon Hills Primary School with a frown that Stiles found himself very annoyed with her father for.

How he felt about Hektor Kosta didn't matter, though. Stiles wasn't going to meet him, and Mallory wasn't going to see him again. Not for a very long time.