Chapter 2

Working up the nerve to ask Deucalion is harder than she thought it would be. She'd hoped for another chance encounter in the elevator, but it's almost been ten days since they exchanged barbed quips over cooking skills, and Allison is growing impatient.

The idea to intentionally seek him out, to knock on his door and ask for his help, is making her uneasy. She chides herself that it shouldn't scare her. If Deucalion hasn't made an active move against any of them since the eclipse, it seems unlikely that he would harm her now; the worst he's going to do is tell her no and send her back home to keep training with Scott.

She has nothing to lose, and yet she feels wrong-footed and awkward, standing at his doorstep.

He opens seconds after she rings the bell, making her wonder if he heard her coming. If he knew that she's been standing outside his door for a while, gathering her thoughts and preparing what she was going to say. Now, of course, all that's gone, her mind blank as a fresh, pristine white sheet of paper.

"I need your help," she blurts, which is not even close to how she'd planned to open this conversation.

Deucalion raises a mocking eyebrow. "You know, when I offered you cooking lessons, I wasn't actually serious."

She makes a face. "I don't want any cooking lessons." She's certain that he knows that, that he doesn't actually believe she's here to learn how to make a perfect soufflé. "Can I come in?"

He steps aside just enough that she can slip past him, but not without brushing against him as she squeezes through. She tries not to begrudge him the cheap intimidation tactic when a hunter has just invited herself into his home.

The apartment is large and spaciously furnished in a way that seems more functional than stylish. Allison wonders if he likes it that way, if he genuinely doesn't care, or if it just used to be convenient when he couldn't see. She isn't sure if the twins still live here or if they're even still in Deucalion's pack; she hasn't seen them in the building. But then, she never ran into them around here before. Maybe they're just sneaky, or maybe they're staying elsewhere. She makes a mental note to ask Lydia if Aidan has stayed over at her place more than he used to.

Deucalion clears his throat, and she guiltily twists around to face him where he's lounging on the couch, his eyes following her every movement. He doesn't offer her a seat. Apparently even his unfailing politeness has its limits. It's just as well; she feels too restless and uncomfortable to sit still.

She's still trying to work out how to phrase her request when he speaks. "Whatever it is you're here for, I'm afraid you could have saved yourself the trouble. I'm not going to get involved in any pack business. The last time I did... well, you were there for the fall-out. The time before that, one of my own tried to kill me to steal my Alpha powers after your grandfather blinded me. I want no part in whatever power struggle is going on now that Scott has risen to his full potential. So if he sent you to ask me to join forces with him, tell him I respectfully decline."

"Why would Scott send me? If he wanted your help, he'd ask you himself. I came for myself. Scott doesn't know I'm here. It's nothing to do with pack business."

"Is that so? I'm intrigued. What kind of help could an Argent possibly want from me?"

This is where she falters. He hasn't exactly been accommodating so far, beyond the fact that he didn't close the door in her face, and asking for help has never been her strongest suit to begin with.

"I'd hoped you could teach me a few things. Fighting, defending myself against a werewolf, stuff like that. I've been training with Scott, but he's not– He's going easy on me, and easy doesn't get me anywhere."

The expression on Deucalion's face is speculative. "Why would I want to do that? To give you the means to become a better hunter and kill my kind more effectively? It seems rather counterproductive to my interests, if you ask me."

"I'm not trying to kill anyone," she snaps. "But if Deaton is right, this town is going to be crawling with supernatural beings soon, and I assume they're not coming here for the sights and the atmosphere of peace and quiet. If it comes to it, I just want to be able to protect the ones who can't protect themselves." She falls back on their new code, but deep down inside, there's a nagging doubt she can't silence. Is it really about protection? What's going to stop her from using the skills she learns to hurt people, if the darkness inside her grows?

Deucalion chuckles. "Ah, the idealism of youth! I'd warn you that it's not going to last long when faced with the cruel reality of human and not-so-human nature, but you don't strike me as the type who heeds warnings." He rests his chin on top of his folded hands, idly appraising her. When she starts squirming under the heaviness of his stare, his lips twitch. "So... why not? I must confess that it does get a little boring sitting around playing house. Some good-natured fighting in the interest of improving your skills could be quite the entertainment."

She wonders if he deliberately gives his words the air of an insult so she'll storm off in a huff and back out. If so, he's in for a disappointment. She's planning on seeing this through, no matter how nasty he gets. "Okay. When are we going to start?"

"Well, no time like the present, is there?" When he stands and approaches her, she has to force herself not to back off. His smile stretches. "Unless you're not ready yet?"

"I didn't bring any weapons." She usually keeps a couple of daggers on her at all times when she can get away with it – which is pretty much anywhere except at school, because as much as she wants to keep safe, she also doesn't want to be suspended. She deliberately left them at home when she came here today, though, needing him to know that it wasn't a hostile visit. In hindsight, it seems risky and foolish.

"Yes, I can see that being a problem." His voice rankly drips sarcasm. "Imagine if I were a dangerous predator about to maul you. I'm sure if you asked nicely to let you go back home to get your crossbow first, I would put off killing any innocents until you're sufficiently armed and prepared for battle."

Allison flushes, feeling stupid. She knows he's right, but hand-to-hand combat with someone who so obviously physically outmatches her is only ever going to end one way. She remembers that she could barely hold her own against Scott without her weapons, and Deucalion is taller, stronger, and more experienced. For the first time, she wonders if this wasn't a terrible idea. What if he's not as reformed as Scott thinks he is? If he did want revenge against her family, she just handed him herself on a silver platter.

As if sensing her fear, he laughs softly. "Do I need to remind you that you were the one who came to me, asking for this?"

It's the taunting edge of his voice that makes her attack.

She goes for the usual vulnerable spots: his groin, his throat, his solar plexus. Her sense of self-preservation tells her not to go for his eyes unless she's feeling suicidal. It doesn't matter anyway – he blocks all of her punches and her kicks before she can even carry them through, and the one time she manages to score a hit that would have sent a human to his knees, he recovers within seconds, too quick for her to follow through.

He tries to kick her legs out from underneath her, but she successfully evades him and ducks away, her spirits lifting at what feels like a momentary advantage.

The next thing she knows, she's flat on her stomach on the floor, the force of the impact leaving her gasping for air as his hand at her neck holds her down. When she tries to kick back up, she feels his nails sharpen into claws, razor-edged against the vulnerable skin.

He effortlessly holds her down like that, with just one hand, until whatever fight was left in her has drained from her body. She lets her forehead drop to the floor and closes her eyes, the humiliation burning behind her eyelids like grains of sand.

Deucalion barely even sounds like he's out of breath. "Lesson one – and this is one your father or Scott really should have taught you already – when you're facing down an opponent you know you can't win against, don't try to fight to win. Fight to stall. It might buy you just enough time for reinforcements to arrive, or to find something you can use as a weapon after all."

"Let me up," she says, tightly, choking on the way the embarrassment mingles with fear, her heart racing frantically in her chest. What is she going to do if he won't? What can she do?

But the pressure from her neck is gone before she can start to panic, and when she sits back on her knees, he's offering her the same hand that was just holding her down to pull her to her feet. She wants to ignore it, but the way her entire body aches makes her swallow her pride, and his callused, large hand closing around hers is firm and strong and oddly reassuring.

He lets go when she's back on her feet.

"Come back tomorrow afternoon. Bring your weapons."

Their second practice session goes better.

She feels more comfortable with the daggers in her belt, safer with the arrows on her back, so much less vulnerable when she knows she has her crossbow to compensate for some of his obvious physical advantage.

"Come on," she goads him breathlessly, and his eyes glow angry red when he lunges for her, giving her what Scott refused to give her when they were sparring: a proper challenge

They both spill blood that day. She fires an arrow into his left shoulder that he isn't quick enough to evade. His claws slice the back of her tank top, leaving five deep scratches in their wake. One of her daggers – the same one she used on Isaac, what feels like half an eternity ago – gets buried deep in his side, making him temporarily stagger.

In the end, he still wins the fight, sending her crashing into a wall with enough force to make her dizzy, but she gets a couple of good hits in before it's over, and she feels more alive and brimming with raw energy and adrenaline rush than she has in months. She smiles around the coppery taste in her mouth.

With a barely noticeable wince, Deucalion pulls the broken arrow tip from his shoulder, and the skin starts knitting itself together almost immediately. His eyes are blue and human once again.

"Not bad," he says.

The odd sense of gratification she gets from his praise evaporates when he narrows his eyes at her, his nostrils flaring like he caught a bad scent. "Turn around."

"What? No. Why?" Every instinct inside of her bristles both at the authority in his voice as well as the idea to turn her back to him. She steels herself for an argument that never comes. Instead, he grabs her arm and spins her around, manhandling her so that she's pressed with her front against the wall. It happens too quick for her to react, and when she finally does try to dislodge his grip, he growls at her.

"I'm checking if the wounds were deep enough that there was a risk it would turn you. I thought that might be a concern of yours."

His words make her freeze up at once. She can feel her heartbeat all the way up to her throat. How could she not even have thought about that? Just the idea alone brings her to the edge of panic. Perhaps it's a trick of mind, but the gashes on her back have suddenly started aching more than they did just a second ago.

"I'd... prefer it if that didn't happen," she says carefully. It's the understatement of the century but it's obvious that he's not in the least fooled by her nonchalance.

"That's what I thought." A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. You might want to put something on those to avoid infection, though."

He steps away, and Allison releases the breath she's been holding.

Her father eyes the blooming bruises on her upper arm, purple and distinctly finger-shaped, with disapproval, and she resigns herself to the lecture that she knows is coming before he even speaks.

"Look, Allison, I know that you have to train, and I trust that you and Scott are perfectly capable of making a judgment call on how far you take your fight practice. But you've got to be careful. People are going to see those bruises and they're going to jump to conclusions."

She smiles a little too sharply. "I don't really care what people think."

Her father sighs. "I'm just saying... they're not going to see a hunter preparing for battle, they'll see what is likely a victim of domestic abuse, and it's bound to draw unwanted attention we don't need right now, especially after the mess with the FBI." He holds up a placating hand. "I'm not telling you to stop. Just... be careful about who sees those bruises, okay?"

Allison nods. Truth is, she hadn't even stopped to consider that, and she should have. Scott clearly had, and suddenly his reluctance to attack her seemed a lot less silly and unfounded.

Her hands skim over the marks, remembering Deucalion's fingers, human and clawless, digging into her skin the day before. She doesn't correct her dad in his assumption that she's still training with Scott.