Laura Hale's house was located in one of the nicer parts of Manhattan – a part that had probably become more upscale because it was fortunate enough to host said town house. Laura was a society darling, sometimes to the exclusion of all other things.

No one responded to Stiles's knock on her door, or to his ring of the doorbell, but the front door had been left unlocked. Stiles cautiously went inside, grasping his baseball bat, which he was refusing to leave the house without.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

The place was deserted. Not only was there no Laura, but there was no Scott, nor any other drone. Laura's house usually played host to a number of young men and a few young women, as well as piles of clothes and accessories left about the rooms. Most of the drones usually had a glass of some sort of champagne in hand and were generally chattering or laughing loudly. Even in the morning, someone should be around. The silence was all the more noticeable in comparison.

Stiles slowly made his way through the empty rooms. All he found was evidence of departure.

The only living thing on the premises, aside from Stiles, seemed to be the resident cat. Currently, the animal law sprawled across a gold and cream sofa, playing lazily with a tasseled pillow. Cats, as a general rule, were the only creatures that tolerated vampires. Most other animals had what scientists termed a well-developed prey response behavior pattern. Felines, apparently, did not consider themselves prey. This one probably could have tolerated a pack of werewolves.

Stiles heard a noise outside the room.

Derek Hale was drunk.

He was not drunk in the halfhearted manner of most supernatural creatures, where twelve beers finally turned the world slightly fuzzy. No, Derek was fall down, slurred speech, couldn't pass a breathalyzer if he tried, drunk.

It took an enormous amount of alcohol to get a werewolf that inebriated. And, reflected Chris Argent as he steered his Alpha around the side of an inconvenient shed, it was almost as miraculous a feat to attain such quantities as it was to ingest them. How had Derek done it? Not only that, how had he managed to acquire said booze so consistently over the past two days without visiting New York or tapping into Newark Castle's supply? Really, thought the Beta in annoyance, such powers could almost be thought supernatural.

Derek lurched heavily. The meat of his left shoulder and upper arm crashed into the shed. The entire building swayed on its foundation.

"Pardon," apologized the Alpha with a small hiccough, "didn't see you there."

"Dammit, Derek," said Chris in extreme annoyance, "how did you manage to get so drunk?"

"Not drunk," insisted Derek, throwing one substantial arm across his Beta's shoulders and leaning heavily upon it. "Jush a tiny little bith tipshy."

Derek pitched forward again and his grip on his Beta was the only thing that managed to keep him upright. "Whoa! Watch that ground there, would ya? Tricky, tricky. Jumps righth up ath ya."

"Where did you get the alcohol?" Argent asked again as he tried valiantly to get Derek back on track across the wide lawn of Newark's extensive grounds. It was like trying to steer a steamboat through a tub of syrup. A normal human might have buckled, but thankfully Argent had supernatural strength to call on.

"And how did you get all the way out here? I'm pretty sure I tucked you into bed before leaving your room last night." Argent spoke clearly and precisely, not entirely sure how much was getting through to Derek.

Derek's head bobbed slightly as he attempted to listen.

"Went for a run. Need to run. Need to – hic – needed to find a pool."

"A pool?" Argent asked, incredulously.

"No pool. Stupid pool." Derek tripped over a bush.

"Well, do you feel any better?"

Derek drew himself upright. Despite his straight back, the Alpha managed to sway side to side.

"Do I," he enunciated very carefully, "look like I feel any better?"

Argent had nothing to say in response to that.

"Exactly!" Derek made a wide and flailing gesture. Argent thought he rather looked like Stiles when he was took excited about something.

"He is wedged" – Derek pointed two fingers at his head – "here." Then he rammed them at his chest. "And here. Can't shake him. Can't get rid of him."

Derek looked at his Beta with wide, soulful eyes. "Why'd he have to go and do a thing like that?"

"I don't think he did." Argent had been meaning to have this out with his Alpha for some time. He had simply hoped the discussion would occur during one of Derek's rare moments of sobriety.

"Why did he lie about it?"

"I don't think he was lying." Argent stood his ground. A Beta's main function within a pack was to support his Alpha in all things – publicly, and to question his as much as possible-privately.

Derek cleared his throat. "Chris, this may come as a shock, but I am a werewolf."

"Yes."

"Two hundred and one years of age."

"Yes."

"I have a very keen sense of smell."

"I am aware."

"I could tell whose child the kid belonged to. Even if he hadn't been with them in years. I know the parents well enough that I'd always been able to pick a child of either of those parents out in a crowd. But both of them? There's no way I'm wrong."

Argent nodded. "But, Derek, that child was maybe two at most. You've been with Stiles for longer than that. It's not like he could have been touching her the whole time. How could he have gotten her pregnant then kept her human long enough to have a baby?"

"Well, he certainly figured out a way, didn't he?"

They finally made it to the castle and Derek was momentarily distracted by the task of trying to climb steps.

"You know," continued the Alpha in outraged hurt. "I groveled for him. Me!" He glared at Argent. "And you told me to!"

Argent sighed in exasperation. If he could simply get Derek to sober up, he might be able to talk some sense into him. The Alpha was notoriously emotional and heavy-handed in these matters, prone to flying off the handle, but he could usually be brought around to reason eventually.

Argent knew Stiles's character. He might be capable of betraying his husband, but it would only be to protect Derek in some way. And if he had done so, Stiles would admit it openly. Thus, logic dictated that he was telling the truth. However this child was conceived, it was not by Stiles's doing. Even Derek, pigheaded and hurt, could be convinced of this line of reasoning eventually. After all, he could not possibly want to believe Stiles capable of infidelity. At this point he was simply wallowing.

"Don't you think it's about time you sobered up?"

"Nope."

They made their way inside Newark Castle, which was no castle at all but more a manor with delusions of dignity. Argent was grateful to be out of the sun. He was old enough and strong enough not to be bothered by direct sunlight for short lengths of time, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

"So where are you acquiring the alcohol?"

Before he could answer, a tall blond rounded the corner. "Is he soused again?"

"If you mean, 'is he drunk still?' then, yes."

"Where is he getting it?"

"Do you think I haven't tried to figure that out? Make yourself useful."

Major Jackson Whittemore reluctantly helped his pack leader and steered him to the central staircase, up several floors and to his bedroom. They managed with only three casualties: Derek's dignity (which hadn't very far to fall at that point), Jackson's elbow (which met a mahogany bookcase), and an innocent vase (which died so that Derek could lurch with exaggeration).

The two werewolves managed, mostly through brute force, to get Derek into his bed. Once there, he flopped facedown and almost immediately began snoring.

"Something needs to be done. What if we have a challenger or a bid for metamorphosis? We should be getting more now that he has successfully changed a female into a werewolf. You can't keep Cora a secret in California forever." Jackson's tone was full of both pride and annoyance. "Claviger petitions have already escalated. Our Alpha should be handling those, not spending his days falling down drunk."

"I can hold the challengers off," said Argent. Chris Argent may not be as large, nor as overtly masculine as most werewolves, but he had earned the right to be Beta in one of the country's strongest packs. Earned it so many times over and in so many ways that few questioned his right anymore.

"But you have no Anubis Form. You cannot cover for our Alpha in every way."

"Mind your Gamma responsibilities and let me see to the rest."

Jackson gave both Derek and Argent disgusted looks and left the room.

Argent intended to do the same, but he heard a whispered, "Chris," come from the bed. He made his way to the side.

"Yes, Derek?"

"If" – the Alpha swallowed nervously – "if I am wrong, and I'm not saying I am, but if I am, well, I'll have to grovel again, won't I?"

"I'm not convinced groveling will be quite sufficient.

"Shit."

"That is the least of it. I think he is in a lot of danger."

But Derek had already gone back to sleep.

Stiles's baseball bat had been designed a prodigious expense, with a lot of attention to detail, and he still wasn't sure of everything it did. Despite its many advanced attributes, though, Stiles mostly used it through brute force applied to an opponent's head.

Thus, he left Laura's cat and dashed to the side of the door, bat at the ready. Every time he was in this room, something bad seemed to happen.

Curly hair, with attached head, peeked into the room, and was soon followed by a young man. Stiles was ready to swing.

"Who are you?"

The young man was wary. He cleared his throat. "Isaac. Isaac Lahey."

Stiles nodded and lowered the bat slightly.

"Where is everyone?"

"Laura left me behind to tell you something. A sort of secret message." He winked conspiratorially and then seemed to think better of the flirtation when the bat was raised again. "I think it is in code."

Stiles looked at him expectantly.

"Check the cat."

"That was all she had to say to me?" Stiles asked.

The young man shrugged. "Guess so."

"But where are they all?"

"Can't say. It's not safe."

Stiles's confusion turned to worry. "Not safe for whom? You, me, or Laura?"

Isaac paused. "Don't worry. It'll be alright. Laura will see to it. She always does."

When he left, Stiles returned to the cat. The only thing odd about the cat was the metal collar around her neck. Stiles unclipped it and realized a small thin roll of paper had been attached. He unrolled it.

He looked it for a moment and then headed back out towards his car.