Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Beta'd by WithinHerHeart :)

Chapter Two

Life without Laura was different.

Strange would be a better word, really. She had always been there for him, hovering over his shoulder and knocking sense into him when he was being idiot. Of course, she still did all those things, but it just wasn't the same over emails and on video chat.

They emailed a lot, practically every day, letting one know what the other was doing. Laura told him about the new pack that had accepted them into their folds, about how she decided to go to NYCU to get her degree in nursing, about her job in the burns unit that she got when she finished the four year course.

She told him about her favourite patients – this male war veteran who had been a part of the Chicago Fire Department and had been caught in a blaze, who told enjoyed telling her stories of his adventures; and this little girl who had been caught in a fire when she was only a few months old and had severe scaring and burns across her body, and whose greatest ambition was to be a princess (Stiles decided not to point out the oh-so-obvious connection) – and about how terrible New York traffic was, especially in comparison to the non-existent kind in Beacon Hills.

She told him about Derek – something Stiles would deny he was interested in, if he were questioned – about his degree in engineering, about his civil engineering job ("He's building a bridge, can you believe it?") and his chronic lack of romantic relationships.

Stiles liked the pretend that he wasn't just a little bit relieved about that.

In turn, he told Laura about school – about his lessons, specifically how much he hated Chemistry and how he actually enjoyed his European History lessons, and how he had decided to take up lacrosse and Latin for electives (he may have missed out that the reason for that was so he would have something in common with Lydia Martin, but that was beside the point).

He told her about his dad, how he had been elected as Sheriff for the third time in the row, how his workload had increased and, although he was happy for his dad, he missed him. He told her about how he had taken up visiting Peter in the hospital, whenever Laura or Derek couldn't be around to see him, and would talk to him about what his niece and nephew were doing, just in case he could hear him – he never mentioned Belle, not really wanting to admit out loud that no one knows where his fourteen month old daughter had disappeared to – although he never really had any good news to tell her.

He told her about Scott and Lydia and Jackson, who was still a douche bag but since his girlfriend had started actually noticing him, even if it was only as a sort of friend, seemed to constantly be around him, and Danny, who he may or may not have made out with at one of Lydia's parties.

And then, on the anniversary of the deaths in their families, Laura and Stiles would video message each other. They'd grieve, try and comfort each other, pick some crappy sci-fi movie and watch it from their respective homes, laughing and complaining to each other, just like they always would, although it really wasn't the same. The next day, Stiles would always visit the graves, bringing flowers and retelling what had happened in Beacon Hills, with himself, with Peter, with Laura and Derek. He didn't think anyone knew about those visits, except maybe Scott, who seemed to know what he was thinking before he'd finished thinking it nowadays. He didn't have to visit the gravesites, would have preferred not to be surrounded by so much death and silence, but he felt as if someone should, and if it couldn't be his dad or the remaining Hales, then it would be him.

Laura and Derek rarely visited Beacon Hills after they left, maybe once or twice in the six year period. Stiles couldn't really blame them – they had important jobs that were difficult to get out of, and besides, for them, Beacon Hills could only be a reminder for what they had lost – although he still missed them. They'd spent a couple of nights at the Stilinski house, visit Peter and the graves during the days, before leaving again.

So when Laura showed up, out of the blue, one Tuesday when he was sixteen; well, he couldn't help worrying that something had happened.

"Laura?" he blinked, surprised.

She smiled nervously, brushing some long hair behind her ear. "Hey Stiles…" she greeted.

"What…what are you going here?" he questioned, "I mean, not that I'm not happy to see you because, you know, I am – six years is a long time to not see someone in person – why didn't you visit earlier? No, wait, don't answer that, it doesn't matter. Just…yeah, what are you doing here?" he finished lamely, very much aware of how much he had been talking.

But Laura just laughed. "Same old Stiles, I'm kind of glad," she commented fondly, "So do you mind if I come in? I promise to explain everything, just…not out here…"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, of course…" Stiles opened the door wider, taking a step back to let the older woman into the house.

They moved to the living room, dropping onto one of the old brown sofas, sitting on either end of the seat. Stiles arched an eyebrow questioningly, shifting in his seat. Laura pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of her coat, carefully unfolding and smoothing out the sheet. She laid it out across the gap between them and Stiles lifted it to examine closely.

It was familiar – of course it was, nothing interesting happened in Beacon Hills and he remembered most of the cases that passed across his father's desk down at the station. His father had spoken with confusion about the strange occurrence of the dead doe, so close to the abandoned Hale house. It wasn't public knowledge, because no one could really identify the cause of it, despite the insistence it was just a regular cougar attack, the only predator in the area that was capable of taking down a deer.

But how many mountain lions were able to engrave a spiral into the stomach of their prey? How many would take that much time to kill and display, instead of eating, like other predators would? Both questions he asked his dad, who had told him that there was little evidence that anything else would have caused it – "and besides," he had said, "animal patrol isn't really a case for the Sheriff's department."

Now, as he started at the photocopy of the police document (he wasn't sure he wanted to know how she'd gotten a hold of it), Stiles wondered whether he should have invested a little more time in his research.

"Does it mean something, the spiral?" he asked curiously, handing back the paper.

"In the human world, no, not one of importance," Laura responded carefully.

"But it means something in your secret werewolf world?"

"Uncle Peter was a symbolist, a really good one at that, and he taught me a few things before the fire, specifically those with importance to us," she explained, biting her bottom lip, "This symbol, this spiral, it's a warning."

Stiles sat up straight, his eyes wide. "A warning? A warning for what?"

Laura let out a frustrated noise. "That's just it, I don't remember. Death, I think, or something equal as bad. I was hoping I could visit Uncle Peter; see if maybe he can tell me anything that could point me in the right direction."

"Laura, you do know that Peter isn't…" Stiles started slowly, voice tinged with worry.

"Responsive, I know," she interrupted, "But he can still hear me right? Maybe he can give me some sort of clue, or a sign, something to point me in the right direction…"

Unlikely, Stiles thought, but didn't want to destroy her optimism. So he smiled and nodded. "Maybe. I'll help anyway I can. You need a place to stay right?"

"Well, yes, but don't feel like you have-"

"I don't; trust me, I'm glad to have you here. And dad won't mind, I'll just text him and let him know that you're staying," he told her, already digging into his jean pockets for his phone.

She smiled gratefully. "Thank you Gem."

To: Daddy Bear

From: Stiles

'Laura's in Beacon Hills'

To: Stiles

From: Daddy Bear

'The clean linens are in the hallway cupboard – you'll need to put them on the bed. I'm bringing pizza and curly fries for dinner.'

To: Daddy Bear

From: Stiles

'Meat feast, Hawaiian, and vegetable. And regular fries. Think of your blood pressure'

To: Stiles

From: Daddy Bear

'I have a loaded weapon – I'll get whatever fries I want'

To: Daddy Bear

From: Stiles

'Curly fires today – steamed vegetables tomorrow. Your choice'

To: Stiles

From: Daddy Bear

'I should arrest you for extortion'

To: Daddy Bear

From: Stiles

'You'd miss me :)'

She visited.

A familiar ghost of the time before.

Before the smoke.

Before the fire.

Before the numb.

Long dark hair; blue eyes wide and imploring – she looks like her mother. They all did, at least to his memory.

What little memory he had.

When she spoke, words soft and needy, seeking an answer, He snapped to attention, reacting to the untapped power, but authority all the same. Alpha. He silently whined his submission.

She was asking about signs, markings; symbols. Old memories, lost memories, memories he wished he could hold onto. Spirals, swirls. Secret meanings. Revenge. Vendetta. Justice. Words he could not convey.

Vague memory, something recent maybe. An animal, food, prey – deer, stag, doe. A message, very important, essential even; bring them home, back to where it all began, back so he can fix everything.

Need to correct it; get better, right the wrongs – revenge; his revenge.

Brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, daughter – his family, gone – dead, lost, burned, ashes. No arrests, no charges – perpetrator never caught – the injustice of it all. Anger grows, festering, darkening – six years of mounting pain. Uncontrollable.

She's still talking, begging, but he can't answer. Muscles won't move; nerves frayed; locked in his own mind – six years of this. Need to escape, need to heal.

She sighed heavily, disappointed, pitying – he didn't need that. She held his hand, felt the fleeting touch that hadn't been there months before, showed healing, improving, and wished he could squeeze back. He whimpered at the touch – touch of pack, family – not alone; too alone, for too long.

Don't worry… her voice was steady, gentle, understanding, just about comprehendible in his ringing ears, I'll find out the truth…

The truth.

Yes, the truth. Too long without it – everyone needs to know. Everyone would know; everyone would understand – he would make sure of that. He would make them suffer, make them understand – feel pain, hurt, grief – loss, so much loss.

They would understand. He had a plan, six years in the making. He couldn't stop now, wouldn't stop. Not now, not when everything was falling into place.

It was a week or so before school began again, and it was one of those lazy days where the five (however reluctant) friends could hang out, soak in the last of the sun. It was also the day where Stiles and Scott were supposed to be training to reach first string for the high school lacrosse team, although only Danny had seemed to be offering any kind of assistance. Not that it was surprising. Lydia was hardly a lacrosse player and Jackson, well, he was perfecting the tan he would need for the first day back.

Stiles swore sometimes that Jackson was just as bad as his girlfriend.

"So Laura's back in town?" Scott commented.

Stiles hummed, rearing his arm back to aim the lacrosse ball at the large net on the other side of the field. Danny, best goal keeper on the team, of course, caught it easily. "Yeah, I think she's visiting or something…"

"It's been six years and she's visiting now," Lydia arched a delicate eyebrow, "She hadn't even come down for the memorial service for her family last year, but she visits now…"

"Hey, Derek and Laura are trying to get on with their lives," Stiles automatically defended, "They have jobs and new lives, away from the memories of this place, and I don't blame them for it."

"You're too forgiving Stilinski," Jackson complained, "If it were Danny who disappeared for six years, and then shows up as if nothing has happened, I'd be pretty pissed off."

"Danny didn't lose his entire family in a fire," Stiles shot back.

"Well, they weren't the only ones," Scott reminded his best friend, "I mean, you may not have realised it, but the Hale's were your family as well."

Scott was right, not that Stiles would ever tell him that. He had thought of the Hale's as part of his world, and when they'd died, so soon after his mama, well, it hurt. He'd felt the loss, maybe not as much as Laura and Derek had and, after they had left, there was only Scott and his father to help him through all the grief that surrounded him.

And Laura was back, but not for him and, yeah, that hurt a little, but he did understand. She didn't want to be back in Beacon Hills – not with so much of her parents and her brother and her aunts and uncles and cousins still imbedded in every street – but she knew she had to be, because this message – this spiral – it was important, it could be one of the last connects to her family she has and who wouldn't want to find out the truth behind it? As expected, Peter had been less than useless, still unmoving, still burnt, so Laura taken her search to the library, returning their every morning and leaving late at night, just to find one little indication of what it could mean. So far, she had found nothing, but she was determined. Same old Laura.

But still, Stiles couldn't shake this feeling that it was…a trap. It seemed silly, but every time she spoke about it, announcing that maybe she had found a clue, his stomach churned violently and made him want to up chuck – but not his dinner, but words. Warnings. He had become skilled in repressing it. Even now, the very thought of the symbol and Laura's hunt made him feel uneasy, like something was horribly wrong.

Stiles breathed out heavily and flopped onto the grass of the lacrosse field, his stick laid out beside him. "Can we talk about something else please?" he begged.

"Are we still on for Friday?" Danny wondered as he approached the small group, dropping down beside Jackson, "Thai food and movies?"

"Yup, my mum's got the late shift so my house is free for the night," Scott announced.

"And I've got the movie list sorted out," Lydia stated.

"If the Notebook is anywhere on that list, I'm going to gouge my eyes out," Jackson commented.

"We'll see," she responded airily, brushing off the comment in a way that told them that the Notebook was definitely going to be number one on the movie list.

Danny turned to Stiles and smiled warmly. "You should bring Laura. It would be nice to get to know her properly."

"I'll ask her," Stiles promised easily, offering him a thankful smile. Danny always seemed to know what to do or say to ease the tension in the room, and make everyone feel welcome. That was why everyone liked Danny.

"Okay, explain this to me again," Stiles requested, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, "Why are we driving to the preserve in the middle of the night?"

Laura sighed. "I told you, Jenny, Uncle Peter's nurse, gave me a note from him when I went to the home. He wants me to meet him where we used to run. He said that he can tell me about the sign, what it means."

"So we're driving to the woods in the middle of the night, to meet your Uncle, who, I would like to add, was unresponsive and unlikely to ever fully recover only two days ago, but now seems to have enough consciousness to go on a stroll?" Stiles summarized. He glanced at Laura ludicrously. "You can't tell me this doesn't sound like a trap to you."

"You didn't have to come," Laura shot back.

"One, you're car has broken down. And two, you want me to let you walk into this completely alone? Uh-huh, you need back-up and since I'm the only one in this town that knows about all your freaky werewolf stuff, it's got to be me."

Stiles drew the Jeep to a stop, the hum of the engine cutting off suddenly and plunging them into silence. He made to leave the vehicle, but was stopped by a hand on his arm, the tight grasp keeping him in place.

"You're not coming with me," she told him firmly.

"Huh? Did you miss my speech about you not going in alone?"

"Didn't you say it could be a trap?" Laura retorted, "If it is, I don't want you to get into the middle of it. I couldn't live with myself if you got yourself hurt because of me."

"What about you?"

She shrugged and offered him a smile that he guessed was supposed to strike confidence, but really didn't. "I'm the alpha. I'll be fine." She placed her hands together, as if praying, and gave him a pleading look, "Just please promise that you'll stay in the car Gem, for me?"

Reluctantly staying in place, Stiles watched from the metal casing of the car as Laura pulled her coat tighter to her body and began the trek through the trees. With every step she took, moving deeper and deeper into the preserve, disappearing behind the cluster of wildly grown trees in a way that almost made it look like she was being swallowed whole by the darkness, his wariness grew. It swelled in the pit of his stomach, tossing violently and flooding his mind with 'what ifs', until he couldn't obey Laura's request any longer.

Something was just there, shouting and begging for him to find her before something bad happened.

He followed the path easily. When he was a kid, after he had found out about the werewolves, Laura and James had spent a lot of time teaching him how to track through every inch of the Hale property; where he could hide if need be; what was safe to eat and, most importantly, the pack run route which lead to where the pack meets. It was a little cove, tucked between large canopies of trees, shielding it perfectly from outside view. It was secluded and quiet, in the middle of the Hale Pack property line, and that was where Laura was meeting Peter.

Stiles made sure to stay down wind, just in case Laura smelt him and circled back to stop him (she'd done that before, scolding him loudly and publicly for being so obvious, and he had learnt his lesson since). He kept his footfalls light, carefully avoiding fallen twigs on the soil and when he caught sight of Laura's silhouette highlighted by the moon in the distance, he jerked backwards, hanging behind for a moment before curbing around the trees, making sure to keep a reasonable space between them.

Peter was already standing in the valley, his back to both arrives. Stiles watched from his place, hidden behind the trunk of a tree, as Laura carefully approached, hands hidden in her jacket pockets. She said something, her lips moving noiselessly, and frustrated, he moved closer to get within hearing range.

And then he froze.

Peter had turned towards the sound of his niece's voice, head hanging almost as if from a noose, awkward and unnatural, his mouth wide open and gasping for breath. He was still burnt, scared, and his pain was clear in the sharp, jerked movements as he stumbled forward, towards her. The sympathy that welled up within Stiles was quickly quenched when he released a growl, something that was gurgled and broken but conveyed only danger. It made his gut clench in panic and Laura took half a step backwards. Not far enough.

Peter reared forward violently, knocking the smaller girl easily to the ground. He snarled and snapped his teeth threateningly. Despite his upper hand, Laura was the alpha. She was stronger and was quick to roll away, crouching into a defensive position, eyes flashing in warning.

Stiles could see when Peter shifted into his beta form and attacked. His blows were hard and fast and, even with his disability; Laura couldn't defend herself against all the scratches, sharp nails shredding her jacket like a knife through butter. But she gave as good as she got, snarling and grunting her exertion. She kicked with her leather boots, kneeing and elbowing, fracturing bones, whenever possible. Her knuckles were bruised and her claws bloodied from their meetings with her uncle's face, neck and chest, imbedding deeply into the skin.

"Stop it Uncle," Laura ordered, her voice deeper and more animalistic, powerful and dripping with authority as she threatening to let her wolf loose. It was a tone that Stiles had only ever heard once, from Amelia all those years ago. It made the hair rise up on the back of his neck.

"I don't want to hurt you," she continued.

But Peter didn't abide, shaking off the alpha's influence in a way that suggests he had done it before. He moved forward with determination in every step, and calculating behind every offense – like he had learnt all her moves, Stiles realised quickly.

His movements were less frenzied now, more controlled, precise. Laura couldn't keep up, couldn't stop all the blows. Her angry snarls of displeasure became whimpers of pain; become cries of anguish when claws imbedded deeply in the vulnerable skin of her belly.

Every pore in Stiles' body yelled at him, begged him to help, to get help, anything that would stop the fight and save Laura from getting hurt anymore than she already was, that would save her life. The fact he didn't, the fact he stood there and let it happen, would haunt him for the years to come – his curse, his guilt, all well deserved.

But he honestly couldn't. He'd never seen werewolves fighting before, not like this. Not a real battle. He'd never seen the animalism reflected behind the strategic moves; the wolf's instinct to scratch, bite, kill strengthened by the human's need to hurt, mark, maim. It was terrifying, and Stiles couldn't move. His legs were frozen in place, and all his senses were on full alert, making his ears ring, his head ache, his heart pound. He could hear the squelching noise of slicing flesh; see every pain filled expression that flittered across Laura's face before it fell away, a mask in place, as she prepared for her next defensive attack; smelling the metallic tang of blood, weeping heavily from open wounds. A scream welled up in his throat but his lips refused to open to let it passed – don't want to get caught now, do you?

So he stood there, scared, weak, useless, and could do nothing but watch, at the mercy of the voices in his head, as his nightmares came to life right in front of him.

Peter had her pinned, Laura barely able to struggle through her extensive injuries, and he growling warningly at her. Laura whimpered her submission – something that Laura would never do – and went lax, accepting the dominant creature. God did Stiles wish she had kept fighting, wished he could fight, because anything was better than what happened.

Peter locked his jaw around her neck, bearing down slightly, like he remembered Derek doing to state his dominance over Logan, before he bit down harshly. He howled his pleasure as he ripped a chunk of her neck, blooding pouring into the soil and torn flesh hanging in a grotesque fashion from Peter's extended canines. Laura's expression, caught in the moonlight, was a mixture of surprise and panic, pain and betrayal, before it flooded into nothingness, a blank state, her eyes glazed over, signifying the end, her death.

Stiles wasn't aware he was screaming until golden eyes, sharp, vicious and hungry, turned towards him.

He didn't need to turn around to know that Peter was following him. Every movement sliced through the wind; his breath was loud and panting, echoing through the trees, and the little growls he made, like a dog eager for the chase, only succeeded in making Stiles move faster, legs beginning to ache under the unexpected push of muscles.

Stiles fumbled for his phone in his pocket, cursing as his shaking fingers struggled with the buttons. Got to call Dad, he told himself. He'll know what to do, he assured himself. He stumbled over a misplaced rock, his foot caught, and he landed sprawled across the cold ground. He scrambled to his feet hurriedly and the heavy weight, something landing firmly on his back, knocked him back to the ground. He cried out his panic and fear, maybe hoping that someone could hear him; could come and rescue him. Large paws violently rolled him onto his back and Stiles buckled in a futile attempt to get loose.

Peter's face, no longer recognisable beneath the scars and the half shift of his beta form that seemed to be slowly becoming more animal-like, terrifying and monstrous, stared down at him. His breath was uneven, the stench of staled blood wafting across Stiles' face. It made him want to recoil, and he probably would have if he wasn't so scared, if the large paws weren't holding him down, claws digging to make sure he wouldn't leave. The glint in his eyes was of sick glee, one that perhaps what really made Stiles' feel sick – how can you be so happy about killing your own niece? Your own family?

There was a moment of pause, so silent it was as if the wind had stopped blowing, the wooding animals had stopped moving, as if they had stopped breathing – before Peter snarled darkly, lips curling back over sharp white teeth, and he reared forward suddenly, lunging on his prey.

The last thing Stiles' felt before he passed out was the absolute agony that jolted through his body when teeth broke the skin, the sound of his father's fearful begs for him to answer sounding in his ears from his abandoned phone.