When John finds him, he's spread-eagle on the forest floor, blood bubbling from three deep tunnels carved into his neck and shoulder. He's both neater and messier than Erica Reyes: Where she had blood and bruises and dark sloppy wounds, Vernon Boyd has exposed bone and missing fingertips.

He's caked in blood, not moving, eyes closed, and John's sure he must be long cold, but when he kneels beside him, the kid's skin is hot to the touch and he balks at the contact, lets out a hiss of breath, and opens his eyes.

They flash red.

John staggers back, watches Vernon Boyd gargle blood, writhing and seizing, and then tip sideways to vomit a spray of blood so dark it's almost black before collapsing again.

EMTs swarm the kid as John tosses Deputy Graeme the keys to get the space blanket out of the car. He's absolutely sure he saw it this time, but he's also lightheaded and spots are dancing in front of his eyes even as he looks away, and he has bigger things to worry about. Vernon Boyd is alive. There's a survivor of whatever the hell this is, and he might have all the answers if he can just make it out of this alive.

But he's also fifteen and he's so young, and there's tears in his eyes and pain contorting his face, sweat beading on his temple, on his upper lip and the hollow under his Adam's apple. He's still shivering with the blanket around him, and there are EMTs doing their thing all around him, so John just stands and paces, taking in the scene, until the kid's loaded into the back of the ambulance, air mask over his nose and mouth, and John finally takes a long, long breath.

"Sheriff."

He spins, finds Derek Hale just behind him, and curses for a full thirty seconds. Barely regaining his composure, he snaps, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You found Boyd," Derek says, eyes heavy with- fear? Guilt? John isn't sure.

"We found something," John allows, and Derek gives a tight nod and says, "Where did they take him?"

"The morgue," John lies, and watches Derek's face freeze for a split second before his brows draw together.

"Stop lying, Sheriff," he says with some force. "You want me to take responsibility? I'm taking responsibility. Now tell me where he is. Please," he adds, and it's more courtesy than plea. John huffs.

"I can't just let you interfere with this investiga-"

"I'm not planning to interfere," Derek says evenly. "Boyd doesn't have a lot of family. Less that keep in touch." When Derek's face softens slightly, John can't quite convince himself it's an act for his benefit. "He shouldn't be alone like that," Derek says. "I'm not perfect, but I'm pack. That still counts for something."

"Pack," John repeats.

"So's Isaac," Derek offers. "But it's a school night."

John's brow is as high as it goes. "A school-" He shakes his head, huffs. "You're a real comedian, huh?"

"I'm the closest thing he has to a guardian who gives a crap about him," Derek says. "I know that probably doesn't mean as much to you as what's on a dotted line, but if you ask me, Sheriff? Family's who you choose, not who you-"

Family. "That right? He chose you?" John cuts in, skeptical. "It occur to you that people who choose you nine times out of ten end up dead?"

Derek flinches and turns to stone, jaw and fists clenched, eyes empty, and for a second John thinks Derek might take a swing at him. Then Derek bites out, "Get Isaac over there, then. He shouldn't be alone."

"Isaac is-" Too young? Too scarred? Too busy conducting his own amateur investigation in the woods? John can't pretend he can shield the kid from the horror of this. At the very least they're friends, tied up in the same mess. It's gotta hurt seeing everyone around you get knocked down like bowling pins. At least Vernon Boyd's alive, he thinks, but he can't help add, thinking back to the state of him, the gouged flesh and exposed bone, For how long? And which is worse? Waiting at their side and watching them die slowly, their faces contorting to something unrecognizable, all wrong, too thin and sallow and pinched under the harsh hospital lights- or never getting to say goodbye at all?

"Isaac is all he's got left," Derek says simply, and John thinks of Erica's torn-up torso and the tears in Derek's eyes and nods. Nods again.

"Okay," he says, and Derek watches him like he hardly dares to breathe. "Isaac'll be better or worse with you there?"

Derek hesitates. Then he says, "Ask him."

It's a good answer.

John nods again. Again.

He pulls out his phone.


Derek's breathing gets harsher the closer they get to Vernon Boyd's room, and when John glances at him, he's actually trembling, gagging slightly like he can already taste the blood from here. He makes a point of stiffening when he sees John looking at him, sniffing sharply and regulating his breaths. John feels so turned around he doesn't know what to think. He can't figure out which part's the act and which part's the emotions Derek's trying to hide. In part the fact he's doing this favor for Derek means he does trust him, believe the broken looks and the unexpectedly exposed edges of him; in another, he tells himself, this is as much a test and a tactic as it always was, John watching living, breathing evidence and taking notes. It disturbs him that he can't just pick a position and stick with it, but better sure than stubborn and stupid.

The last couple of feet Derek practically skids down the waxed linoleum and shoves the door open, eyes wide, John quick beside him with hardly any need to catch his breath. Isaac's already standing by the bed, hand slightly outstretched just over Boyd's bandages. He startles at the sound of them, spins to face them, and looks behind John. Derek stands in the doorway, staring at the both of them, lips pressed thin, brows drawn together, and he leans slightly against the door frame like he needs the support. Then he straightens, swallows hard, and John says, "What do you know about the Alpha pack?"

There's no poetry this time. Derek's practically snarling when he says, "That I'm gonna kill them. All of them."

John believes him.