Sheriff's POV- October 23

The smell of smoke hung thickly in the air. The sky was dark gray, the sun unable to penetrate the dense clouds. Not a bird sang, not a dog barked; the animals could smell death just as clearly as any human. Crescent Hall was one of the quaint, luxurious neighborhoods of Beacon Hills. The houses and small apartment complex were neat and well cared for. The lawns were a rich evergreen even in the midst of autumn and winter; the trees were always groomed; the hedges that lined the perfectly painted fences were always trimmed; the roofs were all shingled; and not a yard was without a tiny garden of sorts. This was a place where children road their bicycles freely, hands and faces sticky with sweets. This was a neighborhood where doors remained unlocked through the night, where neighbors had keys to houses. He'd never had to come out…until today.

Just from his position in the patrol car, John could clearly see the shell of the Crescent Hall Apartments, charred rubble littering the ground at its feet. A fire truck was parked just on the curb, its hoses still connected to the fire hydrant spraying at the last few flickers of flames. Hilary and a few other deputies had already stretched the bright yellow crime scene tape around the dilapidated building and were gathered in a somber huddle on the curb. A small crowd of civilians had begun to form, whether curious gossip mongers or concerned citizens, he didn't know or care. The Medical Examiner's van was there, the middle aged woman and her assistant staring at the scene with placid faces. Death was no stranger to their eyes.

John sighed, unable to remain in his vehicle any longer scoping out the details. He stepped out into the morning the air stung at his eyes. He coughed and paused to recollect himself. A few people were murmuring now and pointing in his direction. He tipped his head in acknowledgement before turning to the grim scene ahead of him. What is your story? He wondered. Now that he was in the loop of all things supernatural he couldn't help but question the crimes he dealt with. Was this a product of the "war" between the wolves and hunters? He certainly hoped not, for if anyone innocent had died the hunters would hang.

He walked over to his deputies, motioning for the M.E and fire fighter chief to follow. Hilary perked up and nearly ran to him, swinging her arms around his neck. He was startled, but returned the gesture. The other deputies watched with amused expressions which he shook off; now was not the time to discuss interrelations in the sheriff department. She broke off the hug, stepping back looking slightly abashed. John noted the dark circles forming beneath her eyes, the frantic jerks of her eyes as she looked around her, the frown creasing her face.

"First crime scene Hilary?" he asked so that only they could hear. There was no reason to put the girl on the spot in front of other seasoned cops. She nodded gently, eyes sweeping back to the shell of a building, a shiver racing up her spine.

"The call came in early this morning at around five thirty am. Jones and I were the first to arrive on scene, but the fire was out of control. The firemen came around seconds after we did, but they only just got the flames under control when we called you about seven fifteen. We haven't approached anything yet; we wanted you to lead."

John took in the brief information, his eyes drawn to the crowd. He gestured to them before turning back to his crew. "Do any of those people live in this building?"

Jones spoke up. "A young woman and her two sons, just there behind the crowd. They're the ones who called I believe. The others scattered or…" his voice trailed off eyes landing on the smoking apartment building. John hoped they'd scattered.

"Okay, take them to the hospital to be examined, and then I want them questioned individually. I need to know if they heard or saw anything suspicious." He sighed, eyeing the two small boys and imagining the brutal repercussions this fire would have on them. He imagined Derek Hale and all that had changed about him. Had these young boys lost friends? Loved ones?

"You think it was arson? How can you tell?" the deputy asked skeptically. John wished he could answer that question himself, but all he knew was his gut instinct, and right now it was screaming arson. Sadly, instinct wasn't enough to go on.

"Just covering all the bases. Now get on it before a reporter gets to them or something." The deputy nodded and walked briskly to the woman. The sheriff watched him leave before turning back to the others. "As for the rest of you. Tonkin, Wallace, I need the both of you to track down any and all people who lived in these homes; they all need to be pulled in for questioning. Chuck, Harry, I want you to comb through this scene with a fine toothed comb; anything and everything is possible evidence. Hilary, you, Ms. Carmichael, Mr. Hugh, and the fire chief are with me."

The team nodded and broke off to accomplish their given tasks. The sheriff pulled on gloves and shoe covers so as not to damage any potential evidence as they approached the carnage. The fire chief was taking the lead, pointing out the safest path for them to follow and weak points in the structure. Hilary paused to take snap shots, labeling each and stowing it away in a special forensic kit. They pulled masks over their mouths and nose; the burnt wood had begun to burn at their throats.

Finally they stopped outside of an apartment charred so horribly the ceiling looked as if it would cave in. The door was completely gone, the mouth of the apartment gapping open in a horrid scream of agony. This was where it began, he thought to himself. If there were any clues as to what happened, it would be here.

The fire chief held his arm out, cautioning them. "From here on out we proceed with absolute caution. If I say get out you haul ass out of here. Understood?" They all nodded, identical masks of determination on their faces.

The chief stepped in first, the M.E and her assistant following behind. Hilary paused at the threshold, unsure about entering. John remembered his first day on the job, his first official crime scene. Television had glorified the life of a cop, crafting it into a world he thirsted to be a part of. But when he starred down the barrel of the gun and into the cold eyes of a murderer he realized how very wrong he was. He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly. She turned to look at him, bottom lip trembling slightly. He swallowed, focusing only on her vulnerable eyes. He used his to convey what they could never say in public, let his touch ease her discomfort.

She smiled graciously and stepped into the void of darkness, soot billowing at her feet as she walked. John had one foot inside of the doorway when he suddenly felt cold. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and his gut was twisting uncomfortably. He was being watched. He looked over his shoulder, eyes sweeping the crowd of spectators. A few were looking at him, but there was one particular pair of eyes he was searching for. He spotted it suddenly, just at the edge of the crowd, a brief flash of white. He blinked and it was gone, taking with it the eerie sensation.

Shivering, he hurried into the burned apartment, following the sound of voices to the kitchen. He immediately paused, taking in the picture before him. The fire chief and Hilary were pressed as close to the wall farthest from the table as possible; the M.E's assistant was staring at the ceiling in prayer, whispering to the Heavens; the M.E herself was already at work examining one of the bodies. There were four half charred bodies slumped over the table, their decaying flesh already peeling. The stench of death and gasoline and smoke made him retch, but he managed to hold onto the flimsy breakfast he'd choked down on his way over. Three victims….

"Doc, please walk me through this." His voice sounded odd to him, far away. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew they'd find a victim here, just like he knew this was no accident.

The M.E, Jessica Carmichael, paused in her pre-examination, wiping sweat from her brow. It was still baking in the apartment, as if the flames were invisible. Black smudges of soot smeared over her forehead and she looked at the cadavers with sad gray eyes, her lightly pink lips turned down at the corners. "These poor souls were apparently eating when the fire started. They came home after a long day, probably joked and watched television, showered, and then settled in for supper." She shook her head and went to the first body, closely examining him.

John leaned in closer, studying the hands and feet in particular. "They weren't tied down. What sane person would sit and let themselves burn to death? Why didn't they run?"

Jessica sighed and looked at him with haunted eyes. " I'm afraid they couldn't have run even if they wanted to."

He said nothing, waiting for further explanation. She didn't disappoint. Her long fingers, delicately cupped the crown of the head and chin, and she tenderly pulled it back, exposing the neck. Most of the facial features had been completely burned off, but the neck was red ad angry. Puss was leaking from the bloated body part. Her index finger delicately prodded it. "This young man's throat was sliced open, and pretty deep too. It looks as if he was almost decapitated. The vertebral, internal, and external arteries are completely severed, as well as the jugular vein. He would have bled out in minutes if he were that lucky. The poor kid never had a chance." She shook her head and lay his head back on the table.

John stared in horror at the victims, the unanswered question hanging in the air. "So all of these people were murdered before the fire. Can you tell exactly when?"

She sighed in frustration and shook her head. "The best I can offer is that they were killed only minutes, maybe twenty or thirty before the fire started, but it's difficult to nail down an exact time. Sheriff, do you notice anything about their bodies?" She gestured to the victims.

The sheriff winced as he did so, but he reached out to touch the burned body. He almost jumped back; it was cold to the touch. He looked up at her. "What the hell?"

She nodded absently. "The skin isn't receptive to temperature change. If our victim was alive, they wouldn't have felt anything."

"How can that be? What can basically freeze the nerves like that?" he was looking at them all, as if the dead could provide a suitable answer.

Jessica looked him dead in the eyes. "It is a substance that breaks down the neurotransmitters for hours, maybe days. It can cause paralysis, maybe even death if too much is ingested. Sadly, I am not familiar with the name, but we have seen this before. It is the same substance found around some scenes earlier last spring."

John's head snapped to the dead bodies, bile rising in his throat. The putrid smell of roasted, decaying flesh was suddenly overwhelming, his head suddenly spinning. He swallowed shakily, the true horrors of the crime sickening him. He could just imagine it. They sat down, possibly chattering about nothing in particular, just idle chatter. They start to eat, chewing carefully so as to fully exploit the meal. After the second or third bite their faces would screw up in confusion, their chew more deliberate. The question would race through all of their minds; what was off about the taste? Was it undercooked or simply spoiled? By then it would be too late. A cold numbness would creep over their muscles and flesh, freezing them forever in that moment of confusion and fear. They would no doubt try to move, to scream, but it would be futile. And then the master behind the deed would slink from the shadows, a wicked smile in place. He would force the head back, staring down into the frightened eyes of their pray while slicing his throat. They would stand there and watch their blood drip onto the table. And then they'd let the head fall with a thud to the table, moving to each person in turn. The others would be frantic at this point to escape, their blood roaring in their ears, though they know that their only escape is already sealed within the jagged blade of the knife…

He clenched his fists, fury rising within him. Whoever this person was, they were ruthless and more dangerous than any criminal anyone else he'd ever dealt with. This person was not only a pyromaniac, but they knew of the supernatural, knew of the dark secrets of this town. Already he was running through a list of possible suspects. Dr. Deaton seemed unlikely, but all bases had to be covered; the Argents were also suspicious, though he doubted Allison or Chris had done this; the rogue hunters were a possibility, though why they would target random strangers he didn't know. What he did know was that this was technically out of his jurisdiction now; he'd have to call in the wolves.

John sighed and turned to the fire chief and Hilary, both of whom were ashen and sick looking. "Deputy, go check the progress of the others. Chief, take me through the rest of the apartment."

Hilary looked close to protesting; he understood. It was tough to be a female cop, especially a young female that looked as fresh as the morning sun. By principle she had to be more durable than the men that dominated the profession. But she was human. Her revulsion trumped her resolve and she hurried from the apartment. He watched her leave before turning and motioning to the fire chief.

The chief nodded stiffly, stepping carefully into the hallway, feeling his way through. The sheriff followed behind, eyes sweeping over anything that might be important evidence. They didn't speak, memories of the last arson/ homicide no doubt circling through their heads. The charred rubble crunched under their feet, the smell of ripe flames and murder etched in the walls and foundation. John squeezed his eyes, remembering the terrible scene the next morning, the two children that had lost everything. He could still see the dead, haunted shadow in the young boy's eyes; the cold, lifeless voice; the dejected slump of his shoulders as he was towed away by his barely legal sister. It was a memory he would carry with him to his grave.

The first two rooms weren't safe for entrance, much to John's frustration. What possible evidence was buried in the smoldering ashes? He could send Derek and the others-excluding Stiles- back to investigate later if needed. He put that on his mental to do list and moved on to the next room. Even with the damage, it was obvious the room was furnished with only the bare necessities. Something that resembled a bed frame was pressed against the eastern wall, a chest of drawers opposite it. A desk and bookshelf were on the adjacent wall. They carefully picked their way through the bedroom for anything that could offer some clue as to who lived here. They found it.

The sheriff slowly picked his way to the chest of drawers, opening each and inspecting it carefully. There were a few articles of burnt clothing, and other knick knacks. John bagged them all to be taken to the crime lab and examined for evidence; criminals always slipped and left something. The second drawer was completely empty, as though it had been stripped of its contents. John made a mental note of that as well and continued his search. He was so engrossed in his task that he was startled and thus jumped a foot in the air when the chief tapped on his shoulder. He turned to him quizzically, feeling foolish for jumping. The eerie setting was getting to him, especially since he alone knew the culprit was related to an even darker mission.

"Sheriff…I think you'd want to see this…" he gestured wordlessly towards the bed frame where a few boards had been pulled up, leaving a gaping hole in the floor. He stood and dusted his knees before walking over and peering inside. A little metal box sat in the dark ashes, charred and rusted in some places, but otherwise intact. He reached inside and carefully lifted it out, his stomach knotting. What were the odds that something important would be in here? He lifted the lid and shifted through the contents. There was really nothing but a small photo album, the picture of a smiling baby boy on the front cover. His gut twisted uncomfortably. Was he looking at the picture of a victim?

He flipped the little black book open and nearly dropped it. The first picture was a family portrait. The first thing he noticed was her luminous blonde hair and alluring green eyes. They were set in creamy white skin with only faint traces of makeup on her full lips and cheekbones. Cradled against her bosom was a laughing toddler with dark brown hair and innocent chocolate eyes. The child, which reminded him so much of Allison, clung to the woman with a small fist. Beside them stood what John could only describe as a stud. The man was physically built and had looks that brought him to shame. The Argent family smiled proudly at the camera, unaware that in a few years their lives would change forever. His thumb traced the image of Kate Argent. What had turned this young and beautiful mother into a cold blooded killer? Had it always been there lurking behind her flirtatious eyes and dazzling smile?

John closed the book with an audible snap, suddenly feeling sick and in dire need of fresh air. He excused himself and walked quickly out of the room. He passed by the kitchen, noting that two of the bodies were already zipped in body bags. He held back the bile in his throat and rushed from the apartment. The blast of autumn air was a saving grace, if only for a moment. The sun had vainly begun a battle with the embankment of clouds, a few rays breaking through every now and again. The small crowd had grown some in the time they'd been inside, a news van nestled among the sea of cop cruisers. He swallowed and stole down the stairs before he could be spotted. He need to make a phone call.

The asphalt crunched beneath his shoes as he made his way to his cruiser, grateful that it was far from the public eye. He slipped into the driver seat and took a long gulp of water. He squeezed his eyes and took steadying breaths to calm his rapid heartbeat. He'd been Sheriff for years now, had gone toe to toe with the worst humanity had to offer. But that was it wasn't it? He'd dealt with the humans, but this was a different matter entirely. In this the stakes were higher, the players deadlier and merciless. In this game he battled mythical creatures and humans who murdered innocents based on a twisted resolve that it was necessary. His fingers traced the smiling baby on the front of the photo album. Could this young boy be a monster? Or was he just a pawn in a dangerous game? John only hoped they'd be able to save him because he refused to let a child die.

Someone tapped on his glass and he looked up, startled and weary. A young albino girl stood at his window, her face screwed up in pain and distress. He rolled down the window. "What's the matter? Are you looking for someone?" The back of his neck tickled again and he suddenly felt uneasy. His instincts were telling him to call back up, drive away, and get the hell out of dodge. He shook it off. What harm could a young girl do?

She shook her head and her expression changed. Before he could even register what was happening the weapon was already pointed directly at his heart, a cruel smile twisting her lips. "Now you be a good officer and hand over that little book." She motioned to the photo album in his lap.

His mind whirred trying to figure a way to signal to his deputies, but he was too far away, too secluded. It was obvious she was somehow a part of whatever was going on. Why else would she attack the sheriff? The photo album must be important, but for what he wasn't sure. It certainly tied the Argents into this, and he was positive that this girl was not a part of that family. He needed to figure out a way to tell Chris, to tell Derek what was going on.

The girl rapped on the door roughly, her eyebrows pulling together. He looked into her pale blue eyes and slowly slid the small book to her outstretched hand. She snatched it the minute the cool leather touched her skin, tucking it safely inside a satchel or bag. Then she returned her gaze to him, a sneer marring her face. "Thank you for your cooperation Sheriff. Sorry to run off, but, I have another pit stop to make. I'll say hi to your baby boy on the way."

John dived for his gun the same time he heard the tell tale bang and his side exploded in agony. He slumped sideways, an unnatural warmth coating his fingers as he tried to staunch the blood flow. He gritted his teeth and pulled out his cell phone, dialing frantically. He answered on the first ring.

"Sheriff?" Derek asked gruffly and somewhat sleepily.

John coughed, his vision swimming and head spinning. "Derek. Get them out of that school now. I've been attacked. Get them out of there." He coughed roughly this time, trying to sit up. He flailed and crashed back onto the seats, his phone disappearing somewhere. The world above him was blurring, the light harsh and unforgiving. He heard urgent frantic voices, even the vice grip of a smooth hand on his forearm, but even that sensation was slowly slipping away. Hilary's stricken face swam into view, but he couldn't understand her shouted pleas. And then Hilary was gone, replaced with a softer touch, one he hadn't felt in years. Her gorgeous, kind face hovered over him, clear and focused. She smiled and caressed his cheek gently. "Sleep. You're home now." And he obliged. He closed his eyes, Lilliana by his side.

Gabriel's POV

A loud bang jolted him awake. His eyes snapped open, his heart thudding madly against his chest. He pried his face off of the window, rolling his sore neck and shoulders. His throat felt raw and his stomach ached horribly. He attempted to swallow, only to launch into a frenzy of coughs. Grief was not his friend. Though he wasn't particularly fond of any of the guys, he wasn't cruel enough to dismiss their deaths either. Erin had called him immediately after she escaped the fire, though in the confusion she'd lost the others. Something about the message itself didn't sound right, but who was he to question her? What reason could she have to kill the others? He was certain without a doubt she'd kill him however. He felt it in his gut the first time they'd met. While the others were patronizing and bullying she was always in the background watching his reactions, as if breathing them in and reading his mind. And always she wore a twisted smile that promised menace.

He jumped, startled, when Erin appeared, jerking the driver side door open and sliding into the seat. She shoved the key in the ignition and twisted it furiously, her foot stamping down on the gas. Gabriel clenched the arm rests of the seat, heart racing nearly as fast as they were driving. Erin's eyes were wide and frantic, her hands pale white against the steering wheel. They pulled onto the freeway and she slowed, though she was trembling slightly, looking over her shoulder and biting her lip.

"Erin what happened? Why are you so shaken?" He reached over and laid a gentle hand on her arm. She jerked away as if electrocuted, throwing him a disgusted look.

"I'm perfectly fine Gabriel." she spat acidly. He recoiled, eyeing her warily. She huffed in exasperation and thrust a black book at him fiercely. He reached for it and paused, eyes fixated on her hands. He swallowed, looking up to meet her eyes. She was watching him expectantly, something off in her expression. "Is something the matter?" she asked sweetly.

Gabriel leaned back, pressing his body as far against the door as possible. Erin smiled and continued to drive. He bit at his lip, looking out the window at the passing buildings. The colors blurred, churning his stomach. Erin began to whistle and the hairs on his neck stood up. It was a sweet, melodic tune that dipped and turned, ringing high in the soprano ranges. But underneath the light air was a dark rippling current of evil. He could feel there in the small confines of the car.

Finally they pulled over and she killed the engine. He waited, heart thudding loudly; he was sure she could hear its thrumming against his ribcage. She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to him, her eyes piercing his. He gulped again, his throat suddenly scratchy. He'd never felt comfortable in her presence, even with the others around. The only word he could use to describe her would be lethal. She was a natural predator on the hunt, and he often felt like the folly.

She reached out and ran a soft hand down his face, an intrigued look on her face. She whispered something too low for him to hear, her nails skimming the supple skin just below his chin. And then her blue eyes snapped to his and he froze, paralyzed by the intense stare. "You know what I liked most about you Gabriel? Your intellect. You always seemed to figure things out better than most people. You could read people just from one encounter. I envy that." She smiled and dropped her hand from his skin. It felt as if he'd been burned. "But then again that's what I hated the most. Tell me Gabriel, what do you think of the blood on my hands? What do you think of the gun in my pocket?" and this time a cruel smile twisted her lips.

He wanted to run. His body was slowly unfreezing. She nodded satisfied and restarted the engine. "What did you do?" he whispered hoarsely.

She pulled back onto the freeway; that smile still firmly in place. "Business Gabriel. Business."

Melissa McCall's POV

In everything there were orders; procedures that helped things run smoothly. As a nurse she understood the delicate lives they held, and how anything not regulatory could cost them a patient. That was why she followed her job to the letter. Every bed pan was checked at the appropriate hour; every dose given at the exact moment at the correct percentage; every pillow was flushed; every record was regularly updated. Few patients had died on her watch, and she refused to lose anyone on account of her own foolhardiness. Emotions were left out of every job. It was dangerous to get attached to any patient whether stranger or friend. In a town as small as Beacon Hills it was a difficult task mind you, but they all managed.

But this time was different. This time she sat in shock beside the bed, clutching the victim's hand. This time she sat and each tick of the heart monitor reminded her of her own mortality. The suffocating smell of anesthesia and medicine hung heavy in the air. The wires and cables and cords protruding from his prone body reminded her that this was all very real and not a horrible nightmare. This time she wasn't looking into the face of a man she didn't know or an acquaintance. This time she was holding the hand of a friend she loved with all her heart.

Although she and John had never pursued a romantic relationship they coexisted as parents. John was a great man, someone she wished she had met years earlier when every mistake she made was catching up to her. He was no doubt a faithful, devout husband, someone who'd do anything without you asking; he was a loving father, always there hovering protectively and lending support. He'd been there when Scott's father decided to leave, had helped her stay on her feet the first few months after the divorce. She in turn had been there when Lilliana had died, consoling him and dragging him back from the edge for Stiles' sake. They were always good friends and that was how she saw their relationship.

And now, staring at him in this state broke her heart. John didn't deserve this. Stiles didn't deserve this. It was senseless violence and it was going to destroy them. She'd jumped the minute the call came through, ordering everyone within the nurses' station. No one questioned her. They'd wheeled him in to immediate surgery where she then slumped against the wall, contemplating how she was going to tell Stiles. The job of a cop was dangerous, but John had never been in this much danger before. Where would it end?

She sniffled and her eyes involuntarily swept over his face again. His skin was milk white, dark circles rimming his eyes. His cheeks appeared to be sunken in, sweat clung to his brow. He looked so inhuman, as if he were already dead. A shiver ran up Melissa's spine at the thought. John had always been her confident, her friend. She couldn't imagine a life without him in it. And what would Stiles do if his dad died? She remembered the first few days after she'd died. Not only had the boy run away, but he'd been admitted to the hospital for weeks. His panic attacks had almost killed him. If John died…she didn't want to think about the repercussions.

She wiped away the moisture from her cheeks and set about fluffing his pillows and adjusting his readings. The work helped her mind settle, but her hands trembled. When there was nothing more to do she sat and resumed her vigilant guard. The truth was she truly hated hospitals. She couldn't place her contempt. Was it the smell of anesthetic in the air or the beating of heart monitors? Was it the smell of sickness and grief or the cold complexes of the doctors and nurses? She didn't like the feeling of depression it cast on her, the constant reminder that one day she too would lie prone in a hospital bed with her son and family watching her waste away.

Melissa sighed, running a hand down her face and glancing sadly at John. She leaned forward and ran her hand slowly through his hair, squeezing his hand with her free one. "John you're going to be okay. You have to be." she whispered, bringing his hands to her lips. She dropped it and leaned back in her chair closing her eyes.

Author's Notes: so sorry about the wait for this chapter. I was in the hospital (again) and my internet was down. But as always, I hope to deliver a great chapter. I'm done with testing so expect an update tomorrow or Sunday. Review and enjoy!