AN: I had so much trouble with this chapter, as evidenced by the fact that I haven't updated in way, way too long. Sorry about that. It just wouldn't come, and nothing I wrote worked.

AN2: Special thanks to Scoobycool9andLuckycool9 for informing me of Ms. Morrell's canon name. It has been changed appropriately.

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, mentions of illness, mentions of murder,

Disclaimer: I don't own "Teen Wolf".

Chapter Twenty-Five
The Art of Mourning

It feels weird, being back at school. Isaac shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting from face to face; trying to see if there's a threat here. He was shot yesterday. He was shot in the chest less than twenty-four hours ago, he was bleeding out and dying, and now he's walking to his locker like it never fucking happened. The only proof that it had the tiny pinprick of an already healing scar on his skin. It'll fade soon, Derek had said. Disappear completely in a few weeks or months because werewolves don't permanently scar, not even from wolfsbane.

Absently, Isaac runs his hand over it. He can feel the tiny bubble of raised skin beneath the cotton of his shirt, but it doesn't hurt. He doesn't hurt. He used to come to class aching from his father's fists, bruises from tumbling down the stairs, jagged wounds on his fists from trying—futilely, always futilely—to get out. But he isn't bruised now, no purple-black blemishes beneath his clothing, no crusty-garnet scabs pulling when he moves.

And he's not hungry. Isaac had always been hungry before. Because sometimes his father didn't want to spend the money to feed his worthless son who couldn't do anything right. Because he wasn't allowed to eat while in the freezer. Because withholding food made it easier to hit him, made it harder for him to fight back, made his struggles to get out painful and ineffective, made him slow and dizzy and compliant. But he'd eaten a good dinner the night before—healthy and filling and no one had said anything at all when he had quietly asked for seconds and thirds—and a full breakfast this morning—pancakes and eggs and bacon and toast that no one had threatened to take away from him because it was too much and he didn't deserve it.

Isaac doesn't hurt, and he isn't hungry, and he is not alone. He will never have to be alone again.

Stiles is with him. Isaac likes Stiles. Stiles is loud and energetic, and nobody ever tells him to shut up. Well, that's not true. Everyone tells Stiles to shut up. All the time. But nobody says it like they mean it, like they'll hurt him if he doesn't. Which is good because Stiles never, ever does. He's talking right now, to Scott. About the English homework Scott, apparently, didn't do.

Isaac likes Scott too. Scott always seems to be trying to do the right thing, even when it's a bad thing. Scott had killed the man who had given Isaac his newest scar, sunk in his teeth and ripped him apart. There's a kind of gratitude in that, in knowing that Scott—and the others of course, of course—would protect him if he could and avenge him if he couldn't. Nobody's been on Isaac's side since Mom died and Dad got mean and Camden shipped out to the war and never came back again. It means something that Scott had killed for him, for the Pack in general, but for him specifically.

Isaac's eyes wander over to Jackson and Lydia and Allison and Danny. The Pack they're not allowed to talk to during the day. To keep them safe. Isaac likes them too. Danny had stood over him after he'd been shot, Stiles said. Had stood guard with bared fangs and pointed claws that had just dared someone to try and touch him when he was helpless. Isaac has been helpless his whole life, and no one has ever even tried to offer him protection; not even amden in Camden was around to try. Jackson had bought him—again the whole pack, really, but also him—new clothes when his were ripped and torn and bloody, and had put his hand on his shoulder when he was embarrassed and ashamed and told him not to be, without ever actually saying it. Lydia had been there when he was shot, hadn't run out and abandoned them when she could have or outed them to the Argents. That wasn't for him, he knows. That was about Jackson and maybe Danny to a lesser extent, and Scott and Stiles to an even lesser extent that that. She doesn't know him, but she's helping them and she hadn't been unkind to him.

And Allison. Allison who wanted to help them, despite who her family was. Allison who is going to help them fight and kill people with her last name and her blood. Allison, whose hand he'd held while he read anguish in her eyes. A different type of anguish than the kind Isaac is sure she had seen so clearly in his own, but similar. Because Isaac had shed family blood for the Pack, too, if in a completely different way. It meant he was like her, or she was like him, and it made them pack. Not because Scott loved her, or because Stiles trusted her, or even because Derek was the Alpha and he'd said she was. She was Pack to Isaac because they were different and they were the same, and that maybe meant something.

The smell of strawberries and lavender brushes his nose, the cloying taste of sick tickles at the back of his throat, and Isaac looks away from the other half of the pack. Erica is walking in. She looks, well, like it's not a good day. Her arms wrapped around herself, eyes downcast, nervous little ticks in her heart when he listens close enough. It makes something in his stomach twist.

He likes Erica. She was always nice to him at the library. And she's beautiful when she smiles. She had smiled at him a lot, in the library, when she thought he wasn't looking and couldn't see; he had always been looking. He hadn't let her see, though, because it would have cruel of him. To let her see him seeing her, and give her hope that he'd smile back and they would do the things that other kids—normal kids—their age did.

Isaac couldn't do those things, even though he wanted to, with her. He wasn't allowed to be out of the house after five; he'd had to be home to make his dad dinner. Wasn't allowed out at all to anywhere but the library and school. He'd never been able to smile at her and say he wanted to take her out, hold her hand while they walked to dinner or a movie or anything at all. He wouldn't have been able to go.

He could do them now, if he wanted. If she wanted. He could ask her out; see if those smiles he wasn't supposed to see meant what he thought they did. He isn't confined within the house at the Stilinskis'. He isn't obligated to only go to school and library and never anywhere else. He doesn't have to be home to make dinner—the sheriff or Stiles usually do that, or order out, or pick something up—he doesn't have to stay once he's there. He could smile at Erica and let her see it. He could ask her to go to the movies, or bowling, or out to eat, whatever she wanted, and if she said yes, he could take her.

Only he still can't do any of that. Because he's a werewolf and there are hunters in town. And he doesn't want them to see him with Erica and think she's a werewolf too. He doesn't even want to think about her getting hurt because of him.

Isaac looks away before she notices he was ever looking at all; he has a lot of practice at that.

"You okay, Isaac?" Scoot asks, eyes soft and considering. Abstractly, Isaac realizes that Stiles had stopped talking a little while ago, had maybe asked him a question, and he'd been too busy in his own head to notice.

"Yeah, yeah. No, I'm fine." Isaac murmurs, head lowering out of habit, eyes tracing the cracks in the floor. He should know better than trying to lie, he knows that they can hear the little stutter in his heartbeat. But it's habit, instinct, to lie when asked that question. To pretend until he can make it true, or as true as it ever was before the Bite.

"You sure?" Stiles has his head cocked to the side, listening.

"It's not important." Isaac shrugs, because in comparison to murder and mayhem, his girl problems are nothing at all.

Erica shuffles past them then, the scent of her and sick and copper-blood coating the back of his throat, and Isaac whimpers before he can swallow the sound. Both Stiles and Scott have obviously caught the scent, concern flashing across their faces as their eyes dart to Erica.

Just as she seizes.

Isaac reaches out without thinking about it, catching her as she falls. She writhes in his arms, and Isaac whimpers again without meaning to. He's seen her have a seizure before, from a distance. She's in a lot of his classes and he spends hours at her place of employment; he's seen her have a seizure before.

He's never felt one though.

He rolls her carefully onto her side, still holding her because he can't remember how to let go. Stiles is rattling off facts he'd probably accidently learned from the internet one night forever ago, but the words are passing around Isaac without a hint of impact. His brain is screaming at him, just screaming, "Turn her on her side and don't put anything in her mouth!" It's the only thing he knows for sure, he remembers seeing it, hearing it, before. He hopes that this seizure doesn't end like that one had; not because he's worried about her peeing on him—though that's not exactly something he's looking forward to—but because he knows it would upset her. Shame her.

It isn't her fault, that her brain and her body don't work the way most peoples' do. She shouldn't have to be ashamed.

When it's passed and Erica opens her eyes again, Isaac smiles at her. A small, little, hesitant thing. It's the first time he's let her catch him when it's real, and he wishes the circumstances were different. Better. He wants it to be something he lets slip out at the library check-out or after she's said something funny and snide beneath her breath in class. He doesn't want it to be something she associates with her pain and fear and humiliation.

She blushes, eyes darting away from his, before slowly getting up without a word.

"Do you need help?" Scott asks, his puppy eyes out in full-force, brimming with so much good-intention Isaac can nearly feel it in the air around them.

"No. No, I'll just go to the nurse's."

"I'll, um, I mean, if you want...I'll go with you." Isaac tries to sound sure and confident, but he can't because maybe he'd misinterpreted everything. Maybe she smiled at him and looked at him when he wasn't looking because he hadn't laughed when everyone else had. Because he never made fun of her or ignored her or did any of the other stupid things lots of other morons in their class had. Maybe that's all it was, and he's not allowed to do things like hold her through a seizure or offer to walk her to the nurse. Or worse, what if she thinks he thinks she's a helpless little girl that can't take care of herself and she hates him for it.

Erica doesn't says anything though, just keeps her head down and starts off, and Isaac isn't sure if it's a brush off or tacit permission to come along.

He falters for a moment or two, trying to figure out the right answer, before deciding "screw it" for once in his life. The consequences here aren't horrible. If Erica wants to be left alone, he just has to apologize. This doesn't end with him locked in a freezer for hours or days, with him cooking food for his dad that he won't be allowed to eat, with him trying not to cry when the blows rain down. This is different, so Isaac needs to be different to.

He trots to her elbow, careful of her space. He understands how important space is. Doesn't like it when people weasel into his uninvited—pack notwithstanding; they are all pretty much invited at any and all times because that's something he needs and they need it too—he's not going to turn around and do it to her. She doesn't say anything, still, but her heartbeat picks up a little. He's not sure if it's a good thing or not; a lot of things make a person's heart rate increase. Some of them are bad and some of them are good, and Isaac doesn't know which one this is.

"Isaac Lahey?"

Marin Morrell flips through the file on her desk carefully. Isaac Daniel Lahey, sophomore, fifteen. Steady grades, holding at low B's and high C's with the occasional D. Second string lacrosse player. No attitude problems, though he doesn't seem to participate in class very much.

His father had just died. His father had died two days ago, and Isaac had run out of his English class and skipped every class after that. He had managed to show up for his afternoon lacrosse practice. This could be the start of a downward spiral, one she's seen before. A child loses one parent, or both, and suddenly things like classes stop being a priority. The kid feels lost and aimless, and it shows. Behavior problems crop up where they had been absent or become more prevalent, classes are cut, homework is ignored. They become violent or, worse, despondent. Their social circles change, usually for the worse. They start using drugs, or cutting, or stop eating.

Marin doesn't want to see that happen to Isaac. He seems like he's a good kid, from what she's read, if quiet. She sees that he's currently staying with the Sheriff, and that's good, at least. Better than the foster system at any rate. Much better. But while his new home will probably mitigate a lot of the problematic symptoms, it won't help Isaac actually learn to deal with the fact that he is an orphan; that everyone he loves is dead and he's still alive.

Marin is on her way to slip a note into the assistant principal's announcements asking Isaac to report to her office when she happens to run into the boy himself. He's walking with, or at least, near Erica Reyes.

"Isaac Lahey?"

"Yes?" He turns with something like dread on his face before he wipes the emotion away.

"Can I have a word with you in my office?"

"Uh…" Isaac's eyes start looking around nervously, like he thinks he's in trouble and needs someone to save him. In her peripheral vision, Marin notices Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall look their way and begin to move towards them. And, oddly, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, and Danny Mahealani look over as well before shifting so they have a clear line of sight on Isaac, her, and the two boys approaching with feigned nonchalance.

"Actually, Isaac was helping me to the nurse's office." Erica interrupts, eyes down, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "I, uh, I seized."

"Oh." Marin doesn't want to send Erica off alone after that. "Alright. Isaac, come see me after."

Stiles and Scott slow their approach before stopping completely, turning to talk to one another in whispers. Jackson, Lydia, and Danny are still watching warily; no, not warily, predatorily. Marin doesn't like this. She doesn't like it one bit.

"I, I don't want to be late to bio." He's shifting nervously, uncomfortable for a reason Marin can't quite figure out. She wonders if it has anything to do with the way the popular kids are eyeing him, if she should be worried about more than just the grief he's not letting himself feel.

"I'll write you a note."

"Um, yeah. Yeah, okay."

Jefferson's team had gone out yesterday afternoon to "get to know the territory" and hadn't come back. None of the five had answered their cell phones any one of the thirty-two times Chris had called them. Their vehicles haven't been located. Their bags of weaponry and munitions are conspicuously absent from their rooms at the local motel. Their clothing and other belongings are not.

"They're dead." Chris declares, watching the expressions of his men at the news. None of them look surprised. They can see the signs just as clearly as he can. "Well, 'missing', I suppose. Until we have bodies."

"You think the wolves took them?"

Well, that's a stupid question. What the hell would werewolves do with five hunters? They wouldn't need more than one if they were after information. No, the Hale pack didn't do this. Or, well, they didn't plan this.

"I think they wanted to go out and take down a werewolf before the rest of us got started so they could win some 'glory' for the Arwell family. And the werewolves took them down instead." Chris sighs, feeling the anger begin to build. Jefferson Arwell had been a decent hunter, if overeager and way too caught up on foolish notions of glory, and he'd been young. Only twenty-two. A fiancée back in Georgia, waiting for him to come home and marry her like he'd promised. And now he'll never make good on that promise. Because Chris had called him to war in a fit of hurt and anger, because he hadn't waited for the rest of them to formulate a plan of attack, because five men versus four werewolves are terrible odds and he hadn't cared.

Shit. People are dying now. His people, maybe some of theirs. Probably not though. Not yet; werewolves are strong and fast and Derek Hale isn't stupid. Even if the Arwells had used wolfsbane, Derek's been shot before and is still walking around; he knows how to treat the poison before it kills him or one of his pack. But Allison, Allison isn't a wolf; she's human. She doesn't heal like they do. Wolfsbane or no, cure or not, if she gets shot, she's likely to die. And if she does, just like Jefferson Arwell, if will be Chris's fault.

He's making killers out of children, human and wolf alike. And damned if that doesn't make him the monster in this equation. And he hates it, but it's too late to stop it now. They'd shed innocent blood when they killed Isaac Lahey's father, and they'd killed five hunters. Even if Chris wanted to renege the Argent call to war, even if he tried to end things before they spiraled even further out of control, the Arwells would call a blood debt of their own.

Whatever Derek's pack had been when Chris had made that stupid call, they're killers now. Rabid dogs lashing out. They're dangerous and violent and likely only to grow more so with each passing of the moon as Derek inevitably grows out his pack until all that's left of Beacon Hills is either werewolf or dead.

This is what he has made of them, and what they have made of him.

Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.

Let the hunt begin.