Chapter Three

It all happened so fast. One second they were researching the DeBois pack, discussing what Derek knew about them and both thoroughly disgusted by the practices that were known - and even more so by the practices that were just rumoured - and the next the alarm was sounding, the loft door slammed open, and Anton DeBois stood in the entrance way with several very intimidating pack members at his back. Really intimidating. Professional fighter level intimidating. Not that Anton himself was easy to overlook. Stiles was pretty sure he had actually made a squeaking sound at the sight of them.

Then there was a blur of motion. Derek had jumped between Stiles and the oncoming Werewolves, shoving him back hard enough that he skidded when he hit the concrete floor and slid towards the window. Derek didn't dare let even one of them get past him, and all Stiles could think of was the conversation that they had just had: the DeBois hated Humans. This was not good.

He remembered bits and pieces of what happened next. At one point he'd reached for the nearest object - a lamp on the table next to Derek's bed - and had ripped the cord from the wall and chucked it at one of the Wolves that had had Derek's arms pinned behind him, opening him up to his partner's attack. The lamp had struck, doing little more than to irritate the Werewolf, but he'd loosened his grip to come at Stiles. He was sure that's how it was going to end, but Derek reacted, grabbing for the Wolf and hauling him back towards the Alpha. He'd slammed against the steps leading to the front door with a sickening crunch and had crumbled there.

There had been a flash - movement, maybe - and then Stiles had found himself kissing the concrete floor with a ringing so loud in his ears that he might as well have been standing in the bell towers of Notre Dame. A heavy boot had been planted in the middle of his back and shoved him back down the moment he tried to push himself up, and there was a loud shout that sounded like Derek. Couldn't be, right? Derek didn't plead. Definitely not for him.

"Nous vous voulons. Votre d'animal de compagnie peut vivre." *

"Fine. Whatever you want. But he lives. Il survit." **

Anton shrugged. "Il survit."

"Then there was nothing," Stiles murmured, hand going to his aching head on instinct. "Just… darkness. Guess they hit me."

He heard his dad sigh heavily, reaching forward to get a better look at the injury. Stiles tried for a smile. "Looks worse than it feels."

"You haven't seen it."

"Yeah, well. Feels that good," he tried, but the grimace may have given him away. His gaze shifted past his dad to where Scott, Argent, and a very tense looking Braeden were gathered around and listening to what had happened. There was another man too. One that he didn't recognize, but he was hovering close to Argent. Stiles pushed a frustrated breath out. "Any idea why they wanted Derek? They seemed to know he wasn't, you know, Scott. Also, who's this?"

"My cousin. From Paris. Lucien," Argent offered.

"Oh, so now we have French Werewolves and French Hunters. Fan-freakin-tastic."

"I'm here to see to the DuBois Pack," Lucien said with all the conviction of someone that thought he might actually be able to get away with it.

Yeah. That dude was so dead. Zero doubt in Stiles' mind. "See to it? Yeah. Sure. Okay. Why is this guy here?" Stiles huffed and his dad shot him a please stop look. Wow. He hadn't seen one of those in a while. Crazy what being on the opposite coast could do.

"They took him willingly?" Braeden pressed and Stiles's gaze slid over to her, feeling a flicker of guilt.

"I think he was protecting me."

"Why?" Lucien - if that was even his name - demanded, but at least Argent jumped in.

"Because that's what Hales do here."

"Well," Lydia drawled from her place seated next to Stiles on the bed, "Derek does. It's fifty-fifty on his uncle."

"The Hale family protects Beacon Hills," Argent said firmly.

"Why though?" Stiles managed. "Why were the DeBois guys even here? Wasn't the whole theory that they were after a True Alpha because they're rare?"

"That's because Lucien thought they were after an Alpha," Argent said and his cousin bristled.

"There are no Evolveds that are not Alphas. Are you certain of this one? Have you seen his eyes?"

There was a deafening silence that followed and Stiles looked to Scott. Was anyone but him getting the distinct impression that they just shouldn't trust this guy or was Stiles alone in that?

"Bright blue." All eyes turned to Lydia. "What?"

Lucien spun on Argent. "You're protecting a murderer, then?"

"I'm protecting a friend," Argent answered tightly.

Scott inched closer to Stiles and Stiles resisted the urge to make a show of his sigh of relief in that he could switch his attention over from the newest Argent family drama about to happen regarding a Hale.

"Lucien tracked the Alpha here."

"Anton DeBois?"

"Yeah. What'd you find out about him?"

Stiles let his shoulders sag a little. "Not a lot. Derek found the pack symbol in one of his old, half-burned books and I tracked down a business that the family owns in Paris. Not a whole hell of a lot more though. Not a lot on his social media, and definitely not stuff that'll help us find Derek."

"Are you good to keep looking?"

"For Derek, yeah." Stiles met his eyes. "What? He's family. Hate it some days, but the asshole saved my life. Not gonna let him die and haunt me for eternity over it."

Scott snorted a sound that was almost amused, but Stiles thought he could count it as a win. He offered a small smile. "We'll find him."

"I know."

"They didn't want to kill him."

"But if they want him because he's Evolved, what happens if he doesn't join?"

Stiles grimaced, but he wished it had to do with the knot forming on his head. "Everything that he knew, what we found in the books…. These guys kinda sound like they're trying to form up their version of the perfect Werewolf race."

That caught Chris Argent's attention. "An Evolved Werewolf gene is inherited."

"Even if the Werewolf isn't an Alpha?" Scott asked.

"They won't assume he's not," Lucien answered. "There has never been one of note that has not been."

"You're really stuck on that, aren't you?" Stiles asked, drawing Lucien's steely gaze over to him.

"It doesn't matter. You're missing the big picture," Braeden said firmly. "You know Derek. He's not gonna buckle to this guy."

"What happens if he doesn't submit?" Stiles' dad asked quietly and his son felt a knot forming in his chest.

"They'll kill him."

Scott squared his shoulder. "Okay. We just have to find him first."

* English: We want you. Your pet can live.

** English: He survives.

It was rare for a pack to have more than one Alpha in it, but not entirely unheard of. Deucalion had made it work, his own lust for power drawing others with power to him, but he'd stood out as the leader. The Alpha of Alphas. If it could be done, even if it wasn't a whole pack of Alphas, it would add to the leader's power. To their strength. A True Alpha? No one knew for sure just what that would do, but it had made sense, especially with a young and ambitious Alpha like Anton DeBois recently taking his place at the head of his family. He might just have been arrogant enough to try his hand at it.

They'd miscalculated what he was after though, and it had left Derek exposed. He should have known better and now he was paying the price for it. At least they'd let Stiles go with only a concussion to remember them by. It could have been a lot worse for him, and as Derek came to in what looked like a broom closet, his wrists chained to the wall behind him, he knew that it still could be for him. They must have known who and what he was. Talia Hale's son, an Evolved Wolf. You could count the number in the world on one hand, and most people still counted Talia instead of him and his mother had been dead for a decade next month. He'd put effort into keeping his identity under wraps for just this reason. The power was there if he shifted or not, he didn't need to flaunt it, but somehow they had found him.

And of all the packs that could have, it was the DeBois. He just wondered how much they actually knew.

He'd gone willingly to save Stiles' life, but they hadn't been foolish enough to think he'd remain docile. The blow had knocked him to the ground and the second knocked him out, only to wake some undetermined amount of time later in the tiny room. He gave the chains a tug, finding strength in the design. He could break it, but he'd break his wrist too. He'd heal if it came to that, but he didn't want to risk any disadvantage.

Derek closed his eyes, focusing before he reopened them to take in his surroundings. It was a tiny room - maybe a storage closet - with only a small window that let in a stream of moonlight. Well, at least he knew he hadn't been out too long. He'd take the good signs where he could find them.

There wasn't much left in the room. A couple of empty shelves were drilled into the wall, but if there had been anything else stored here it had been removed. Four bland walls and chains that clinked any time he moved. That's what he had. If he strained, he could hear others in the distance, but no one directly outside the door. They must not have counted him as a much of a threat. That was their mistake. Okay, as little as he wanted to break a wrist, he wanted to sit here and wait even less.

He tugged hard and the cuff gave with the force of the movement, as did a bone. Derek flexed his hand gingerly, feeling his healing process take effect, and once it felt whole again he reached up and ripped his other wrist free. He stood, listening carefully. Nothing. Well, time to give it his best shot then.

Shoulder against the door, he leveraged the strength he needed to break it open and found himself standing in an empty hallway. He looked down to the left, then the right, and focused again. There were others there, but if they'd heard the noise they weren't moving any closer.

His boots landed softly against old wooden floors of what seemed to be an old, abandoned office space. Maybe part of a warehouse. Definitely part of a warehouse.

He pushed at a heavy door and it emptied him onto a catwalk surrounding the open warehouse below, half a dozen signs of life suddenly became audible. He looked down to see the Werewolves standing there, all but Anton in the middle startled by his presence. He, on the other hand, looked pleased. "Derek," he greeted. "They thought it would take you longer, but I had a bit more faith in you."

"So you do know English," Derek popped off, feeling every defense fall into place despite the chipper tone that the Alpha spoke with.

"I prefer French, but you are my guest, and my English is better than your French."

Derek exhaled, a soft growl leaving on his breath. "You sure about that? I think you may have the wrong definition in mind when you say guest."

Anton chuckled at that. "Come down. We'll speak on even ground. You must have many questions."

Green-blue eyes flickered, taking in the Betas he had surrounded himself with and Anton waved a hand, sending them out the door without a word and leaving only him and Derek in the space. At least as far as Derek could tell. They'd soundproofed the hallway he had been in somehow.

Slowly, deliberately, he started to move towards the stairs. "Let's start with the Betas."

"Which ones? The DeBois Pack is not hurting for numbers."

"Then why were you turning and leaving kids all up and down the coast?"

"They were a means to an end. That's all."

"What end?"

"To get to you. You were difficult to track, even for us, but your young friend Scott was easier. What's the term? Bleeding heart?"

"So you got people killed to get to Scott to bring me back to Beacon Hills?"

"That's the short version."

"You don't care about him?"

"Only if he gets in my way. That goes for the Humans you surround yourself with. Delicate creatures, and dangerous to you, as you saw. I don't blame you. Talia always had a soft spot for them."

Derek paused at the sound of his mother's name, foot still positioned on the last step down. He set his jaw and his eyes flashed dangerously, pulling a chuckle from Anton.

"I'd love to hear the story of how the Hale Alpha managed to fall back to Beta."

"I didn't fall. I sacrificed."

"But not your ability?"

"That's what you want? An Evolved for your pack."

"Americans are always in a hurry. I haven't said that you are welcome in my pack yet. I know about you, but I've yet to see what you can really do. Shall we?"

Derek didn't have time to ask what he meant as Anton began to shift. Not like any of the others, but fur grew out, spreading as his body folded and changed, eyes red and snout extending as he dropped to all fours. Hands and feet melted into paws and, as the change completed and he turned that crimson stare on Derek, a low growl emanated and shook the foundation of the building.

Anton was Evolved too. An Evolved Alpha. Well, that would make this interesting. Derek pulled in a deep breath, preparing for a change of his own, even as Anton launched himself forward with teeth bared.

Derek's shift wasn't fast enough. Teeth tore into unprotected flesh along his side and he swallowed the howl of pain that threatened to erupt from him, pulling away and growling deeply as he hit all fours. He could feel where the dark fur was matted with blood, but it would heal. He couldn't let himself be distracted by it.

His mother had always taught him that an Alpha unfit to the position would always lose to a Beta. He took that lesson to heart as he moved, reactions lightning fast, and he snapped hard and found fur and skin and muscle. He tasted blood and ripped. Anton cried out, the pained howl a signal that Derek needed to move to finish this, but Anton was no longer there. Instead Derek was knocked hard, falling to his side and to his back. Claws ripped, teeth tore, and he heard a whimper that came from his own throat as he hit the ground hard.

He struggled, trying to push himself to standing, but the blow had left him breathless. Shaken. As the world dimmed around him he saw paws shift to bare feet and fade into darkness.

It had been three days. Three days since DeBois had broken into the loft and Derek had gone with him to keep him from killing Stiles, but no matter where they looked, they couldn't find a trail. There'd been a howl that Scott had recognized, but none of them had been able to pinpoint it. At this point, they didn't have any way to know if Derek was even still alive. The reality of it was that he might not be, and the worst part of that was that they might never find him to know for sure. No matter how talented of Hunters that the Argent family was, not everyone could be tracked.

"They say that Anton's father seduced and turned a Hunter from the Chevalier family," Lucien said from his place on the opposite side of the coffee table in the McCall home, "and that that is how he learned to hide so well. She gave him all of the family secrets."

"We're not the Chevalier family," Chris countered, rubbing at his tired eyes before looking back at the maps. "What about here? There are some warehouses that haven't been used in years. Great place to hide someone away."

"Why is he so important to you?"

"He's a friend."

"He's a Wolf. I have to wonder if your own romantic entanglements with McCall's mother have blinded you to what this is. It's a pack."

"I know it is."

"And Wolves bite."

"They also protect their own."

"You're not their own."

"Beacon Hills is. You don't know them - either of them - but I do. Beacon Hills needs a Hale, and this pack needs Derek. We need Derek." He felt Lucien's gaze fixed on him and he cleared his throat. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep Melissa's and my, uh…. romantic entanglements to yourself. Scott doesn't know."

"Yes he does," the other Argent chuckled. "He just doesn't want to."

Chris snorted, but he couldn't find it in himself to actually feel the amusement. Every second ticking by was another in which Anton DeBois could simply decide that adding another Evolved to his pack wasn't worth the effort. They needed to find him.

He stood, grabbing his keys and phone.

"The warehouses are a dead end," Lucien offered.

"It's better than sitting here and doing nothing. I don't need you to come with me."

Lucien didn't respond as Chris started for the door. The kids - not that they were really kids anymore - had finally quieted down to get some sleep upstairs. He didn't dare wake them. He'd check it out, and if he found them there, then he'd call for backup.

Or not.

Scott was leaned against the driver's door of Chris' SUV, Stiles sitting on the hood with a baseball bat in hand. Lydia was talking to him there and Braeden was balanced on a motorcycle. Chris quirked an eyebrow. "You know it's a very thin lead, right?"

"Well we're not going to sit around and hope a better one comes along," Braeden answered.

"And we're not going to let you go alone," Scott added. "We're not losing anybody else."

"And that includes Derek," Stiles piped in.

Chris sighed, motioning to the vehicle. "Get in. Let's see where it leads."

He was in and out and had been since he'd woken up back in his closet-turned-holding-cell. He assumed he'd shifted back when he'd lost consciousness, but wasn't certain. At one point he did wake up with only a thin blanket over him and the wounds Anton had left burning like they'd dumped Wolfsbane into them. Sometime later someone had at least gotten him a pair of pants.

There were voices sometimes. One that he heard muffled through the door that said they were killing him. Another answered that if he died, he wouldn't have been the right fit after all.

The problem was that he didn't think he was healing. If anything, it was getting worse, and he was having a hard time pushing through the fever induced fog to come up with a plan. Every time he tried to push himself up he collapsed again, arms unwilling to hold his weight.

And then there were the dreams. Sometimes they were so real he couldn't find it in himself to remember that they weren't. Everything from rescues to simply being in a better moment. Curled up with Braeden on a lazy morning or joining Argent on some mission he decided was worth his time. Helping to protect Scott and the rest of the pack. The idea of admitting that, somewhere along the way, he'd slipped into the McCall pack still put him into immediate denial, but Scott was his brother, and more of a Hale than anyone he'd ever known that didn't carry the name. In action. In belief. If Derek made it out of here, he needed to say it. Actually say it out loud. Scott deserved that.

He moved, pain spiking and he could have sworn he felt a familiar hand on the side of his face. Another dream? Had to be. It felt real. "Dad?" The name left his chapped lips, foreign to them after so many years, but as his eyes fluttered open he could have sworn he could see him. "Am I dead?"

"Not yet," his father promised, that smile that had lit his childhood tugging at the ghost's lips. "Not for a long time." The promise was accentuated by a kiss to the forehead and Derek felt himself melt back, a strange and old sense of safety he hadn't felt in years enveloping him and easing the pain, almost like it was being taken from him.

"Derek, you have to go. Now."

Dream or ghost or something else entirely, he wasn't sure, but the door was open, and if there was any chance this was real, he needed the speed only his other form would allow for him. He grit his teeth against the pain as his body shifted.

He'd heard him three days before. A howl of pain that had resonated through Beacon Hills, but Scott hadn't been able to pinpoint where it had come from. It had been the only sign that Derek was still alive and nothing since. It was enough to put everyone on edge, and everyone was still on edge. It was the reason they were all so eager to exchange sleep for a thin lead that might be absolutely nothing. He hadn't dared let himself hope for something to come of it, so when they parked on a hilltop overlooking the collection of warehouses and found movement there, Scott couldn't help but feel like Christmas had come a few days early.

Echoes of movement drifted up, but he couldn't pinpoint the source as it bounced off the hills. Scott and Argent had started down to get a better look with Braeden so that the mercenary wouldn't make good on a threat a few minutes earlier to take them on alone. Not that Scott questioned that she could, just that she should. She wasn't the only one looking for any sign Derek had been stubborn enough to hold out for a rescue.

They left Stiles and Lydia at the vehicles with the promise that Lydia would scream if anything went wrong on their end. The DeBois wouldn't know what hit them if it came to that. Two Humans - well, two mortals, if nothing else - and Scott almost wished he could see the looks on their faces if they had to go up against those two. He had a vested interest in making sure they regretted their decision to come to his pack's territory and take one of their own, even if that particular Wolf had never officially joined. He was family. That's what counted.

He, Braeden, and Argent made their way stealthily down the hill, circled around the back, and found an entrance that they could slip into unnoticed. Whatever had them distracted was working in their favour and he quietly forced the back door off its hinges.

There were voices inside, quiet and muffled, and he listened for any sign of what to expect.

"Anything?" Argent asked in a hushed whisper and Scott frowned.

"It's in French," the teen answered with a frown.

Braeden shot him a confused look. "Don't you speak French?"

"No." He tilted his head. "Do you?"

She stared at him in a way that not only made him think that she did, but that she assumed that everyone else did as well. "Move," she snapped and pushed past him, inching forward with her back pressed against the wall. Scott watched as she continued forward, gun at the ready, and listening like she had Wolf hearing too. He really hadn't had the chance to work with her closely since she'd joined their circle, but he'd seen her in action and heard the stories from Isaac, from Malia, and even a few from Derek. Some that he wished he hadn't. A former US Marshall that had hunted down Malia's psychotic mother to the point that she'd had to leave the agency, she'd turned into a mercenary that specialized in the supernatural. Whatever instincts she'd developed along the way looked to be in a heightened state as she closed her eyes, pulling in a steadying breath before they flashed back open, pivoting around to the other side of the closed door she'd been hedging up to, and grabbed through it as the door opened, dragging the Werewolf out and shutting the door behind her as she moved to put her boot against his throat and her gun in his face. "Down boy."

"Did you hear that?" Argent asked, awe edging into his voice.

"Nope."

"Soundproofing," Braeden answered. "My guess is that they've lined the inner walls. That's why Scott couldn't hear Derek?" The Wolf under her boot glared up, snarling as his eyes flashed blue. She rolled hers. "My patience is paper thin right now. Where is he?"

"Mort." *

"What did I say about my patience, and I'm the least of your worries. You see those two?" She nodded towards Scott and Argent. "The Human is an Argent. The Argent for the United States. The Werewolf is the only True Alpha you'll see for generations."

"Les Alphas non vernis ne sont qu'une légende,"** he snarled.

"Let's test that theory. Scott? Why don't you show our new friend here that True Alphas aren't just for the storybooks anymore."

Blue eyes slid over to look at the young Alpha and Scott squared his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height. He felt the power that came with that spark that he'd heard those with more experience in this world than even he had yet speak about, his eyes flashing and remaining red, demanding respect. The Beta under Braeden's boot shrank back as best as he could wehn a low, rumbling growl echoed up through Scott's throat, louder than he intended, but it did the job better than he expected. He knew. Scott didn't know how he knew him from any other Alpha, but he did.

"Il est parti," *** the Beta managed.

Braeden blinked, a flash of emotion echoing across her face. "No," she managed, and Scott reached out, stopping her before she crushed the Werewolf's windpipe.

"What'd he say?" Scott snapped.

"He's gone," Argent translated from behind him.

"Where?" he demanded, his voice low and rumbling, and he prayed that Braeden had misunderstood the statement. If not, he wasn't sure they'd be able to drag her out of here before she leveled the entire pack. He'd heard stories of how she'd reacted when the Berzerker had gone after Derek down in Mexico. His eyes flashed dangerously. "Where?"

"We do not know," the Beta answered in careful English, and his heartbeat was as steady as anyone might be able to assume it would be under the circumstances.

Realization seemed to set in with Braeden and she eased her hold on him ever so slightly. "When?"

"We do not know. The door, it was open. We do not know who, but not from the inside."

"Someone from the DeBois pack let him out?" Argent clarified.

"No one would. Not and face Anton."

The three of them looked to each other, but there wasn't time for an exchange of theories. The whole building rocked dangerously, shifting on its very foundation with an explosion that sent them all tumbling to the concrete floor, debris raining down around their heads.

* English: Dead

** English: The True Alphas are just legend.

*** English: He is gone.

Alan Deaton had startled awake in the wee hours of the morning with an emergency call that had struck even his sleep deprived mind as strange. It was a man's voice. Rushed, desperate, and with the vaguest hints of an accent. He'd hit what he thought was a dog in the street, but when he'd gone to check on it, it looked like a wolf. It needed help. He knew this was an after hour number, but he'd delivered the wolf to the clinic. He needed help. He couldn't wait until morning.

He'd pulled himself out of bed, never one to leave a wounded animal. He had warned the man on the phone to be careful: dog or wolf, he could snap out of fear, even if he'd been the one to rescue him. It wasn't the animal's fault. It was instinct. Self preservation against its own injured state. He never got the man's name or anything about him, and even though he'd sounded like he intended to wait with the injured creature, he was gone by the time he arrived.

As was the wolf. Instead Alan found what appeared to be a Human curled up on his side next to the door, a jacket all that was covering his otherwise bare frame. It all started to make sense as he inched closer, the man's face finally in view. It had been a wolf when the poor soul that had brought him in had hit him, and that same do-gooder was likely terrified when dark fur melted away to reveal an equally unconscious, equally injured Derek Hale.

TBC

Notes: So, I had a bit of a struggle with translating True Alpha into French. I've been using Google Translate to find the best translation and 'True Alpha' translated into the equivalent of 'real Alpha' and that didn't fee right, so I ran with 'non verni' which means 'unvarnished'. Not sure if anyone reading has a more accurate translation or not, but that's the best I've got ^^;

After a nearly 5K chapter, how have the theories shifted? Any new ideas out there?

Next Time: Lydia tells Stiles about the vision she had in Boston and Derek admits information about the DeBois Pack he's been holding out on.