A.N.: I hope you were sitting down when you got the update-alert! I know, it's been – shit – years since I updated! After just realising that, it's not surprising this chapter is a bit of an 'I haven't written this story in ages so I need to get back into the swing of things, I apologise if it's not very good' chapter!
I know I don't deserve it, after making you wait so long, but please review!
Jekyll and Hyde
06
Ruined
The sun gilded everything in sight, painful against her eyes, as she made her way through the dappled woodland, glowing green and ticking with life, birds singing merrily in the high boughs, climbing shrubs spreading new foliage and hinting of flowers soon to blossom; she was reminded of the seas of April bluebells in English woods, and wildflower hikes in upstate-California with some older members of the pack. Those memories sent a barb twisting through her intestines, and she grimaced but kept striding through the undergrowth.
She had been in a bubble, the last few months. Betrayed by her pack, beholden to her parents for houseroom, she was in the worst place she had ever been, emotionally, even including after the accident. It was Sunday-morning, the sun was already shining and it promised to be a scorcher of a day; she had woken from violent nightmares, choking on her screams lest she wake the whole house. She had vomited in the bathroom, showered, and fled.
For the first time in months, she had let it in. Sobbing hysterically in her car, parked at the side of an unfamiliar road, her entire body aching with loss. Unable to articulate it to a single person. She had no friends; and for a long time had had no trust in or respect for her family.
It was there that she had calmed down, and come to some decisions. Not all of the ones she needed to make, but it was a start. She had rooted through the trunk of her car to wipe her face clean, cleanse and tone, put on a little blusher to give her wan cheeks some colour, concealer to obscure the purplish bruises from sleeplessness, open her eyes with some mascara – waterproof, always. She scraped through the seats of her car, her pockets, the glove-compartment, for spare change, and had breakfast at her favourite diner in town. She had stolen one of the newspapers; someone else had already torn out the Calvin & Hobbs comic-strip and completed the crossword, one of her rare pleasures, but she had the paper tucked under her arm, her car parked in the exact same spot as earlier; near the abandoned entrance to the Hale property. Acres and acres of woodlands, picturesque meadows and a pretty creek. She had spied a well-used tire-swing and a dilapidated treehouse; a family had lived here, and she followed the long-disused road through old – ancient – trees to the blistered, blackened skeleton of a Victorian house set amongst oaks and Japanese acers, maples and a huge horse-chestnut tree. She could smell clematis and lilacs on the air, the delicate blossoms of a gnarled apple-tree, the groaning boughs of an old plum-tree speckled with blossoms, and a slender tree with pretty pink flowers caught her eye.
Surrounded by life, by nature striving for vitality against all elements determined to snuff them out, the house was a haunting memorial to human brutality. There had been no walls around the Hale house, no fences or borders; even the backyard had been open. She could see a Greek-inspired folly in the back where a wooden table was falling apart, rotted and moss-covered from neglect. The house itself, blistered and burned, with beams visible and broken like a ribcage torn open, the heart of it plucked out mercilessly, was tagged with graffiti and home to racoons, mice and bats, but otherwise abandoned. The scope of the tragedy surrounding this house would be carried through generations; Beacon Hills, despite its size, still had some of a 'small town' feel to it, especially where gossip and tragedy were concerned. And, if the news articles on their deaths were anything to go by, the Hale family had been at the heart of the Beacon Hills community for generations. They had been some of the first to settle this area, centuries ago, had built quite a significant part of it. Curious about the history of Beacon Hills, and the Hales' part in it, Mary had ventured to the tiny two-room schoolhouse-turned-museum, discovering that the Hale family had built and owned most of the town until the 1950s.
The faces in that family-photograph flashed through Mary's mind, Derek Hale's accusation against her aunt that night in the woods; she sighed heavily, kneading the palm of her hand against her chest, where her heart throbbed. There was no reason she could think of that would convince her father to give the okay to set fire to an entire family. But from what she knew of Kate, she guessed her father hadn't had anything to do with the Hales' deaths.
Derek pointed the finger at Kate, who had been living in Beacon Hills when his family was killed in that fire.
Did Mary believe her aunt was capable of murdering eleven people, a lot of them innocent?
Yes.
Did she think her father knew about it?
When an Argent went rabid, it was their duty to put themselves down, before the task fell to the members of their family. That was what Mary had been taught; and it was the same ethical code she refused to believe in.
When you continued to hunt an animal, threw things at it, encroached on its territory, chased away its food supply – of course it would bite back. Survival dictated it fight back against anything threatening its life. Wolf, man, werewolf – it was the same all over. Human-beings had been fighting that fight for millennia; only, most weren't aware they weren't the highest rung on the ladder. And those who were suffered from such hubris – her family were the worst for it.
Assuming the mantle of 'protector' to excuse a supernatural holocaust. Genocide in the name of mankind.
She had rejected her family's history, and her place in its future, when she walked away from Hunter training. She had turned her back on her family that day; and because of her bite, she could never resume her place in it, even if she had wanted to. Her father's honour and her mother's psychotic rage would demand she take care of herself rather than disgrace their family legacy.
Mary refused to end her life to suit her parents' beliefs.
Because she did not, had never believed in them.
And that was an irrevocable divide.
Staring at the broken home before her, she knew how her family would react to it. Victoria would declare the deaths were in the past, and some of them had been werewolves so it didn't matter anyway. Her father would be ashamed of Kate's betrayal of the Code he believed in so fiercely, but not horrified. He had done worse – but to the true monsters that went bump in the night.
He would never condone the murder of innocents, balked at the idea of making a move without irrevocable proof. He took no pleasure in dispatching werewolves; it was his job. And he did it, methodically, sometimes ruthlessly, but always fair.
If Mary came close to respecting anyone in her family, it was her dad.
She respected that he had respect for the Code. He was honourable.
Mary traipsed around the property, absorbing the lingering scent of death and neglect, as well as the scent of lilacs and cherry-blossom from an old tree behind the ruined house, knowing that Derek wasn't inside. His scent was a few hours old; he didn't sleep here, but he did spend enough time here to leave his scent very strongly.
She settled in a part of the back-garden near the folly that stood like a tired sentinel at the end of a long, natural-looking rockery that separated the backyard from a pretty creek gurgling past sluggishly, a willow dipping its long tendrils in the water, wisteria-blossoms floating down on the breeze from a small but determined tree fighting through the old birches and pear-trees. The bank had once been manmade, levelling the backyard from the porch to the folly, but was now reclaimed by nature, the plants – succulents, cacti, pretty grasses, flowering little shrubs she didn't know the names of – flourishing without Man's interference.
Her stomach hurt, as she sat down on the rotting step of the folly, thinking of the flower-garden her Alpha's wife had kept in San Francisco, of the Open Garden fundraisers in the village they had lived in, in England, of the Chelsea Flower Show she had been lucky enough to attend once, before they left England, before Kate had come and ruined everything. She reached down, and started to pluck weeds from the flowerbeds that surrounded the folly. Someone had once loved this property, tended lovingly to the garden full of wild and unusual herbs and plants, recognisable flowers and a few more uncommon ones. The person who had once loved it was gone, and it made her stomach hurt.
Mary dusted the dirt off her hands, and untucked the newspaper from under her arm, opening it to the Classifieds; to the apartments, studios and lofts available to rent in town. If she could rent for a little while, and continue to add to her savings, she would have a significant deposit to offer a bank in negotiations for a mortgage – if she wanted to buy a house. Her own house, a place no-one could take from her and from which she only had to move if she wanted to.
Was Beacon Hills the place she set down her roots?
Derek Hale was hunting the Alpha that killed his sister. If he succeeded, he would become an Alpha himself, assuming the role – and strength – stolen from his sister, who must have inherited it from someone in their family; born werewolves more often than not became alphas, because they had the history, the knowledge. A nasty Beta might steal Alpha status, but rarely held onto it for long; being an Alpha meant being a truly gifted leader, it necessitated an understanding of people. Who followed someone who did not care, did not understand them? An army only lasted so long with poor leadership and commanders who didn't care about the men they sent to the front-lines.
Her thoughts drifted to Derek, again, and to Scott McCall. Derek had been Beta to his sister, now an Omega. McCall was an Alpha, too, in his own way – two nerdy kids who weren't popular in school, Scott was still the more level-headed personality in his little partnership with that absurdly hilarious ADHD kid.
She made three; three Omegas. She guessed instinctively that Scott remained an Omega out of choice; not knowing all the variables, he declined to join the fray. And that was wise; he was feeling out the situation before committing to anything. She and Derek, though; they were Omegas because they had had their worlds ripped mercilessly from them.
Mary had been cast out; Derek had been blindsided by the murder of his sister.
He knew… He was drenched in the same sorrow she was. She hadn't recognised it in the woods that night, too pumped with adrenaline and unfulfilled lust to see it; but she saw it in Derek, if only because she would never recognise him as that grinning kid in the photograph without the caption.
Just like her parents wouldn't recognise in her the little girl in old photos they still kept framed on top of the grand-piano, as if no time had passed, as if she was still five years old chasing Avery around the yard.
But she wasn't; and they had no idea what had happened to her to turn her into this person.
That was their failing.
No child should live in terror of their parents.
And she had to decide, when her parents inevitably uprooted again, was she going to sever ties completely? There was a good shot of her making it on her own in Beacon Hills; it wasn't one of those typical sheltered and pretty, affluent California towns drenched in cash, where the average income could be millions; her dad earned that much, but Mary was still a student, scraping together savings from undeclared side-jobs and twenty hours a week at Sephora. She had a hefty savings account to boast for her unyielding work-ethic, she was nineteen and fierce, but she had come to a decision.
Mary could not continue to maintain contact with her parents, not even for a college education. If she had to sacrifice four years' residence at a university to gain a Bachelor's Degree, and all the experiences she would gain there, to slog through night-classes while she worked full-time, she would do it – if it meant she wasn't beholden to her family for anything. She wanted to make it – not on her own, per se; just not with them.
There was too much risk involved.
So she sat in the sun, next to the reminder of why she had turned her back on the family legacy, why she wanted distance, why she had no respect for her mother or her aunt, a composition-notebook open, using the calculator on her phone, budgeting. She had to figure out whether now was the time she decided to finally strike out on her own. She was scouting local apartments, had applied to the local community-college when she had first moved to Beacon Hills, and her thoughts turned once again to Derek Hale.
Something in her had changed; Mary felt…calmer, for the first time in months. She had recognised something, something in Derek Hale that had…called her home. It wasn't when she met him in the woods; it was seeing his broad, handsome grin in that family-photograph, his open, warm body-language, eyes twinkling and full of teasing delight as he cuddled his younger-sister.
It wasn't just that he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen in her life; because he was, but that wasn't all of it. She couldn't be swayed to make life-altering decisions based off of silvery-grey eyes, and insane jawline, doorframe-wrecking shoulders and arm-muscles she wanted to bite. She had been chasing oblivion recently, but she wasn't shallow. She lived in terror of her parents; but she wasn't a coward.
Mary knew what she could bring to the table; so no-one who truly knew her was surprised that she wasn't afraid to eat alone. She just…didn't want to.
Nobody – human or werewolf – could make it on their own, not really. Everyone needed support. Whether that was from family, or from nurturing friendships, depended entirely on circumstance. But an Omega couldn't hope to survive long; especially not one whose family were werewolf-hunters.
She had been rejected by the San Francisco pack because of who her family was; one whiff of a Hunter in their extensive territory and suspicion had fallen on her. She had been unapologetically booted before she could ever become a threat. But they didn't realise; she would have died for them. Had killed for them. If push had come to shove before they had shoved her out of the pack, she would have fought to the last to protect them. Because she was ashamed of her family.
Derek Hale and Scott McCall were alone, against her family's extensive resources and unbridled dedication to their legacy as protectors of mankind. She was alone against her family.
And she couldn't hope to maintain the distance she needed, without at least one person on whom she could rely to have her back.
She wouldn't let her family hurt anyone, not if she could do something to stop it. And she had always been brave, clever and resourceful. Despite her recent behaviour, she was wise through experience, craved the family she imagined in her head, yearned for her Pack despite her feelings of betrayal and irreparable hurt. She was alone. And she hated it.
And she was hoping Derek Hale would make an appearance, so she could remedy that.
After an hour, and he still hadn't appeared, she tore a page out of the back of her composition-notebook, wrote out a note and crept into the house, carefully in case the floorboards gave beneath her feet, and tucked it, folded in half, wedged in the glass-paned door leading into what must have once been the best sitting-room of the old Victorian. Once upon a time, it must have been a beautiful, spacious place…full of laughter, of the scent of cooking food. She remembered her Pack in San Francisco, imagined the unending rumble of conversation, of laughter, and arguments, music blaring, the scent of nail-polish and perfume lingering on the air with fresh-baked sourdough, homemade fish tacos, spicy sticky salmon, the feeling of…warmth, of home. Safety.
As she left the house, she noticed one particular plant, spreading from the porch in what had once been red-bricked flowerbeds. The vivid purplish-blue of the single blooming flower drew her gaze, out of place and exceptional because of it; this flower was only supposed to bloom in late-summer through autumn.
Asters were her favourite flower, it always had been ever since she was little.
She leaned down, but didn't pluck the bloom; she tenderly felt the silken petals, admired the vibrant colour, marvelled at it flowering out of season, the vivid purplish-blue with a heart of deep, chocolatey furry brown. Just this one flower, blooming now against its nature…it felt significant. A sign – of what, she didn't know. But the aster was her favourite, and it had bloomed here, out of season, on Derek Hale's burned-out doorstep.
As she headed for her car, she acknowledged, as she always had, that the Pack had betrayed her to prevent this happening to them.
The burned-out house, and the ghosts of the werewolves and innocents who had been murdered there, was the worst example of the Argent family's finest work.
And, as she sat on the edge of the trunk of her car, getting ready for her Sunday-afternoon shift at Sephora, she refused to give in to the crippling hurt that her Pack, her friends and family, could ever have believed she would let this happen to them, would ever have any part in it.
It was only a four-hour shift, but it was a strangely busy Sunday-afternoon. She guessed it had something to do with the days warming up, the sparkling hope of spring, and the sun, coaxing people out of their houses, moms preparing their daughters' wardrobes for the change in the seasons. Spring-break was coming up and bronzers and fake-tan were flying off the shelves; she gave a half-dozen 'vacation makeovers' to a group of girls heading to Cabo or Florida or New Orleans, and fully outfitted one twenty-something girl with a new bag of 'travel' cosmetics, and sold nearly a thousand dollars' worth of Chanel cosmetics to a bored woman with too many diamonds who had thrown out her entire cosmetics collection because the packaging was "last season".
Mary wasn't going to judge; she'd get a mega gratis haul just with that sale alone!
It was only a four-hour shift, and it had flown by because she was busy; but after helping tidy everything and lock up, she groaned and stripped out of her uniform, tugging on her relaxed jeans and cream Henley, glad those four hours were over.
"Hey, Mary?" one of the girls, Tess, said, and she glanced over as she dragged her purse out of her locker. "There's, a, uh…insanely hot guy waiting for you. I didn't like to trouble you while you were doing that makeover, but he said he'd wait around in the lot 'til we closed."
Mary blinked, surprised.
Insanely hot…
"Oh. Dark hair, silvery eyes that pin you to the wall?"
There was something different about her. The overtly hostile edge to her had softened, now just a wariness that seemed more tired than angry; he had scented her all over the property, now his property – tasted her grief, her sorrow, her loneliness, and her compassion everywhere. She had sat long enough to pull weeds from the rockery, long enough that her scent lingered over his mother's lilacs warmed by the sun, and in his mind he could picture her sitting on the rockery, the same way his mother had, watching without seeing the creek trickle past, glittering in the sun, as she contemplated life's great mysteries, sometimes with a glass of wine in her hand, other times wrapped in a blanket with a book.
He gulped as Mary Argent glanced around, his stomach cramping at the sight of her; she waved goodbye to another one of the girls who worked with her, and her eyes sought her car – and landed on him.
Derek had stopped by the cosmetics store he knew she worked at, a place he knew only because he bought Laura's favourite perfume there, a new bottle every birthday. That, and a cupcake – vanilla, with sprinkles and a single candle; she didn't like being reminded how many years they had gone without a real birthday. With their family. Watching Mary work, he had thought she was a different person; there was a lightness to her, whether she had to work at it or not, she was approachable, kind, generous with her time and gentle with her opinions. She had time for anyone, friendly and smiling – intimidating because of her natural, intense beauty; but she was being paid to be there, to help, and she was a tireless example of a model employee.
He had watched Mary out of the corner of his eye as one of her colleagues helped him with a soothing after-shave balm and some pomade for his hair, a refill for his favourite cologne. Even over the mingled, gagging scent of cosmetics and perfume, Mary's natural scent was intoxicating – fierce, provocative and elusive. Gentler than he remembered in the woods; something had settled in her, she no longer simmered with pent-up rage – though the lust remained, subtle; there was no hiding that from one of their own.
His gaze trailed over her as Mary walked over, in pale jeans and a plain cream top, her tousled hair teased by the breeze; she had done something pretty to make her eyes really pop, something glossy and soft, and she had taken off her purplish-blue lipstick in favour of something that smelled like Dr Pepper. He had seen her in her running-gear in the moonlight, toned and coiled for a fight, her sports-bra and tight leggings diminishing her figure. In her pale jeans, her hips were slim but pretty, and he could see she wore no bra beneath her cream top. She was naturally gifted with larger breasts, high and plump, with a constellation of beauty-spots sprayed across them, and he caught a glimpse of cleavage as she adjusted the strap of her purse, the fabric of her top snagging. He fought the urge to flush under her gaze as he grew hard. There was no denying she wasn't one of the most intensely beautiful women he had ever seen – and he liked that she hadn't hidden her anger and disdain and grief when they had met in the woods that night.
He wasn't blind; he had noticed her insanely pretty eyes, and had waited so long to approach her because he was too mesmerised by her ass in her running-gear, by the power in her legs, intoxicated by the scent of her fierce arousal.
A pretty girl had brutalised him before, though. And in the worst way.
His family was dead because of him – because he'd been blinded, too stupid to realise who she was. What she was going to do.
His family was gone, and it was his fault.
His family was gone, there was no way he could ever suffer that same hurt ever again; but he'd never make the same mistakes again, either.
…but then, this wasn't the same. She wasn't the same. Mary Argent was a werewolf.
That changed everything.
And he had scented her rage, her disdain toward her aunt, that night in the woods, even as he picked up on her aching, unbearable lust. Being a werewolf heightened everything; and some bitten werewolves went through what his mother had politely termed hypersensitivity. A gentle breeze could trigger lust so fierce and consuming their knees buckled. He'd thought she might cripple under it that night in the woods; and her scent had hit him like a freighter. And he was glad she had evaded his tackle; he wasn't entirely sure he had had full control – and he fought day and night to keep a handle on his self-restraint. He got the sense Mary Argent suffered from hypersensitivity now – and that, at least until recently, she had had someone helping ease her through it.
The urge to punch someone hit him so strongly, he blinked, dazed.
It had been a long time since he had been truly attracted to someone, and he averted his eyes from Mary as she wandered over, her gait slow, lulling. The last time he had let himself give in to his attraction, despite his better judgement…
Laura had been close to figuring it out – the fire. He'd begged her not to come back to California; they had been rebuilding in New York State, a tiny pack, but a pack regardless. They had left one other behind, who had joined another, larger Pack. That was their choice; and Derek had followed Laura, anxiety biting at his insides. What if she found out…it was his fault? She was the only family he had left, the only person in the world he loved unconditionally, the only person he trusted. How could he betray her?
How could he have betrayed them? Eleven members of his family had died that night, burned alive. Not all of them had died from the fumes; some had died from third-degree burns covering most of their bodies. Only Peter had survived, but not unscathed; he was no longer whole, and Derek wondered whether he ever would be again. The young man he remembered from his adolescence had been burned away; a scarred shell remained, unresponsive…barely existing. He had often lain awake at night, wondering whether it wouldn't have been kinder had Peter not survived at all.
And sometimes he wondered why Kate had let him live. Did she enjoy what she had done to him – was it not enough that she had seduced him, gained his trust, betrayed him and murdered his entire family in one night? Did she get a kick out of knowing he roamed the Earth, devastated, broken by the loss of his family, scarred by her betrayal, crippled by his guilt?
He scowled, making the effort not to glare at Mary as she walked over, her breasts bouncing subtly, nipples pressed tauntingly against the fabric of her top, and he had to inhale sharply, reciting statistics from his favourite baseball team, rather than focus on how warm and yielding her skin would be if he cupped her breasts in his hands. Whether her lips tasted like Dr Pepper; and how strong she truly was. How ferocious in bed.
There were downsides to being a werewolf, not just the obvious ones like Hunters; there were no secrets to werewolves who knew the tricks. Just as he had scented her painful arousal that night in the woods, now Mary could scent his interest; it was mutual, though. As he flicked his gaze up from her breasts, he caught her eyes lingering on him, too, eyes roaming covetously over his torso, the bulge in his jeans. Because it was still there; counting baseball stats hadn't helped when he was fifteen, it didn't help now.
They were what they were. Werewolves who could scent each other's interest. It was futile to hide it; he was attracted, ever since she had evaded his tackle in the woods. Not because her ass looked amazing in those little shorts, or because she had a toned tummy and a fierce attitude, or because her eyes were so intensely pretty. He…recognised something in her. That crippling sense of loss, of betrayal, of devastation. That helplessness that now ruled him.
He was attracted to her physically, yes; he just knew better than to give into it. Even if he wanted to. Mary was different. Hunters trained to evade detection by werewolves; the rules were different for werewolves, though. They had a harder time hiding from each other; there was little point trying. Everything, by necessity of their sharpened senses, was laid out on the table.
Derek should have trusted his senses, his instinct, years ago; now, he did.
His instinct was that Mary Argent was nothing like her aunt.
She knew what it felt like to be him.
A.N.: Okay, so their conversation will come in the next chapter. I want Derek and Mary to really bring out a warmer, gentler side in each other; they're calmer, happier with each other, they're supportive, genuinely friends before anything else. They understand each other. I haven't written this story in ages, and I'm just coming back to it – I haven't caught up with Teen Wolf, I admit, but a lot of people aren't impressed with where it went anyway, so I'm just trying to figure out where I want to go with this story.