Claire

I trailed through the door at around eleven and slam straight into a box blocking the hallway. "Crap!" I say way a little too loudly as I enter the hallway. I clutch my toe, cursing myself. I should have known better. My life is a labyrinth of packed boxes. My mom and I are professional packers; it kind of comes with the territory. We don't mess around with the castoff cardboard from gas stations or grocery stories. We have expensive, industrial-strength boxes with permanent labels. This means if you stub your toe on them, even for a werewolf, it hurts a lot. That's one thing people tend to overlook about werewolves. Sure, we have a higher healing capacity but enhanced senses means we can feel every fracture, break and bruise in perfect clarity and our body can with stand more than a normal person so we can't just blackout when the pain becomes too intense.
I discarded my house keys into the disused ashtray in the center of our dining table before moving past it to grab a can of Pepsi from the fridge. Sure enough, there was a pizza sat on the table waiting for me. Because my mom worked such long hours, we mainly survived off takeaways for sustenance. But hey, you didn't see me complaining.
I pulled the box open. Cheese with tuna and onion, my favorite. I inhaled the scent and ripped open the lid of the cardboard, tearing at a piece and shoving it into my mouth. I took a gulp of Pepsi and continued on through the house after wiping the grease onto my jeans.
I go up to the bathroom and stumble towards the mirror. I splash cold water onto my face, opting for a quick relief rather than being alone with my thoughts in the shower.
"Claire?"

Before you meet her, I just want to tell you that my mom – Nina de Lune – is the best mom in the entire world and probably one of the kindest people I've ever known which just proves my theory that the best people have the worst look.
My mom never knew her real parents. Her dad apparently left her outside a hospital when she was three and that was the last time she ever saw him. She was shuffled in and out of foster families. Not because she wasn't a nice girl, but because she'd ended up with the worst possible people who had locked her in attics and sent her back once they'd had their own kids. At thirteen, people lost interest in my mom and she lost interest in being adopted. Instead she focused on her school work. When she was eighteen, she knew a few people who hooked her up with a job at the New York Enquirer. There she met my dad when she was asked to do an interview on some law thingy my dad had been involved in. They had hit it off and after three years together, hey presto, baby me came along. It had been good for seven blissful years until the holiday in Yellowstone, where she lost her husband.
After that, she'd tried to get our lives back to normal. A month after the attack she'd realized that normality would be in no way possible for me ever again, so she'd settled for trying to find me a place I could be safe. She'd quit her job at the Enquirer and began her online book business. We'd been moving for as long as I can remember and nine years on and she still hadn't achieved safety.
Now me and that stupid tabby cat she holds in her arms are the only family she's got left. Smudge hates me but I put up with him for my mom's sake. She loves cats. But cats, as you can guess, hate werewolves. Smudge hisses at me and jumps out of my mom's arms.
"Hey mom," I said, purposefully keeping my back to her to hide the blood stained t-shirt. "Sorry to wake you."
"Are you okay, honey?" I could hear the genuine concern in her voice and it sent pangs through my heart.
I focused on keeping my voice steady. "I'm okay, mom," I said brokenly, "You can go back to sleep now."
A beat. "Sweetheart," she begins in a firm tone.
"I'm fine, mom," I should tell her. I should let her know about the pack in town, and about the fact that I've joined it. But I can't seem to bring myself into forming coherent speech. I knew she'd be able to do it, to pick up and move to someplace where they don't know us yet. Hell, we've barely unpacked yet. But she wants me to try and I'm scared of what will happen if I try and run. And, to be honest, I'm tired. I just want my life back. Even if it is severely fucked up.
"Bullshit." I freeze, spinning on my heels to stare at her. I blink once, twice. My mom never swears, neither of us do. House rules. "I've spoken Mr. Hale. He came into the bookstore."
"You – what?" she had to have meant Derek, but hadn't Derek threatened my mom earlier. Then what the hell was he playing at, pretending to be friends with my mom all of a sudden.
"Sweetheart," she swept across the room and tuck my hand in hers. She saw the blood stain on my shirt and her breath hitched but for a moment she ignored it and searched my eyes. "You don't have to lie to me, sweetie. If these people are threatening you-"
"They're not," I snapped suddenly. I don't know why I'm trying to defend them. It feels like the right thing to do. "It was my idea. I don't want to keep moving around. I'll be seventeen soon. I want to have a life when I leave school, go to college maybe." I doubted I'd survive until college but I couldn't tell my mom that. I was the only family she had left, if she lost me, she lost everything. Maybe that's why her eyes filled with tears. "Mom, don't cry." I hate it when my mom cries. It makes me feel like a terrible person. This – all of this – is because of me.
"Derek can help me, Mom, like Abe," I said trying to gauge her reaction. "And I don't have to leave and neither do you. You can stay in Beacon Hills, run your business, have a normal life. And I'll have pack – people who can protect me." I didn't need protection and every word that slipped out of my mouth made me feel like a guilty liar but if it calmed my mom, it was worth it.
A beat. She stared into my eyes and my heart was beating as loudly as the wings of a hummingbird. Then she nodded. "Okay, okay. A pack. I can work with this," it sounded more like she was talking to herself, "You'll have to have them over sometime, let me properly introduce myself."
"Mom," I said breathlessly, "I don't think that's a good idea-" I didn't mind her meeting Scott, Stiles, Boyd and Erica. They seemed like nice people my mom could get along with. But Derek? No way. And Isaac? He was a sociopath. I mean, I was too, but I was better at hiding it. Anyway, a pack lunch – totally out of the question. "One step at a time." I corrected.
Smiling at me, she nodded and kissed my cheek. "Go clean yourself up and straight to bed." She chastised. I nodded and moved from the bathroom into my own room. The door frame was still cracked from my impulsive behavior. Plaster still covered the floor but I was too tired to bother doing anything about it. I kicked it to one side and threw my ruined t-shirt and hoodie over it. It could wait until tomorrow morning. I threw myself down onto the bed and it rocked gently under my weight.
As I was about to shut my eyes, my cellphone beeped. I didn't want to answer it but I forced myself to crawl out from under my covers to search for my phone. I picked it up, glaring at the dim light of the screen.
It was a text from and unknown number.

Sam's Diner. 2morrow after school. Don't be late. If you don't turn up, I'll find u. Derek's orders.

I.

I glared at the screen for a moment as a familiar sense of rage began to fill me. It was my first day and I was already getting orders barked at me. I felt like screaming. God I hated him.

Because there was only one person "I" could be: Isaac.

Isaac

It rarely rained in Beacon Hills but when it did, it poured.

Claire was late, even though I'd firmly told her not to be. But then again, so was I. I ducked into the diner, water dripping from my jacket and grey Henley which I now assumed was firmly stuck to my body. My teeth chatter as the waitress shoots me an apologetic look and turns off the A/C. My skin is getting that itchy feeling that rubs your body when you've been in wet clothes too long and I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflective jug. My lips have turned blue and my hands are bright red. On top of that, I'm soaked from head to toe and my sneakers have water floating in them. My hair is stuck to my forehead and cheeks. I look like I've been wading in the ocean rather than ran from Derek's car up to the porch.
The blonde waitress gives me an interested look but I just glare at her. She's really not my type. I try to do my best not to interact with humans much and even then only if they're really hot or I need to. Like with Stiles for example. Not that he's hot – but he's Derek's mate and therefore necessary contact. I'm still trying to figure out just how that pairing happened. The nerdy sophomore and the twenty-three year old outcast-Alpha. Hell, I have no idea. It's their business anyway. And my mom always told me if you want to keep your friends, to leave them alone.
I'd chosen Sam's diner for a reason and not just because Sam had been Derek's one and only friend back before Derek's family had all perished in the fire, but because Sam's diner rarely ever got busy. Right now there was me, the waitress and another girl hunched over a laptop. She had flowing mousy brown hair that fell to her lower back and intelligent doe-like eyes. She had a book open to the side of her laptop, and was scanning it with one finger that was donned with a huge black onyx ring. She was probably writing a review for something and searching the page for quotations. The annoying thing was her wrists were dragged down by about half a dozen bangles and bracelets which weren't fun on werewolf hearing.
People-watching wasn't particularly a hobby of mine but I had nothing better to do while I waited for Claire to arrive. Erica liked it though. I wasn't sure why, maybe she secretly missed the human world, I had no idea. Just because we were in the same pack didn't make us best buds. The girl's eyes danced away from the screen a moment and I recognized her. Her name was Theresa. We used to sit together in Econ and she had her locker next to mine in freshman year. It seemed so far away now, like I had met her once a decade ago. She smiled at me and it stirred a warm memory of laughing together in class, a time before I was bitten when I was still at the mercy of my dad, yes, but everything had felt so safe and simple and set in stone. Happy memories when I wasn't a douche and I had friends. Before being cursed, even if Derek said it was a gift.

I blinked once, twice, and then smiled back.

Claire came crashing through the door, dispelling the warm memories with the gust of cold air that came with her and washed over the café. Theresa grabbed her cardigan and pulled it further over her shoulders. The waitress shivered but made no attempt to cover her bare arms. She looked a bit ticked off that I hadn't bought anything yet.
Claire, too, was drenched from the down pour. Her hair was a wild mess of frizzy wet strings that seemed to somehow puff out as well as stick to her face. She pushed a stray few strands out of her gilded grey eyes. She shook the water spray off her umbrella and onto the "Welcome" mat. I can see her face full of mixed emotions. She wants to ask questions, but so do I.
Theresa waves to her. Claire waves back, even if her eyes tell me she's not sure who exactly she is interacting with. As soon as her butt touches the chair she spans, "What?"
No "how are you" or "thank you for saving my life yesterday" which would have been nice. Instead I'm met with a cold confrontation. But this is Claire and it's not like I was expecting anything else. "I came here to talk to you," I hope I don't let me anger towards her show, "There's something I need to tell you. About Beacon Hills."
"Fine," she breathes, "Just hurry. I don't like being seen here. With you. People will talk."
"Stop being such a bitch," I snap. Then I wince. I didn't mean to sound that dick-y. Part of me is annoyed for letting Claire take so many liberties. I'm a higher ranking member of the pack than her, and I should be enforcing that.
"Sorry," her eyes widen in surprise as if she can't believe she just apologized to me. She sounds genuine as well, which is strange. But she bites her tongue and doesn't insult me. I hold her gaze for a moment and we just stare at each other across the table. What is wrong with me? Yesterday, I was ready to kill this girl and now, I can't take my eyes off her. I can tell by her expression I've hurt her somehow and she glances away. "So," she says, collecting herself and soon the brief glimpse of the fragile girl I just saw is replaced by the she-wolf. But I can tell I've changed something in her. "What is it you want to tell me?"
I take a long, slow breath. "Have you ever heard of a kanima?"
Confusion flashes over her features, "Kanima?" she echoes, "What's a kanima?"
I hide my disappointment. Maybe if she'd known something, it wouldn't mean going to all the trouble to get rave tickets for Friday night which was just around the corner. It was Tuesday now, meaning I had three days to figure something out. "A shapeshifter," I explain. "It's a long story but there's another shapeshifter in Beacon Hills and it's our responsibility to hunt it down. We need your help."
"Why?" her voice is small. I can see the wild fear in her eyes. My hands lurch across the table and wrap around her wrist, afraid she'll bolt. She stares down at my fingers but I don't let go. I experimentally trace a lazy circle with my thumb on the inside of her wrist over a small tattoo. She shivers and I grin at her. "Stop it." She says. She's trying to sound commanding but it comes out almost as a moan of pleasure. God, what am I doing? I hate this girl and she's supposed to hate me.
"Because Derek bit Jackson," I say, answering her previous question in an unconcerned way. My eyes are glued to the tattoo I never noticed before. The word "Believe" is scrawled across it in delicate had writing with a small love heart at the end. It's beautiful and it makes me wonder if she has any other tattoos. It also makes me wonder what it means. Is it a hint at humans to start believing in werewolves? Or a jibe at them? Maybe it's something totally different, referencing something personal to her. I want to know what it means. I want to know her.
"Who's Jackson?" she asks. She's still staring at my hand but has made no attempt to untangle her fingers. Her voice is on edge. She doesn't actually like what I'm doing, but the wolf side of her is telling her not to challenge me. She knows I'm higher ranking. She knows I'm more powerful than her. She knows I can do anything I want with her, and there is such much I want to do to her.
"Seriously? You don't know who Jackson is?" I ask her. I release her hand and she quickly snatches it back from across the table. The conversation veers off topic, "You're angry at me?"
Her smile is broken, "I'm angry at everyone."
"Yeah, but, you're upset," I tell her. I tilt her head up so she has to look at me. A fleeting emotion flickers through her eyes, something I can't read. "Are you okay?"
"What does it look like?" she snaps. She looks hurt, but I don't know why. Is it because of me, or Derek or the pack? Maybe she's struggling to cope with all the changes. I just don't know and it's beginning to frustrate me when it shouldn't.
I lower my voice. "Look, I know this is a bit overwhelming but I understand how you feel-"
"How could you possibly understand, Isaac?" she demands. "You've been a werewolf for what, a few months? I've been like this for nine years. I've been running my entire life and now you want to join your super-secret wolf club-!" her voice heightens to the point where Theresa and the waitress begin to stare and she continues in a lower voice. "You have no idea how I feel."
I try my best to look regretful. I try to sound apologetic but only a string of excuses fall from my mouth. "No, I-I get it…I've had a full moon…I understand…it's just…"
"Forget it," she replies. She sounds tired, defeated. She starts to stand up.
"Wait," I say. My hand reaches for her hand. I still haven't told her about the kanima, information that could probably save her life but she's not listening to me anymore.
"Get away from me," She hisses, bellow human hearing level. She jolts her hand backwards as if my touch is painful. "Don't ever touch me again. I hate you! You know nothing about me! I hope one of the hunters get you because if you ever come near me again, I swear I'll kill you."
She stands up and shakes her head, storming out of the diner and slamming the door shut behind her, leaving me sitting there and feeling like a fool. Theresa is trying to look busy, ignoring the awkwardness that now fills the room. "You going to order something?" the waitress asks me with venom in her voice. I could have pulled her head off. Instead I shook my head at her and left.

Claire's words swirl around in my head. My momentary feeling of kindness towards her is gone and now I long to rip out her pretty, little heart. "I'm going to kill the bitch!" I vent at Stiles.
"Um, no, I'm pretty sure you're not," he replies. "A dead girl mauled by an animal wouldn't look great for the pack." He prompts. That's good old Stiles, always putting the pack first. But sometimes he can be downright annoying.
"She threatened to kill me," I correct him, "Self-defense. And besides, she hates me."
"Actually, she probably loves you."
I whirl on him so hard I almost knock his hands off the driving wheel. That would have been bad. Stiles were the only one who was ever allowed behind the wheel of Derek's pride and joy, the Camaro. Ever since Erica had crashed it in January. "What?"
"It's logical," Stiles replies happily. He's humming eighties theme tune. I wait for further details, but he just sits there.
"Well," I nudge him, "Elaborate."
"You're mean to the people you love," he says. "Remember me and Derek in the early days?"
I smile at the memory. "You two were always at each other's throats," I say fondly, "Because you were cut from the same cloth."
"Exactly," he replies. "Remind you of anyone?"
"No!" I snap a little too defensively.
Stiles smirks at me. "Oh, come on, dude, think about it for just a sec," he tells me, "Apart from both being highly functioning sociopaths and complete social-shut-ins as well as bloodthirsty lunatics half the time. You're pragmatic, dry, sarcastic and cynical. You both express yourselves dishonestly. She was totally alone, and so were you once upon a time."
"Wow, man," I say in sarcastic admiration, "You got deep."
He shoves me, "Shut up," he replies. "And plus, I can tell you want to do more than fuck her. You maybe boning her right now but I can tell you want more than that."
I roll my eyes at him, "Whatever."
"No, really," he ploughs on unrelentlessly, "I thought I saw actual hurt in your face when I picked you up right now."
"Stiles, shut up."
"Maybe it's for the best," he says, "I mean, I bet her mom wouldn't be too pleased about her little girl being sodomized by the monster you think you are."
"Shut up."
"She probably has the hots for you, you know-"
"Shut up!"
"Imagine her with some other guy, he's smacking her around-"
"Shut. Up."
"And the whole time she's crying, screaming for you-"
"Shut up!"
"Isaac! Isaac-!"
Without thinking, I reach over and grab Stiles by the throat. The car veers off course, doing a 180 before coming to land in a ditch. Stiles is breathing hard and I drop him immediately. Derek was going to kill me.
"See," he tells me with a grin, "You do care about her, at least."