Lupus venefica

by Jayne Foyer

A new pack with an old connection to the Hales comes into town, seeking revenge. The Darkness settles deeply across Stiles, Allison, and Scott, bleeding into the rest of the pack. Inheritance hangs before Cora, and when she claims it, it claims her, and the haunting begins. The dead are coming to Beacon Hills.

4. Asaase Yaa

Chapter Four: Asaase Yaa

In the Ashanti pantheon of deities, Asaase Yaa is the daughter of the Supreme God, Nyame, the goddess of the barren places of the Earth.

According to myth, she had a long, sharp sword that could fight by itself. When she ordered the sword to fight, it slaughtered everyone it encountered. When she commanded the sword to stop fighting, it did.

One day, when Asaase Yaa left the house, her son Anansi stole her sword. When an enemy army approached, Anansi ordered the sword to fight. It killed all of the enemy forces.

However, Anansi could not remember the command to make the sword stop. With no enemies left to kill, the sword turned on his own army. When only Anansi was left alive, it killed him too. Then it stuck itself into the ground and turned into a plant with leaves so sharp they cut anyone who touched them.

The plant still cuts people, because no one has ever given the sword the command to stop.

x.

Derek was on the phone in the morning. Cora could hear him, even from behind her door; she stopped and closed her eyes, listening to him speak. "As far as I know, she doesn't know where you are," he was saying, his voice low. "But don't let your guard down."

"Your concern is touching." Peter's voice. It made Cora feel ill, sour in the pit of her stomach. "I think I can handle an Omega. Especially one as hopeless as that poor girl."

"I already told you, she has a pack now."

"Omega is Omega is Omega, Derek. Wolves don't change their spots, and Alphas don't come from nothing."

"One screw-up and she could kill you."

"I would love to see her try."

Cora knew that Peter heard the annoyance in Derek's tone, and the fact that Peter toyed with it, playing his nephew, sent a strike of anger down her spine. "Don't do anything," said Derek. "I'll try to get rid of her."

"Let's try not to attract too much attention to ourselves, shall we?"

Derek hung up, gritting his teeth. Cora could hear his blood pulsing from behind her door, and she burned for her brother.

Autumn leaked into the air of Beacon Hills, a sharp chill sweeping in from the ocean, nipping at noses and biting at the soft, raw exposed flesh of the face. Most of the students at Beacon Hills High School ate inside the cafeteria, except for two girls, sitting out on the steps of the back of the school.

"I don't know how long she's going to stay," said Sam softly, in response to Cora's question, hunched over slightly in the cold. "And I'm too young to stay here by myself. I don't know." She hesitated, then said, "I don't want to leave. But I don't really…have anything here…"

Cora leaned back on her hands, watching the girl beside her. "I'm here," she said, with remarkable impartiality. "If you absolutely needed a place to stay."

"Thank you," murmured Sam graciously. "But – you know. Legal stuff. I just don't know."

There was a short silence. Cora looked out at the gray sidewalk before them.

Sam glanced at her and asked, "What would you have done if your brother hadn't stayed here?"

The silence went on, lengthening on, stretching between them. Cora's eyes didn't move as she seemed to consider this, unable to find the words to express what little she could relate to the other girl. Finally, very slowly, she began, "He didn't, Sam. I didn't." She paused, glanced up. "But we both came back. And I don't regret it, either. If nothing were hard, then there would be nothing that was meaningful. No point. No lesson." She watched Sam with expressionless eyes. "There are worse things," she said quietly, "than being taught a lesson."

At this, Sam looked away. It took another minute or so of silence for Cora to realize what that could have sounded like. Her brow knit in concern, she began, "I didn't mean that as, like-"

"That's OK," said Sam, her voice quiet. "I don't really disagree."

Cora looked at her, in pain.

"But if your brother wasn't here anymore," pressed Sam, looking back up at Cora. "If he'd left. If you had no one left in Beacon Hills."

"I wouldn't have no one," said Cora, before Sam could continue.

Sam watched her. "But you said your family-"

"Family isn't all you have," said Cora smoothly, with surprising conviction. "When I lost everyone, I…" she hesitated, searching for the right words to explain. Glancing up at Sam, she said, "If I had only depended on my family, I would've died. But I was strong with or without them. A lot of us," she added, "are stronger without them."

Sam met her gaze. Bitterly, she turned away and said, "You don't need to tell me I'm better off without them. I know."

Cora eyed the girl's exposed wrist, the soft flesh there, and she longed to see Sam's eyes turn golden.

Glancing back at Cora, Sam asked, "So what would you do? If your brother wasn't here."

Her dark eyes flickering between the other girl's, Cora didn't reply right away, her mind far away. "I don't know," she said bluntly. "I'd stay and help you however I could. We could stay with – I don't know. Stiles." She thought about it, then added, "Or my uncle, or something."

"Uncle?"

"Yeah," said Cora, shaking her head. "As a total last resort. He's a creep."

"I thought you said your family-"

"Most of my family," said Cora, shrugging.

"Does he look after you and your brother?"

"No. Derek doesn't need anyone to look after him anymore. Aside from me, I guess."

"So," said Sam, "you do have some family left around here."

"Well, sure," said Cora fairly. "But I'd hardly count my uncle Peter as family. He's more like this annoying jerk who shows up and gives orders occasionally."

Sam blinked. "Orders?"

"Yeah," continued Cora quickly. "He's…weird. Whatever, I hardly even see him around anymore. He doesn't even live-"

The bell rang, harsh and loud. Displeased, Cora glanced behind her, and then got to her feet. "Come on," she said dully. "We've got class."

When the school day ended, Scott and Allison headed out together, holding hands. "But then I was like," said Scott animatedly, in the middle of a story, "dude, not even for a hundred bucks. He only had, like, six dollars, so there was no way but – anyway, that's why Stiles was bald for like three months in sixth grade."

Allison laughed. "Oh my God," she said. "So you two always were this stupid?"

"Well, yeah," replied Scott, with a shrug. "Pretty much."

"I still can't believe you convinced him to-"

There was an abrupt screeching noise, and then a painful metallic crunch ringing in Scott's ears, even if Allison barely noticed over the din of the parking lot. Suddenly, the dopey grin on Scott's face dropped, and he moved forward, still holding her hand.

"What happened?" she asked, but it became clear soon enough. The front bumper of Stiles's Jeep had collided with the fender of another car – Danny's, it seemed, as he was getting out of the car, looking at the damage disbelievingly.

"Dude, what the hell?" called Danny, and Scott didn't even pay any attention to him, just let Allison's hand slip out of his grip as he jogged forward, to the driver's side of the Jeep. He raised a hand and banged his flat palm against the window.

"Stiles!" he hissed, his heart pumping. "Stiles!" Forgetting, apparently, that he was in the middle of a crowded parking lot, he hooked his fingers into the door handle and pulled sharply, wrenching the car door all but off its hinges, so it hung lamely. At this loud cracking noise, Stiles started back into consciousness, blinking blearily up at his friend.

"Wh-"

Scott leaned in, grabbing hold of his friend's shoulders. "Dude," he said lowly. "Are you OK? What just happened?"

"What?" asked Stiles, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "I was just…I…" He looked up, glancing out his windshield at where Allison was talking to Danny sympathetically.

"Are you OK?" repeated Scott. "Did you just pass out?"

"No!" said Stiles emphatically, gaze snapping back to his friend. "No, I'm fine, I just…" he trailed off, then, his voice weaker, he said, "…I fell asleep. I just fell asleep, just…"

Scott watched his friend trying to form words and then said, "OK, come on," and tugged Stiles out of the car, despite the other boy's half-hearted protests. "Allison," called Scott, and she joined them, taking hold of Stiles, who continued to mumble something about being fine. "You drive him home. I'll take his car."

"What?" asked Stiles, scandalized. "What are you talking about, I'm fine to drive, don't even-" Allison let go of his arm and he almost toppled over, but for Scott catching him midway down. "OK," he said, as Scott and Allison straightened him up again and exchanged glances. "That proves nothing-"

"Dude," called Danny, "Stiles!"

"I'm OK!" insisted Stiles. "I'm OK, I'm OK! Danny!" He pulled against his friends' grip on him, turning around to look at Danny. "Hey you," he said. "Sorry! Totally zoned out there." He attempted a laugh and Danny gave him an odd look.

"Is he OK?" asked Danny cautiously, addressing Allison and Scott.

"I'm fine," insisted Stiles. "Did you not just hear me?

"He's, uh," said Scott, "sick. We're just gonna take him home. Do you think you guys can talk about this some other time?"

Danny eyed Stiles for a moment, then said, "All right. But only because you're sick!"

"I'm not sick," insisted Stiles, as Danny left and Allison tried to tug him towards her car. "I can drive fine."

"You fell asleep at the wheel," said Allison doubtfully, opening the passenger's door of her car, gently shoving him inside. "In a school parking lot."

"How many times do I have to say, seniori-"

She crossed the car, briefly locking eyes with Scott, driving Stiles's Jeep, the door hanging loosely on its frame. Getting into the driver's seat, she said forcefully, "If this is some stupid school thing, Stiles, then go to the guidance counselor, or talk to your teachers, or something. But if you're actually sick-"

"I'm not!"

Allison reached over and flipped down the sun visor before Stiles's head, opening it to the mirror. Stiles looked up, meeting his face in the lumpy plastic reflection. There was silence as Allison headed out of the parking lot, started down the street. Stiles raised his hands to press his fingers against his face.

Then he said, "Damn."

"You need to go to a doctor."

"I went to a doctor."

"And?"

"I'm totally healthy. Apart from the fact that I look like the friggin' Cryptkeeper, apparently."

"You need to get more sleep."

"Wow, Allison, you think?"

"Stiles," she said, something verging on anger in her voice, "this isn't a joke anymore. You look bad. What's going on? Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I don't know!" said Stiles, the frustration in her voice reflecting into his. "Jesus, if I knew, I'd fix it. But I just can't, so don't give me any of that well maybe if you went to bed earlier-"

There was a short silence. Allison turned the car and then, without looking at him, she asked, "If this has to do with…what happened to the three of us. If this is some kind of – darkness-"

"It's not," said Stiles tiredly, leaning back in his seat, staring out the window.

"How do you-"

"It's not!" repeated Stiles, his voice hard and shrill, almost like a shout.

Allison fell silent, the tension in the car tangible.

Stiles bent over, buried his face in his hands. "Sorry," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "This is my problem. That's all."

She drove on. Then, quietly, she began, "If it's your problem, it's all of our problem. Haven't you noticed by now, that's kind of what we do?"

Stiles didn't answer this. In another minute, she turned into his driveway; Scott was already there, waiting by the Jeep, keys in hand. He tried to help Stiles out of the car, but Stiles batted him away, scowling, snatching the keys out of his friend's hand.

"Hey," said Scott, as Stiles stumbled to the front door, struggling to get the keys in the lock. "Hey, hey, hey. Do you want me to call your dad?"

"No," snapped Stiles. "I'm fine. Just – if I could just – this stupid lock-"

Scott reached out and gently pried the keys from Stiles's hands, fitting it into the lock and opening the door. Stiles didn't look up to meet his gaze.

"Thanks," he said shortly. Glancing behind him, he added, "Thanks for the ride, Allison," and then he darted into the house, closing the door quickly behind him.

Scott and Allison stood there uncertainly for a moment. Then, worriedly, Scott looked up at the house before them. "Is he OK?" asked Allison, approaching Scott, watching him carefully.

"I dunno," replied Scott honestly. "Should we…"

He stopped, turning his head slightly; Allison recognized his heightened senses at work and asked, "What's wrong?"

After a moment, a smile lit up Scott's face and he looked at Allison, taking her hand. Grinning, he said, "I can hear him snoring," and Allison returned the smile, laughing slightly, and they headed back to the car.

Not much later, they were walking through the woods, hands in their pockets. "Yeah, but," said Allison fairly, "if he's that sick, he shouldn't be coming to school."

"He hates staying home from school," replied Scott, shrugging. "You know him, he gets bored."

"He looks like he's falling apart."

Scott didn't say anything for a moment, hands in his pockets, eyes on the thick layer of leaves below them. After a few seconds, Allison glanced up at him, then tucked her arm around his. "Hey," she murmured. "What is it?"

Lost in thought, as if something had only just occurred to him, he shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Nothing," he said. He was silent. Allison held onto him, knowing that he was not done. Trudging along the damp, orange-brown leaves beneath them, Scott muttered, "That's what they said about his mom. Like she was falling apart."

Something dull and warm seemed to puncture Allison's heart. Pity – something she couldn't remember ever feeling for Stiles – welled up in her stomach. "What happened to her?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Cancer," answered Scott. "She was sick for a really long time." Neither of them said anything. Then Scott continued, "I hope his dad knows. Maybe I'll talk to him."

They stopped, standing underneath the tall trees, grayish light filtering down onto them. "That's sweet," she whispered, her face before his. Her eyes flickered down to his lips. "You really care about him."

Scott shrugged. "He's my best friend. You know that."

"Yeah," she breathed, and she leaned forward, and they kissed. After a moment, they pulled away, and he met her gaze with those big brown eyes.

"So," he began, "what was that thing you wanted to talk about?"

"Oh," she said, her expression failing slightly. She took his hand and they started to walk again. "I don't know. It was weird. I was probably just seeing things."

"Yeah?" asked Scott, looking at her. "What kind of things?"

She was quiet. In the woods, a bird let out a crowing caw, and the leaves on the organic earth below them rustled. Allison glanced at Scott uncertainly. Then, slowly, she began: "Something seemed…evil. Like it was trying to hurt me."

Scott blinked. "Who?" he asked urgently.

"No," replied Allison, shaking her head. "Not who. There was nobody there. It was like – it was like I was seeing things. I saw…" she trailed off, staring before them. Then she told him: "I saw my mother."

Scott stared at her, worry pooling in his eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Like…she's alive again? Or…?"

"No," said Allison, narrowing her eyes slightly in thought. "Not like that. It was more like a hallucination than anything."

They both considered this, and then Scott offered, "Maybe somebody poisoned you. Like what happened at Lydia's party that one time?"

"Who would poison me?" asked Allison doubtfully.

"I don't know," answered Scott. "Lydia again?"

"That was only because Peter was controlling her," Allison pointed out. "And now that he's back, he wouldn't need to use her anymore."

"That's so weird," murmured Scott thoughtfully. Glancing at his girlfriend, seeing the look on her face, he squeezed her hand. "Maybe it was just a bad dream," he offered helpfully. "You're OK, right? It didn't hurt you or anything?"

"No," answered Allison, but her hand flitted up to her neck, trailing where the blood had tightened around her throat like a noose. She glanced up at Scott. "It scared me, though."

He looked at her, then they stopped walking, and he put his arms around her. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "It sounds scary. But don't worry. Your house is probably the safest place you could be, right?"

She turned her head, pressed her lips against his cheek. "Except for with you," she whispered, and he smiled, and they kissed.

Holding hands, they continued through the woods, coming to a little creek they had to cross. As they approached the bank, Allison asked, "You don't think this has anything to do with everything that happened last year, do you? Maybe this is like – some kind of darkness coming back?"

Scott considered this, then said, "Maybe. But even in that case, I don't think it can hurt us. We'll make it through." He shot a grin up at her. "We always do."

She could not resist when he smiled at her like that, and a warm smile spread across her lips as well. Letting go of his hand, she stepped delicately onto a rock in the stream, hopping from one to another, crossing the running water. Almost completely across, she stopped, looking back at Scott. "Come on," she said, beckoning towards him.

He grinned at her and took a step out onto the rocks, careful, making sure not to slip. Allison laughed at him and held out her hands, reaching for him. He took another step, holding up his arms, stretching to touch their fingertips together.

He glanced down to adjust his footing and his breath left his body, eyes widening, frozen to the spot as light eyes stared vacantly up at him from beneath the surface of the water, skin shimmering pale white in the movement of the stream. Pale blood gushed into the water, from a wound on a forehead.

Instantly he was in the water, scrambling on his hands and knees, his fingers feeling nothing but the rocky mud-covered bottom of the creek. Alarmed, Allison called his name and darted back onto the rocks, reaching down to pull him up, but he shouted, "No!" and threw her hand off his back, scratching at the bottom of the stream, searching for something.

With more force, she reached down, tugging at his shoulders, saying, "Scott," – she stumbled into the water, and it soaked her jeans up to her knees as she struggled to pull him up from the water, fingers cold and bone-white. At last she tugged him upright, forcefully dragging him to the bank. "Oh my God," she said, as he knelt there on the ground, staring at his hands. "What just happened?"

Scott looked up at her, eyes wide in shock. "Didn't you see him?" he asked, his voice hushed.

Allison stared at him. "See who?"

Slowly, he looked back to the water. It ran clear, down to the rocks at the bottom. He put a hand to his chest, slowing his heart, breath still pumping. "Matt," he said, reaching out, dipping his fingers into the water.

Allison blinked. "Matt?" she echoed disbelievingly. "Creepy photographer Matt?"

"Yes!" replied Scott, looking back at her. "Kanima master Matt! I saw him!"

A crow cawed in the trees. Allison glanced around, then said, "Scott…Matt's dead. His body was buried."

"No," insisted Scott. "I just saw him, right there."

"Scott," said Allison, reaching down, pulling him upright. "You're freezing. Come on. Let's go back to the car."

"Allison, I saw-"

"I know," said Allison loudly, her voice sharp and cutting through the quiet forest. Scott's eyes snapped up to meet her gaze, staring back at him. Without glancing away, she asked, "You think I wouldn't believe you? After what I just told you?"

He watched her, and then he turned his head. She held his hand tightly, and he looked back at the little stream as they headed away. "Yeah," he said vaguely. "I… yeah."

Allison pulled him into the car, closing the door and scanning through the woods as she went around the car, to the other side. Before she got in, she looked out. A crow cawed again and, as if in response, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Out of the corner of her eye, something moved, dark and human-shaped. When she looked around again, there was nothing there.

She got into the car and they headed back to the road.

In his room, Stiles lay on his bed. His eyes were closed – it was, he'd found, one of the only things he could control. Even when he was frozen still, body stiff and refusing to obey any of his thoughts, he always had the option to close his eyes against the weight on his chest, haunting and viciously piercing, as if digging into the flesh of his heart.

There was a sharp rapping sound, knuckles against glass. Instantly his eyes flew open, and whatever it was that had a hold on him which gripped him so tightly seemed to vanish. He breathed a deep breath of relief, then glanced around, a pounding pain growing on the side of his head. Squinting against the last of the fading light streaming in through his window, his mind working agonizingly slowly, he stared out the glass and, thickly, asked aloud: "Cora?"

Looking decidedly disinterested for somebody crouching on his roof and trying to climb through the window, she waved at him through the glass, then motioned for him to open it. He did so, allowing her to slip into the room. She closed the window after her.

Stiles fell back to sit on his bed again, looking up at her. "Uh," he began, "hi."

She looked at him derisively. "Hi," she replied, almost as if mocking him. Roughly, she continued, "I heard you had an accident at school today."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. That was nothing."

"Right. Of course. Because passing out behind the wheel is," she shrugged, "no big deal."

Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall on the other side of his bed. "I didn't realize you were so worried about me."

"I'm not," she replied, her dark, inquisitive eyes gazing into his. "But if you have to give me a ride again, I'd prefer it if you didn't kill us both."

"Oh, sure," responded Stiles, heat entering his voice. "Gee, I promise, Cora, I'll be uber-sure to only kill you."

"Really?" she asked faintly. Something like a smile appeared on her face. "You couldn't if you wanted to, Stiles."

There was a silence. Stiles looked down at his hands, picking at his nails, and then he looked up at Cora, caught her watching him with that odd, more-than-there look on her face.

She sat down on his bed, sliding over to lean against the wall beside him, drawing her legs into her chest. Something new morphed into her expression, something that he could not quite recognize. Gently, she asked, "How are you feeling?"

Sharply, he replied, "Shitty."

With just as much softness in her voice, she asked, "Did you get some sleep?" and he glanced at her and suddenly he realized what that new look was. He'd seen concern in her eyes before, but never in this context – never for him.

"Yeah," he sighed, acutely aware of her proximity to him, the rubbing at his nails and fingers becoming slightly more self-conscious. "Like an hour or so."

"Since school let out?"

"Yeah."

She didn't say anything for a moment, then: "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"No," he said abruptly, turning to look at her. "No, no. I'm glad you came." She could not know about his recurring nightmares and how her appearance had ended one, and so he knew she would take this differently than he meant it. But then again, he thought, meeting her gaze again, maybe he meant it that way, as well. Blinking, he tore his eyes away from hers, a sudden, juvenile flush rising to his cheeks. "Why are you here?" he asked. "Did Derek want to make sure I was still breathing?"

"No," answered Cora, almost patiently. "I did."

He didn't say anything.

"Don't look like that," said Cora, leaning forward, peering at his face. "You made pretty well damn sure I was breathing once, so it's not as if I'm doing anything that special for you."

"OK," said Stiles, "can we pretty much say we're even about the whole mouth-to-mouth thing? For the record, I'm not even CPR-certified, really it was more dangerous than the alternative-"

"But let me guess," said Cora, cutting him off, "you wanted to put your lips on mine?"

"No," he said, his voice getting tense. He glanced at her. "Maybe. I don't know, Cora, jeez." There was a pause, and then he added, "Now that we've done the whole actual kissing thing, this all seems a lot more awkward." At this, she glanced away as well, a look of what verged on distaste across her face. "I mean," he said hurriedly. "Not in a bad way. No, OK, what I meant was – I was just implying that – I mean, I don't know, why are you here?" She didn't reply. He looked at her and then, genuine distress in his voice, he put his hand to his face and rubbed his forehead, and murmured, "Why did you kiss me?"

"You wanted me to," she countered.

"So?" asked Stiles, looking at her. "For the record? There are very few people I wouldn't want to kiss, so, I mean, just so you know that. For future reference."

"So what?" she asked, watching him. "I'm nothing special to you? Is that what you're saying?"

"No. I'm just saying, there are…" he trailed off, rubbing his face tiredly. "It didn't seem like something you'd do."

"Stiles," she said, cocking her head slightly. He looked at her, and there was a trace of amusement on her face. She said, "You don't know me at all well enough to say that." He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him. "I don't really care about any of your complicated, incredibly boring emotions," she said this as if it were a dirty word, all but giving it air quotes in the air with her fingers, "but…" she paused, watching him, as if considering her words. "But I liked seeing your face," she said. "When I kissed you. That was worth it."

He looked at her. The coldness in his chest, frozen with the weight of something pressing against him, immobilizing him, seemed to crack. He breathed a deep breath, and then asked, teasingly, "So what you're saying is that I'm nothing special to you?"

She grinned. "Maybe," she said.

Rolling his eyes, he looked away. "You're such a Hale."

"You have no idea what we Hales are like."

"Prickly and emotionally stunted," said Stiles, and then he looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. "Am I close?"

She shook her head, holding back a small laugh. "Fine," she said, "then let me do you."

"Anytime," he said, and then he inwardly winced at the comment.

Cora seemed to ignore it, only declared: "Overly-defensive. With a big mask made of sarcasm that you don't think anyone can see through."

"Oh, come on," responded Stiles. "I'm fully aware Scott can see right through me, to my poor vulnerable sensitive little soul. Right through the eyes. See? Right there." He pointed to his eyes, peering at Cora. "Windows into my soul. Very romantic. Am I right?"

"No," answered Cora simply.

"Oh," said Stiles fairly. "OK. Do you know what romantic means, or-?"

She glanced around, her attention caught by something. "Your father's home," she said.

"Guess not," he muttered, but she didn't seem to hear him.

She slid off the bed, getting to her feet. "Don't die," she said, almost affectionately. "I would be very disappointed."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Stiles," she said.

He looked up at her, blinking unenthusiastically. "What?"

"I don't like people I care about being hurt," she said. "I've had way too much of that." He watched her, unsure of what to say to this. Then she leaned forward and gently touched his cheek, bending down very quickly to touch her lips to his forehead for only a moment, and then she was at the window again. "Get some sleep," she said, opening the window. "You look halfway dead already."

She was gone, and Stiles sat there on his bed, supremely confused.

A few days later, Derek dropped his sister off at school. Things were smoother, although not necessarily easy, but there was more often a smile on her face, which Derek could thoroughly appreciate. She slipped out of the car, closing the door behind her, and he watched her walk away. A girl joined her a few paces away, and Derek felt an odd swell of pride that it wasn't anyone he knew: Cora was doing perfectly fine on her own.

Once she was gone, he made a call. He knew that she had been listening, and he saw that look on her face when she knew he was speaking to Peter, when he even mentioned Peter. And he had smelled Grace's pack on her before, and he trusted his sister and loved her deeply, but he thought it was the wisest course of action not to involve her anymore.

Something in Peter's voice, though, sounded different this time. "Be cautious, Derek," he said, voice slightly fuzzy over the phone. "You can feel it, can't you? Something in the air."

"It's another Alpha," said Derek stonily. "I told you. Her being here is throwing everything off-"

"It's not just that. Something's coming."

"Yeah, to kill you."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not the one talking like there's a war coming," answered Derek impatiently. "We don't have time for this. Are you going to talk to Deaton or not?"

"Not," replied Peter icily. "We need a new emissary."

"Why? If he's been with our family for a long time-"

"That's my point exactly," snapped Peter. "We don't need an emissary loyal to your mother, Derek, that will only hold us back."

"How will that hold us back?"

"We're a different pack now. We don't own this land the way we used to. We used to be respected here, and now look at us. We have an ex-Omega on our asses, thinking she can show up and challenge my authority. She thinks she can threaten me. We need an emissary who's on our side, not committed to what we used to be."

Derek clenched his jaw, then said, "You mean we need one who's on your side."

"Maybe. But I am the Alpha, so my side is your side. Right, Derek?"

The word tasting bitter in his mouth, Derek forced himself to utter, "Right."

"Good." Peter paused, and then said, "Let me think about this. We may be able to use Grace's profound impudence to our advantage."

Derek rubbed his fingers together, mouth tight. "How?"

"It's very simple. We're pathetically dependent, now that Scott has his own pack. We could do with a few more Betas."

His voice a warning, Derek began, "Peter-"

"How many are in her pack?"

"Six. Including her."

Peter considered this. "That would be a welcome addition."

"That's twice our size," Derek pointed out. "She'd tear you apart."

"How many times do I have to say this? She came from Omega, she knows nothing-"

"She's still a threat." Then, after a second's hesitation, he added, "And I won't let you hurt her. Not unless she comes after you."

"She's already-"

"You know what she meant to Laura. And you killed Laura, Peter. Leave the woman she loved alone."

There was a silence on Peter's end. And then, his voice oily and snake-like, Peter began, "You want to talk about Laura, Derek?" A thousand responses instantly ran through Derek's mind, but before he could choose one, Peter continued: "I'll tell you about Laura." There was a silence. Derek almost said something, but did not; he all but held his breath, bristling at the scorn in Peter's voice, the apathy with which he spoke whenever he talked about Laura. Derek said nothing, waiting. Quietly, Peter murmured, "It's no accident that Grace has come looking for her now." He paused, and Derek hated himself for how delicately he hung on every word. His voice tinny and artificial through the phone, Peter said plainly, "Don't let her near Cora."

An odd, stuttering sensation hit him in the chest, his heart missing a beat. "Why?" he demanded.

"Cora doesn't have the kind of power she's looking for right now, not as a Beta. But if you want her to live, you keep her away from Grace."

"Peter-!" There was an emphatic click and Derek repeated, "Peter!" but he was gone, no one on the other line. Swearing, Derek put down the phone, the stink of Grace's pack coming from Cora's warm body lingering in his nose.

In the evening, a fine mist rested upon Beacon Hills, silvery would-be rain hovering bizarrely in the air. The cemetery was ringed by the woods, trees dark and dense in the impending dusk. A pair of bare feet padded slowly through the grass, walking along the edges of graves, with wide eyes and skin a sickly pale white.

There was a figure standing before a grave before her. She took a step, and a twig broke beneath her foot; the other woman glanced around suddenly, her eyes flashing with color. After a moment's tense silence, she sighed, glancing back at the tombstone before her, then she crossed the graveyard. "Lydia," said Cora, approaching the girl. "What are you doing here?" Looking at her feet, she asked, "Where are your shoes?"

Lydia stared at her, mouth hanging open, eyes huge and petrified. As Cora watched her, a slow, crawling sensation trickled down her spine, and she realized something seemed terribly wrong.

"Lydia," repeated Cora, glancing around them warily. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

Fingers spread wide and sharp like talons, Lydia's hand whipped out and took hold of Cora's forearm, squeezing her tightly. In confusion, Cora looked down at the girl's hand, perfectly manicured nails, rings on her fingers. Before she could ask one more time, Lydia whispered, "They're everywhere."

Cora said nothing, only peered at Lydia guardedly.

"Don't you see them," she said faintly, eyes sliding around them, staring into the low mist. "They're all here. Everyone. They're here, they're…" she trailed off. Moving very slowly, Cora followed her gaze, looking around. There was nothing there. Her words coming out in frozen breaths, Lydia whispered, "…they're all dead."

Around them both, packed densely into the small cemetery, surrounding Lydia and Cora, standing around them with wide mouths, lips shriveled and pulled back to expose teeth in a skeletal smirk, shuddering laughter reverberating somewhere far away. Lydia held onto Cora, pulling her closer, unable to breathe in fear. Slowly, the rotting bodies closest to her began to move, lifting their arms, extending long thin fingers. Flesh dropped from their hands, exposing bone and rancid, stinking strips of meat along their frail limbs. The tips of their fingers brushed along her body, cold like they were made of ice, trailing along her back and shoulders. "Lydia," said Cora again, her brow knit in concern.

Lydia looked at her, trembling hard, her grip still tight on Cora's arm. And then her eyes slipped past the other girl, to behind her, and her eyes widened so hard it was painful, and the inside of her chest felt sick and sour. Vomit churned in her stomach, and she could barely contain herself, unable to shield herself from the whispery voices around her as she lifted a finger and held it up, pointing to something behind Cora.

A naked body slowly moved towards them, dark eyes fixated on Lydia, more alive than any of the other specters around her. It moved as if it could see her, as if it knew who she was. It was a woman with long hair, and a huge wound like a belt around her navel, where dried blood caked her skin. The way she moved was odd and unnatural, as if she were walking on top of a balance beam, careful to keep her weight even. Cora turned, facing the thing in the face, so close their noses almost touched.

Lydia let go of Cora's arm, putting both her hands over her mouth, too horrified to scream. For a long moment, there was nothing.

And then Cora looked back at Lydia, and when she did, her face was half glistening and blackened from deep, stripping burns. She smiled at Lydia, baring her teeth, and she said: "What's wrong, Lydia? That's just my sister."

Behind her, the dead woman's body moved sideways with an uncanny sliding motion. Vomit rose in her throat as Lydia realized what was happening, and the top half of the woman slid completely off her body, falling to the ground, her intestines and organs slopping onto the earth. Her legs followed, buckling lifelessly at the knees. Her head feeling light and impossible, Lydia's own legs weakened and she dropped to her hands and knees, retching on the wet grass. Shuddering, she lifted her gaze incrementally, and the dead-but-still-seeing eyes of the woman cut in half stared up at her, piercing her deeply.

Something cold pressed against her face, and her mind worked sluggishly, and nothing made sense until someone lifted her chin and she looked up to see Cora, half burnt, skin charred, grinning at her, cold, bloated fingers trailing across her face.

The scream came bubbling up from inside of her, twisting and writhing and desperate to get out, passing through her lungs and forcing its way up through her throat, and when she opened her eyes again, the eerie ghost of Cora had disappeared, and there was nothing but her scream echoing in the empty graveyard.

Breathing hard, every desperate breath painful and raw against her throat, she realized that she was still on her hands and knees, and that there was dirt all over her palms, underneath her fingernails. She scrambled to her feet, her skirt dirtied, her tights torn at the knees. Before her was an emptied grave, wet earth and clay lining a perfectly rectangular ditch. Shivering, she peered down into the hole. At the bottom was a wooden casket, and in the center of the casket, there was a hole, wood splintered upwards, just big enough to see the emptiness behind it, the white silk stained red with viscous drops of dried blood.

Very slowly, frozen so deeply she almost could not move at all, Lydia raised her head to read the tombstone erected before the grave, letters engraved a stark black against the deep marble white of the stone. There was a date of birth, a date of death, and a name. Lydia read it, and the shuddering fear in her stomach reared and hissed and struck like a snake.

LAURA HALE

Hardly a day after their last conversation over the phone, Derek was in his car, speeding down the road, heading to find Peter. He stared out the windshield before him, unblinking, nearly unmoving except to keep the car shooting down the dark lanes. Something in Peter's voice had stuck with him, and Peter's warning about Cora had resounded in his ears a thousand times, every time he looked at her. His stomach felt tight and knotted with anxiety, and he refused to sit and wait. Peter would give him an explanation, he knew.

He stopped outside where Peter lived, getting out of the car, locking it behind him. He hadn't called ahead, but that was for the best. Maybe if Peter were surprised, he'd be more inclined to finally answer some questions.

Paranoid, Peter had not given Derek a key. Instead he stood outside the door and knocked harshly. "Peter," he called. "It's me."

Nothing.

Derek knocked again. "Peter," he said. "I need to talk to you."

When there was silence again, it occurred to Derek for the first time that something was not quite right. He lifted his face and sniffed the air, and the scent he could smell put a snarling grimace on his face. Glancing around, he kicked the door, and it fell uselessly aside, barely kept together at the hinges.

The stink hit him strongly as soon as the door was gone, and he hated that scent, but he stepped in, moving forward very slowly. He dropped to a defensive crouch, peering in the darkness with eyes that shone bright blue. There was no one there. Following the smell, he crept down a hall, towards the single bedroom. His steps slow and measured, he approached the door and then reached out, gently resting his fingers against the doorknob, claws tapping against the metallic surface. He turned the doorknob and gently pushed at the door. It swung open.

The stink of blood, heady and strong, overwhelmed Derek. He stood at the door, staring into the room.

Peter was lying on the bed. His body, the sheets, the carpet on the ground – everything was soaked a deep black-crimson, the color of blood spilt hours ago. His body was nearly unrecognizable except for his head, skin pale and drained of color, eyes closed, resting gently, as if asleep, on the pillows at the top of the bed, four feet away from the rest of his body. A trail of blood leading from his severed neck was smeared into a perfect spiral on the white sheets of the bed.

Derek stood there, clenching the doorknob, bile rising in his throat.