Chapter 3: Normal Days Are Really Rare
Gerard and the Alphas arrive in Beacon Hills. Almost nobody wants them around.
"Derek!"
Derek ignored McCall shouting his name. He'd made arrangements to cremate Laura's body today, and he didn't want to talk to anyone.
"Why are we here again?"
That was Stilinski. Not unexpected as the two boys seemed to have chosen to be twins or something.
(Pack, his mind whispered – Derek ignored that voice too.)
"Because."
He waited, uncaring, for McCall to finish the rest of the sentence. Stilinski didn't have any patience.
"Because? You woke me up at ass o'clock for 'because'?"
"You get up this early for lacrosse."
"Yeah, well. Lacrosse!"
"This is more important." Derek knew McCall's crooked jaw would be pushed out in stubbornness. They'd hunt around for a while longer.
Derek wasn't worried, though. He knew this forest better than they did, and he knew how to evade better hunters than they'd ever be.
"Jeez! It's just an apology."
An apology Derek neither needed nor wanted.
(He wanted to remember what his family had smelled like when they were alive. Not just Laura, but his sisters and his parents. Their old couch and his father's spice cupboard.)
"We accused him of killing his sister."
"And Deaton… Well, you accused him of attacking Deaton. I was just going to blame some random dude."
Stilinski was beginning to sound out of breath. They were pretty deep into the preserve and the ground wasn't even. The kid should be ready to quit soon.
"But that's why we gotta apologize."
Derek increased his pace a little more. Not enough to make him sweat because sweat had odor. McCall was a terrible werewolf, but even he might not miss a huge waft of stink if it blew in his face.
(His mother had worn Chanel all her life. He'd found the brand at Macy's once. It hadn't smelled like her at all.)
"Why now? It's like ass o'clock in the morning. You barely let me eat breakfast. Maybe he's not even awake?"
"We need to do it before we forget."
Why did McCall have to be so freaking stubborn? It had been fine when he'd used it to resist Pet– to resist the alpha. Not so fine when he'd refused to team up with Derek to find Peter.
(Peter… who had killed Laura, his niece.
How could he have done that? How could he kill his family?)
"You know what you should be doing? Calling Allison. You said she had a good time on Friday, right? And she was happy to see you on Saturday? You should follow up on that."
Derek suppressed a full-body shudder at the mention of Allison Argent. She might be younger than Kate had been when she'd introduced herself, but he had no doubt that Allison would eventually do the same thing to Scott because Argents killed werewolves.
The sound of movement from the two boys slowed then stopped.
"She did say she had a good time."
"Yeah? That's good! But if you don't offer, she might think you're not interested in, y'know. 'Rekindling the romance'. Or at least the bumping uglies."
"Stiles!"
If Chris Argent heard either of them talking about his daughter that way, the hunter was liable to kill them. Well, he was probably going to shoot McCall anyway, if he ever found out about him either "bumping uglies" or being a werewolf.
(But if it got McCall and Stilinski to leave him alone, Derek would cheer on the whole Romeo and Juliet thing they had going.)
Stilinski grumbled and cajoled a little more, and McCall eventually gave in. Derek stopped and listened to the boys walking away. McCall, complaining the whole time about the lack of reception in the preserve.
Derek waited until there was nothing but the birds and wind. Until he knew he was alone, before moving again. He'd do a tour of the old property while he wasn't being chased by anything or anyone.
Time to say goodbye properly,
-o0o-
Allison decided that her friends were wholly responsible for her not going screamingly postal at school.
In every one of her classes kids had pointed, whispered, and stared. Worse, Lisa Meyers, daughter of the first victim, had cried when she saw Allison in Economics.
If it hadn't been for Scott, sitting by her side and pressing his leg into hers for support, and Lydia in front of her, flicking her hair in an "I'm so done with you" way. Well. Allison probably would have skewered Mr. Harris with one of her mom's arrows.
"Miss Argent," he oozed with unctuous glee. "Perhaps you can explain how characteristics and behavior are passed down in your DNA."
"Umm, Isn't that part of biology, and isn't this chem?" Stiles said from the back of the room and pulled Harris' attention away from her. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I get to blow shi-stuff up in your class—"
"Usually by accident," Lydia sniffed.
"Unexpected explosions are the best ones." Stiles was probably grinning. Allison could have kissed him.
Lydia snorted. "Hardly a challenge in a chemistry lab. All you need are potassium chlorate, sugar..." Lydia's casual inventory of all the things in the lab that could go boom kept the teacher's (and the class') attention on chemistry for the rest of the period.
Stiles wound up in detention anyway (of course). He just shrugged it off, but Allison kissed his cheek anyway. She had the best friends!
"Your aunt's belief in werewolves isn't caused by genetics," Lydia said over lunch in the cafeteria. "And, though genetics can be an element in psychological growth, scientists now think that prenatal development and early environment are more of a factor." It was reassuring, kind of, but Kate wasn't completely crazy, and Allison kind of wished she could tell her friend that. Would she believe her that werewolves were real?
She watched as Scott and Stiles lined up for lunch. Scott smiled at her, uncomplicatedly happy to see her. Stiles bobbed his head, and twitched his lips in a gesture far harder to read.
If he hadn't been one Scott would still have believed her about werewolves, because Scott was like that. A friend tells him something and he believes his friend because they're friends. Lydia would accept that Allison believed, but she would also start running tests, looking for a diagnosis and a treatment.
Stiles would... Well, actually, Stiles probably would've believed her, because he, kind of, already believed that anything was possible. And then he would've researched the hell out of it. Did Stiles worry less now that Sheriff Stilinski didn't need to be concerned with high cholesterol?
No, she answered herself. Because now he would worry about hunters, and exposure, and challenges from other werewolves looking to take over Beacon Hills.
She flashed to the night Peter Hale had kept them captive at the school, to Stiles punching Jackson when he suggested calling the sheriff and letting him face the creature outside—in effect, putting his father's life in danger. Stiles hadn't been a spaz when he'd hit Jackson—he'd been freaky scary.
"If you frown any harder, you'll need Botox before you're twenty." Lydia's dry comment pulled Allison out of her thoughts.
She forced out a smile. "Sorry. A lot on my mind."
"Really?" Lydia rolled her eyes. "You need a spa day: massage, facial, mani-pedi, the works, and maybe you'll stop glowering at Stiles." Lydia slapped her hand on the table making Allison flinch. Lydia scooped up a spoonful of yogurt. "Honestly. Did he photo bomb your date with Scott? He can be pretty oblivious of social boundaries." Lydia's tone was that of an owner talking about a favored pet.
Allison made her brain back away from scary Stiles. Thankfully, it didn't have to go very far. "So the Winter Formal went well then? You didn't kill him."
Lydia tipped her head, and gave a considering hum. "Actually, he wasn't a bad partner. He knew when to go away." She smiled and filled her mouth with yogurt.
"Please tell me you didn't go looking for Jackson." When Lydia didn't deny it, Allison leaned over the table. "The guy asked me to the dance. Insulted me in the car, and then only stuck around long enough to spike the punch. Those are not the actions of a nice guy."
Lydia sniffed. "Maybe I'm not looking for a nice guy. Not everybody's attracted to soft puppies like Scott."
"Says the woman who made out with him in the closet."
Thankfully, the arrival of Scott and Stiles stopped whatever Lydia might have said to defend herself. Allison wasn't interested in hearing it again. It was over, done. Behind them, and mostly forgotten. Instead, she shared a small kiss with her on-again boyfriend when he sat down beside her.
They talked about nothing much—teachers, lacrosse, the weekend.
"So I hear your father has lost three of his deputies. That's gotta be tough." Lydia said (in an obvious attempt to avoid committing to weekend activities, but Allison was still interested).
Stiles shrugged, a rough jerk of his shoulder, and stabbed ineffectively at his pasta. "Well, you know, people think being a county cop is all handing out speeding tickets, and finding lost dogs while wearing a cool uniform. Then people die—or nearly die." He waved it off. "Anyway, people get hurt, and suddenly being a Beacon Hills deputy isn't as much fun anymore."
It sounded plausible. But...
"How's your father managing the change?" Allison asked only half-seriously. Sheriff Stilinski been nice to her that night, on her way back from Kate's torture cave, but her parents would be disappointed if Allison didn't use all her chances to grab intel.
"What change?" Stiles threw up his hands. "He was short-staffed before, and he's still short-staffed. Although, no, you're right." Stiles leaned forward, pointing a finger at her. "He's eating steak. Blatantly, eating steak. For the B vitamins and the protein, he says. I say, what's wrong with a pill? Pills don't have cholesterol." Stiles shifted his glare back to his cheese-covered pasta. "That's it," he announced. "I'm taking him salad tonight, and I'm not leaving until he's eaten all of it."
He would do it, too, Allison realized. How could Stiles not understand the physical benefits of being a werewolf? A little cholesterol wouldn't hurt a one. From what her parents said, a vat of cholesterol and a gaping chest wound wouldn't stop one for long.
"You do realize your father's an adult," Lydia said in disbelief. Scott frantically waved his hands to stop her. "Plus, given the stressors in his life right now, he's not wrong in what he's doing. Recent studies showed that just a picture of a steak is enough to calm some men down."
Stiles slammed his fork down. "Then he can look at a picture while he eats his freaking salad!" Stiles grabbed his tray and his bag. He gave them all a final sniff and stalked off with offended dignity.
Scott had a hand over his face, Lydia's mouth was open in surprise, but Allison had to laugh.
"Was the sheriff so unhealthy?" she asked.
"He always looked in good shape to me." Lydia said with a suggestive lift of her eyebrows.
Scott recoiled. "No! You can't perv on the sheriff."
Lydia's eyebrows now challenged Scott to stop her.
"He's my best friend's dad," Scott pleaded. "I've known him since I was eight."
Lydia shrugged, and Scott dropped his head to the table with a long moan of despair. When Lydia winked at her, Allison had to giggle. It was nice. This was nice: her two best friends getting along. As horrible as it had been for Lydia when Jackson dumped her, she'd become softer, more approachable, and yet somehow stronger.
She didn't work so hard to appear stupid, anyway.
"Oh my," Lydia purred. "Forget Sheriff Stilinski. Who are they?" Lydia was staring at the north cafeteria doors, so Allison turned to look.
It was obvious whom Lydia was drooling over: Twins—white, blondish hair, average height, muscles—swaggered into the room. They carried themselves like gods on earth, which partly explained Lydia's attraction, but they made Allison's hair lift and her heart speed up. They were dangerous and they knew it.
Scott also sat up, frowning as if he smelled something rotten. "It's kind of late for transfers, isn't it?"
"It's never too late for a change of scenery." Lydia had braced her chin on her upraised fist, and was staring at the newcomers. Allison wondered if she was hoping to attract them with the power of her mind. If so it worked. The new guys gazed over the cafeteria crowd before settling their attention on their table.
Lydia perked up, fluffing her hair and giving them an inviting look.
"They're staring at us." Scott's frown had deepened.
Lydia flicked her hair disdainfully. "Not 'us'." Her unsaid 'idiot' was easily heard.
When Allison looked back toward the doors, the twins were gone. A quick check confirmed they hadn't sat down and they weren't in line for food.
They hadn't come to the cafeteria for food, but they hadn't accepted Lydia's invitation either. It could've just been them checking out the school...
She shivered, remembering how the twins had looked at their table and smiled.
She needed to talk to her parents.
-o0o-
On Monday afternoon, Chris opened the door before Gerard could push the doorbell again.
"Christopher." Gerard's voice was cool. His use of Chris's full name a reminder of Chris's childhood when Gerard had control of him, was allowed to judge him. And Gerard had judged him harshly.
Chris made sure to mirror the tone exactly. "Dad."
Gerard hated the diminutive 'dad'. It was so informal, so lacking in authority. It made his father's eyes twitch, and Chris buried his smile by stepping back to let his father into their house. "How was Kate?"
"I didn't stop."
Chris paused. Gerard walked around him to greet Victoria, who was waiting at the kitchen entrance. "Why didn't you stop?" he asked. "The prison was only five miles out of your way."
Gerard didn't even turn to face him. "It wasn't necessary."
Not necessary? When Gerard's stated purpose for coming to Beacon Hills was to work with Kate on her defense? Chris raised his eyebrows at his wife. She lifted her chin.
"Tomorrow will be fine," she said. She held out her hand, and Gerard took it even though he'd narrowed his eyes at her presumption. They exchanged a formal handshake and air kisses, and all Chris could think of was the salute before a duel.
"Coffee?" she asked.
Gerard, eyes still narrow and tight, shook his head. "I think we need to discuss how things in Beacon Hills got so out of control that you let my daughter get arrested." He turned to stalk into the dining room, forcing them to follow behind like ducklings.
"We didn't 'let' her do anything," Chris growled, moving around his father to grab the seat at the head of the table.
"Then how did she get caught?" Gerard basically sneered at both of them.
"She didn't cover her tracks well enough," Victoria said coolly. She took the bourbon out of the cabinet and offered it. Gerard nodded gracious acceptance.
Chris shook his head at the offer. "As far as we can figure, something she did or said caught the attention of the sheriff's son, and he followed her out to the Hale place."
"The sheriff's son." Gerard's voice dripped disbelief.
"Yes. The sheriff's son," Victoria confirmed. "He is notoriously nosy, and has been found at crime scenes before."
"By his father. The alpha that arrested your sister."
"His father, who is the sheriff," Chris corrected. "Who became the alpha after arresting Kate."
Gerard slanted a look at Chris. "You were at the station during the attack. Why didn't you kill him in the confusion? A newly turned werewolf, even an alpha, would've been an easy target."
"Because I was applying pressure to Kate's neck." Chris stared at his father. "Peter Hale had just tried to rip out her throat and I was trying to stop your daughter from bleeding to death." Gerard lifted a shoulder. It felt dismissive, as if Chris should've been able to both save Kate and kill the sheriff. In a room full of police. Chris ground his teeth to stop himself from saying anything.
"Considering the circumstances, Chris made the right call." Victoria's voice was firm. Her support loosened the tension that had been building in his neck and shoulders. "Not all the deputies were incapacitated."
"Whatever the circumstance of its turning," Gerard said. "Having a werewolf in a position of such authority is unacceptable. It is the utmost priority that the situation be corrected." Chris wondered by whose authority the sheriff's removal was made a priority, but Gerard hadn't finished talking yet. "Plus, there is still the unknown beta running around—the reason Kate was here in the first place. If you had managed to identify him..." He paused to shake his head ruefully. "Well, I think it's just as well that I arrived when I did, as it seems you are barely in control of anything happening in Beacon Hills."
"It may seem that way, but we have managed to narrow the possibilities to three. Out of nearly 500,000 residents. I think we've been very effective." Victoria's smile was tight. "Excuse me. I need to get my cookies out of the oven." She stood up and walked out of the room, back straight as any soldier. Chris very carefully didn't mention that the oven timer hadn't beeped.
He looked at his father and twisted his lips into sort of a smile. "Allison needs them for school."
"Ah yes, Allison. Where is your charming daughter?"
Chris's smile dropped like a brick. "It's the middle of the day. She's at school."
"At school," Gerard said with damning cool. "With the unknown second beta still on the loose."
Chris felt the defensive excuses rise from his hindbrain, and pushed them back. He didn't need to explain himself to Gerard. "She isn't defenseless."
Surprisingly, Gerard didn't pursue it. "Now that she knows, don't you think it's time her training resumed in earnest?"
"It already has," Chris said. "She's practicing her archery. I took her to the range yesterday, so she could refresh her handgun skills. However, it is also the end of the semester and she has finals."
"Finals," Gerard scoffed. "With her skills and natural ability, she should just quit school and train full time. She will be the head of the family, after all."
"Aunt Elizabeth has three daughters and a couple granddaughters," Chris pointed out. "Leadership of the Argents isn't passing to her anytime soon."
Gerard waved that off. "I meant of this family. When Victoria dies."
Chris ground his teeth and counted.
"Allison could get a GED and it would be just as useful as a BA in art history. Or whatever other fool-thing teenagers think is important these days. Plus, she needs to worry about the next generation." Chris barely stopped his jaw from dropping. "It's a pity your sister never had a baby," Gerard mused. "What a hunter he would've been!"
"Allison is not quitting school." Victoria's voice was very clear, very firm. Chris knew his wife well. He knew her every expression, and he knew she was seriously pissed. She'd wanted to continue in school, but the Mather tradition had her family pulling her out at seventeen. They'd been married when she was nineteen. He'd never regretted it, but he also knew that Victoria sometimes wondered 'if only'. How could she not?
Victoria held out the plate. "Cookie?"
The thought arose that he'd probably have an easier time persuading her to kick Gerard out now. Now that Gerard had reminded her of that Mather tradition. He felt more hopeful
"Almond Shortbread," he said with a real smile. "They're Allison's favorites."
-o0o-
Allison didn't talk to her parents about the twins that night. She didn't talk to her parents about them the next morning either.
Her grandfather had arrived, and if she'd thought Kate was freaky-scary in the cave with Derek, then Gerard was creepy-scary all the time. Asking her to call him 'grandpa' as if he hadn't essentially ignored her for the last fifteen years.
He knew that she knew about the hunting thing, so he talked about it all night—grilled her about it, really—what she did to train, the best weapons to use against a werewolf (her mother had joined in this discussion enthusiastically), and how to spot one that was hiding in plain sight. Then he asked her about her friends and the kids in school. Allison could've mentioned the twins then, but...
Quite frankly, her grandfather scared her more than the twins had.
She would keep an eye on them. Make sure they were actually evil before she condemned them to whatever Gerard would do.
-o0o-
Day twelve of being a werewolf.
Sheriff Stilinski filled his cup with the newly-godawful coffee (he'd gotten used to it once, he could do it again) before returning to his desk to look at design proposals for the new ultra-secure, combined-use, law enforcement building. Since the office was essentially gutted, the county council had decided to bring out the proposals developed nine years ago following 9/11, and then put aside when the 2008 financial crisis ate the county's funds.
The county counsel had pulled the plans out of mothballs, hoping they could find one that only needed minor tweaks. However, the council hadn't agreed then on what design to go with, and the sheriff had no faith that this time would go any easier.
Brutalism, the sheriff thought it was called. Big, square and ugly. It was like an above-ground bunker. It was in keeping with the atmosphere in which it had been designed, but it hardly made the legal system seem approachable or part of the community. Thankfully, it hadn't included handicapped washrooms on any but the first floor, and the prisoner transfer facilities were inadequate.
The sheriff put the design in his reject pile, and prepared arguments to defend his decision to the county board.
He'd added two to his maybe pile and one more to his no pile, when his personal cellphone played the emo ringtone that Stiles had set for Derek Hale. (Awful, yes, but wildly appropriate. If Derek ever heard it, the sheriff would pretend he didn't know how to change it, and let Stiles take the heat.)
"What's up?" he asked bluntly, because Derek didn't appreciate small talk. Besides, Derek wouldn't call him unless it was important. For some reason, he made the young man uncomfortable.
"I think you've got trouble."
-o0o-
"The swirly thing means what again?"
It was the second time he'd asked but Derek forgave him. The symbol was pretty obscure. "It means revenge. Someone has sworn vendetta on someone in the area." There were actually two signs cut into the side of the shack, but one was rusted and old. It had been there since before the Hale fire.
the bones of the building dated to the 1920s, when his great-great-great (great?) grandmother had built a still. They'd shipped their illegal liquor to Nevada and around northern California. When prohibition was repealed, she'd kept it open to brew moonshine that would work on werewolves. Nobody had kept it up after Nana Emeline's death. There were still the skeletons of the old industry, large vats connected by rusty pipes, and heavy tables bolted to the cement floor. There were a couple used condoms and empty beer bottles that testified to a more recent use of the building.
"And they're both werewolves."
Derek shrugged. "The person calling the vendetta is. The target could be anything." He ignored the sheriff's sigh. "I can tell you it's new. Like, within-the-week new."
Sheriff Stilinski looked around the burned-out brewery before giving Derek a skeptical look. "You spend a lot of time here?"
Derek forced his shoulders to stay down. "My family owned it. I came by earlier this week to look at it."
"And this thing—" he waved his finger at the mark "—wasn't here."
Derek shook his head.
"Why would someone come way out here to scratch holes in the walls of an unused shack?"
"It wasn't completely unused," Derek felt compelled to say. "Mom held big meetings here. Lots of room. Private. Mostly neutral."
"So lots of werewolves would know it was here?"
Derek wanted to growl. Of course the sheriff would blame a werewolf. After all, he hadn't been born one, and didn't want to be one. "And humans," he said through clenched teeth. "Hunters often wanted to negotiate treaties."
"A human didn't gouge through corrugated tin." Sheriff Stilinski traced the swirl with his fingers both relaxed and then with claws. "Close together. Evenly spaced. Clean edges." The sheriff's voice was calm, thoughtful. "If a human did this, they had a special tool built. Why bother?"
They were good points, and Derek felt kind of stupid for jumping down the sheriff's throat. He shuffled his feet, waiting for a rebuke, but Stilinski didn't mock Derek for not thinking it through. Instead, the sheriff looked at him, as if he expected Derek to be correct him if he was wrong.
It was almost approval and Derek had to clamp down firmly on the part of him that wanted to shimmy with joy. The sheriff was not his alpha, he reminded his wolf.
He wasn't anybody's alpha, that part of himself answered back.
He'd be a good alpha, it said. He just needed a good beta
Derek glowered. His wolf wasn't even subtle.
"What?" Stilinski asked. Derek blinked, startled. The sheriff was looking at him in concern. Derek tried not to flush in embarrassment.
"I have a meeting with Kate's defense lawyer after this." It was true, but completely irrelevant.
Derek waited for Stilinski to say something—anything—about it, but aside from narrowed eyes, the sheriff didn't react. Instead, he turned away and waved his hand at the ruins. "This is a pretty out-of-the-way place to vow revenge. You'd have to know it was here, and that means the location is significant. You got some unpleasant theory as to who it could be?"
It was a good excuse, so Derek took it. "The last time my mother used this building officially was for truce negotiations between us and the Argents."
"'Us' as in the Hales?"
Derek shook his head. "I think there were five packs? Maybe more, but some of them left early. Gave up, my father said." Although the voice Derek heard saying it didn't sound exactly right for his dad.
"It didn't end well?"
Derek looked pointedly at the burned carcass of the building. Stilinski smiled and nodded, accepting the unspoken 'dumb ass'. "Anybody killed?"
Derek growled. "You mean, did the werewolves—"
"I mean was anybody killed? The murder of a loved one is a great motive for revenge."
Derek's first thought was of Peter: Peter his uncle, Peter his friend. Peter who had killed Laura...
He pushed the thought out of his mind. Thinking about it would just make him crazy like Peter. Instead he cast his mind back and tried to remember what had been happening in the adult world. It was hard. There'd been so much going on in his own life. He'd fallen in love with a strong, starchy beauty who'd called him on his bullshit and smiled at him because he wasn't intimidated by her strength. And then he had killed her. It was hard to remember past Paige...
A deep breath, maybe two, and he recalled arguments in the dining room. How to handle the talks. Who to trust. Borders? That last one was vague—an argument about the size of the Hale territory that had died with a whimper not a shout. "No bloodshed—"
He stopped. His memories of that time were all black, like the blood that had seeped out of Paige, thick and almost black. He should never have let that alpha (too big: so angry) bite her. Except she'd been dying and the alpha had needed betas...
"Actually, there was some fighting. Had to be," he realized.
The sheriff's eyebrows lifted, but not in surprise. "Did hunters attack, or was it another pack?"
Derek tried to remember what Peter had told him about Ennis' pack, but it was all tied up with Paige: his chance to be with her, no lies. He swallowed that back and shrugged. "I heard from somebody who'd heard it from somebody else. I just know that the alpha asked permission to recruit a new pack member."
Derek tensed, anticipating the question on just whose permission had been asked, but the sheriff just nodded. "Do you remember the alpha's name?"
If only he could forget. "Ennis."
A part of him, his wolf, wanted to tell the sheriff everything about that time—about Paige and basketball versus cello, about his first kiss and his first love, and about how he'd faced a broken-heart for the first time and flinched, and Paige had paid for his panic.
He growled at his wolf. His wolf growled back, pushing...
"Last name?"
Derek blinked himself back to the present. "Umm... He was from Lakeshore? I don't... I think they were all wiped out a couple months later."
"Hunters?"
Again, Derek tried to think past Paige's death, but it was so difficult.
"I don't remember," he finally said. "It was all... adult stuff."
It was a lame cover, and Stilinski's sigh called him on it. "Kate Argent part of the hunter delegation?"
Talking about Kate was better cover for what Derek didn't want to talk about. Vomit inducing, but better. Derek shook his head. "I didn't see her."
Thankfully, the sheriff let it drop turning instead to Derek's patchy memories of the treaty talks.
It was pretty much useless. Derek hadn't been involved. He hadn't been an alpha, hadn't been in training to be alpha. Hadn't shown any leadership abilities except on the basketball court, and even then he'd only been assistant captain. No one—and that included himself—had thought to involve him in the treaty discussions.
"I remember there was a British wolf, Deucalion. He went on to form the Alpha Pack."
"The what?"
"Alpha Pack," Derek explained. "They're all alphas who lost their packs, or killed their packs. I don't actually know for sure."
"All alphas?" Sheriff Stilinski sounded skeptical.
Derek shrugged. "I don't know how it works either. All I know is the Deucalion is in it, and he had a great Bond-villain voice." Derek had tried to copy the accent. Paige had laughed so hard...
Time to change topics.
"There's a way to sense if another alpha has entered your territory," Derek said delicately. It was more of a question, but given the sheriff's ignorance of the marking, Derek was pretty certain of what Stilinski would say.
"How, exactly, does that work?"
Unfortunately, Derek didn't actually know. "Just an awareness is all my mother used to say. She used to take us hiking. Day hikes." He waved his hand. "All around Beacon Hills. Connecting with the land."
"I patrol all the time." Stilinski's hands settled on his hips, elbows and legs spread aggressively wide. "I have nearly 700 deputies and officers out patrolling."
Derek forced himself to not look away, to not submit to the alpha. "She walked," he said, carefully stripping any fear, any defiance from his tone and posture. "Kept her senses open and walked the land."
The sheriff snorted, "Great." He ran a hand through his hair, and pulled it tiredly down his face. "One more trippy-dippy thing to fit into my day."
Suddenly, Derek felt bad for the man. Stilinski was doing pretty damn good for a late-turned wolf, and all Derek did was resent him for not being Laura. Not being family. "She had us, too," he offered.
"On the walks?"
Derek nodded. "Five young pups filled with energy and curiosity, and her betas by birth and blood." He and Cora, a couple cousins whose faces he couldn't remember now. He stopped. Swallowed down the pain. "She could also use the pack bond to be aware of our locations, what was going on around us, what we could sense." The sheriff's eyebrows went up.
"Nothing specific," Derek clarified. "But enough to be aware."
"Aware of the land."
"If something supernatural touched it. I think." Derek gave a rueful smile. "To be honest, I never really paid attention to the reasons." Derek didn't feel up to explaining how he'd never questioned his beta status, had never even wanted to. Thankfully, the sheriff accepted the statement with a nod.
"It sounds like you're saying I need a pack."
Again Derek could only shrug. "Alphas tend to want a pack. It kind of comes with the position."
"Son, I have nearly 800 deputies and civilian officers reporting to me already, and then I have Stiles who's sometimes like another dozen all by himself. Why would I want anyone else?" It was said with rueful humor and Sheriff Stilinski's smile invited Derek to commiserate with him, as if only Derek could understand the joke.
So why did it make him want to howl?
-o0o-
The sheriff was thinking of the Hales when he stopped at the Happiness Diner to grab supper for him and Stiles. Beacon Hills' first Chinese food place had been opened by the very-Japanese Wakahashi family just after WWII. During the war, they were sent to Oak Creek internment camp up the valley, and their home and business in L.A. had been sold. The money had gone to the government, of course, so once the war was over, there was nothing in L.A. for them to go back to and they'd had no money to rebuild a life there or anywhere.
At a time when many Americans still considered Japanese-Americans the enemy, the Lucas Hale—Talia's father—had loaned the Wakahashis enough money to open up the restaurant. There was even a picture of him in the small shrine behind the counter.
Noah stood at the counter, waiting for his payment to process, and looked at the picture. Lucas Hale, big, white, and hairy, was shaking hands with Abe Wakahashi. Neither one looked directly at the camera, and now the sheriff wondered if the loan had been to a fellow werewolf—a pack member—rather than the altruistic gesture he'd always assumed it was.
Well, considering the amount of prejudice and fear facing Americans of Japanese descent after the war it could've been both.
"Sheriff?" The diminutive woman behind the counter said. She was holding a couple bags filled with yummy goodness.
The food was in celebration of one day with no accidental sideburns or claws. Despite the weird swooshy symbol Derek had shown him, despite the loss of two more deputies (not related to Peter's attack, but still a blow), and despite a general unsettled feeling, Noah was actually feeling better about this whole werewolf thing than he had since the Elvis sideburns had made their first appearance. Plus, Derek had agreed to take him out on Saturday to teach him a few things about using and controlling his senses, which would probably be good for both of them.
The sheriff took his food, wished everyone a busy but uneventful evening, and left thinking of the applications Wanda had left on his desk to review. She'd approved three, and one was from Ohio, so that was… three hours ahead of California? He'd have to check the time zones when he got home so he'd know when he could give the officer's supervisor a call.
He was thinking about the best way to reallocate his resources when he bumped into a group going in. He apologized and moved to go around them, but the oldest one stuck out his hand.
"Sheriff Stilinski!" The civilian gripped Noah's hand with challenging firmness.
The sheriff gave an internal sigh: this was one of those guys. "Hey! Nice to meet you," he said politely. "I hope you're enjoying the evening." He didn't recognize the man, but that wasn't unusual. He'd worked hard to get his face and name in front of all 500,000 residents of the county. Lots of people recognized him.
"I heard they have the best Chinese food here," the guy said.
He hadn't let go of Noah's hand, and his smile was only around the mouth. It nudged the sheriff out of politician-mode into a cop's awareness. The guy was his height, ten to fifteen years older. Callouses on his hands from either weapons or hard work. The sheriff looked at the man's unweathered skin and put his money on weapons.
"Whoever told you that, told you the truth. I like the Sesame Chicken. My son likes Kung Pao." Noah held up his bags, using it to cover the sniff he took of the man.
There was a hint of something medical from him, plus gun oil and hemp lotion from all of them. The two men were young enough to be his sons, but they held themselves back, quiet and at attention. There was no indication that they were here to make trouble for the Wakahashis. Rather, given that the old man still hadn't released Noah's hand, they were here to confront him.
He kept his grip easy, only matching the old man's pressure, never overpowering it. "I haven't seen you around Beacon Hills," the sheriff said with an innocent little frown. "You and your sons just moved in?"
The guards behind the old man shifted uncomfortably. Definitely muscles, and much below the old man in authority.
"No, no, not moving in. Just visiting." The old man smiled. It still didn't reach his eyes. Didn't even reach his cheeks really. "I've heard good things about you, though."
"Well, that's nice to hear." The sheriff forced an easy chuckle. "This fall has been... A little rough, to be honest, but we should be returning to normal soon enough."
"Surely with that big trial coming up, you'll be more pressured than ever."
The guy was either a reporter (with guns?) or something else, but definitely someone with an interest in Kate Argent. "Which trial?" he asked innocently.
"That girl who said werewolves are real."
The sheriff mentally put a quarter in his burger jar. "Kate Argent, you mean."
"That's right." The old man's smile didn't change. "Lots of press for that one. Good for your chances of re-election, I'm sure." He increased his grip. Noah rolled his internal eyes and didn't bother matching the pressure.
Instead, he shook his head. "It's a sad thing. I doubt it'll even go to trial, considering. Even so, it'll probably take a couple years at least to even get to a courtroom, with all the charges." He let himself shrug. "A lot can change in two years."
"Yes, it can." The man finally gave him a real smile. It still wasn't a nice smile. The sheriff braced himself. "Well, I should let you take that food to your son. Mieczyslaw, isn't it?" Not even a twitch of an eyelid revealed how many alarms had just gone off in the sheriff's brain.
"Wow," he said, eyebrows raised. "Your pronunciation is pretty good." This time he tightened his grip (not too hard). "I'm sorry. I didn't get your name."
The threat in the man's smile turned overt. "Argent. Gerard Argent."
The sheriff's alarms changed to huge booming warning sirens. The man in front of him was a confirmed threat to him and to Stiles. And then he heard the Stiles in his head mock, 'Bond. James Bond in a bad Scottish accent. It was enough for the sheriff to calm down and back away, no wolfy bits displayed.
A couple bland platitudes about regret, a slightly less bland caution about the inappropriateness of them talking, and he extricated himself from Gerard and his hunter minions.
'Well,' he thought once he was in his cruiser heading home. There was no doubt that Kate's father was a threat, but what was his angle? Was he really here to support his daughter? If so, why bring up Stiles? Did he believe in offence or defense as a strategy, Noah wondered. Given that he chose to confront the county sheriff in a public place, Noah went with offence.
Next, and more worrying question, who would Gerard attack first—him or Stiles? The thought of his mouthy, totally-human son in Gerard Argent's control made him lose his. In an instant, there were claws coming out of his fingers, and fangs in his mouth.
Sure enough, when he looked in the rear-view mirror he saw the Elvis sideburns sprouting down his cheeks.
"Aw, hell."
-o0o-
When he got home, Scott was sitting on the couch with Stiles playing some shooter game they both enjoyed (though Scott was terrible at it). There were pizza boxes on the coffee table.
"Dad! You're home early!"
"Hey, Mr. Stilinski," Scott said, polite—even as he died on screen.
"What happened?" Stiles demanded. "Nothing," he answered himself. "If something had happened you wouldn't be here. Has it been too quiet? Is that a thing?" The sheriff sighed as his son worried about literally nothing.
"I brought supper," he said lifting the bags. "Chinese from the Happiness."
That got Stiles to stop. "Oooh. We got pizza."
"Dude," Scott objected. "Happiness beats Dominos, easy."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Well, yeah! Not even a contest."
"Then why were you arguing?"
"I wasn't arguing. I was making a comment."
Before the conversation could revert further into grade school, the sheriff cleared his throat. "Since I'm actually here, unhurt and wanting supper, how about we shelve this argument until after I've eaten?"
"I ordered the chicken taco pizza for you," Stiles said, following the sheriff into kitchen.
Noah grimaced. It wasn't his favorite, but it was better than the vegetarian. "Just put it in the fridge." He'd take it to work and let the deputies demolish it. "I got you Sesame Chicken." He raised his voice so Scott could hear him in the living room. "I got enough for you, too, Scott."
"Thanks, Mr. Stilinski." Scott's voice was soft, and Noah remembered—werewolf hearing. No need to shout.
Stiles was standing by the counter, drooling over the food. "You are the best dad EVER."
He snorted. "I'm going to take off my gear. You and Scott can set the table. We'll eat at the table like civilized people." Noah could hear the two boys bickering as he climbed the stairs. .
"Oh man!" Stiles whined, even as he grabbed flatware. "What's the point of being surrounded by werewolves if we have to act like regular people?"
"We are regular people," Scott said, popping up in time to grab the plates from Stiles.
"You're regular werewolves. That's a bit different from regular anything else."
"If you really think it's that special, then why don't you let your dad eat bacon, huh?" Scott fired back. "If he can survive getting shot, he can survive fatty foods." The sheriff silently cheered Scott on as his son hissed in betrayal. Anything that would let him have bacon—real bacon not that tofurkey crap—had his support. Even lycanthropy.
The sheriff quickly changed out of his uniform and into sweat pants and T-shirt. Hopefully, he wouldn't be going out for the rest of the night. He jogged back downstairs to see that the boys were sitting at the table, arms crossed and bottom lips out. Each of them refusing to look at the other. (Scott may have mentioned egg yolks as having been removed from the 'bad food' category.)
Noah ignored the low-level tension in the room and took a beer from the fridge. He'd had to change his brand, but he'd finally found one that didn't taste like piss-water. It was an expensive craft beer, but worth it when it went down without making his throat seize.
He sat at the table, across from his son, put his beer in front of him, and coaxed the boys into talking with easy questions about school and lacrosse.
It was nice, but kind of odd. Usually when he came home from the station, it was too late for a beer. Too late to have dinner with his kid. The BHSO had been understaffed for... He counted the years, and gave a silent whistle. After 9/11 the council had finally listened to Sheriff Dowd when she said that a county of the size and population of Beacon Hills needed around 750 people. Now, ten years later, it was nearly 900. During that time they'd reached their target exactly never.
The county had suffered in the Crash of '08, bankruptcies and restructuring had closed nearly a third of the businesses in the area. Tax revenues declined and all the county services had their budgets slashed. Hell, if it weren't for volunteers, the library would only be open 2-days a week.
The lowest point had been in 2009, when they'd dropped to 79% of recommended staff levels. They'd had rolling closures of the rural stations.
He'd managed to get it up back to 93% for the last two years. He could've gotten it higher, but he was picky about the people he hired. He checked references and phoned the jurisdictions where the applicants claimed to have worked, and sometimes he found that the officer left just ahead of an investigation—or hadn't worked there at all. He didn't need those kinds of "officers" in his county, and Gus and the other deputy sheriffs backed him up, but it meant that the BHSO's short-handedness was kind of his fault. He tried to pick up the slack when he could, but it meant that his family time suffered.
However, he was here now with his son and Scott. He could at least pretend to be a normal dad again. He could catch up on the high school gossip, like he used to before this fall turned everything nuts.
"How'd the date with Allison go?" he asked. Scott dropped his head, blushing a furious red.
"I'm guessing well," the sheriff said in a voice dry enough for the Mojave Desert. Now that he'd thought of it, he could smell Allison's scent on Scott, even over the strong-flavored Chinese food. They had to have gotten pretty close for that to have happened.
Scott's smile was pure happiness. "We're going out again."
And staying in sometimes too, the sheriff thought. "Just remember to be safe," he said instead. "If you want me to go buy you condoms—"
"Aaaah!" Stiles jumped.
"—just let me know," Noah continued placidly. "Werewolves may have supernatural immunity to STDs, but I doubt we have any against accidental pregnancy."
Blush burning brightly, Scott thanked him, but said he had it covered.
"Well, that's the idea," Noah said with a smirk, and enjoyed it as both the boys blushed and squirmed. "Did you tell her about being a, you know."
Scott nodded, which surprised Noah. He'd recommended the boy tell her, of course, but he hadn't really expected him to do it.
"How's she reacting to it," he asked. "Given her family's 'hobby'."
"She seems fine with it.," Scott answered happily. "Evil is as evil does, or something."
Noah's eyebrows went up in surprise. Knowing Chris and Victoria, and having now met Gerard, he doubted any of the other Argents had such a relaxed view.
Scott's eyes widened. "Actually, speaking of tolerance, Allison's grandfather is in town and he sounds like a nutjob. She said her parents are fighting over him being here, because her father's afraid of him. She also said he's obsessing over how you screw— Er, messed up his daughter's life, and swearing revenge."
Stiles was frowning at Scott. "You didn't tell me that."
"I just remembered." Scott shrugged.
Now Stiles was outraged. "You just remembered that he's threatening my dad's life?"
"He's not making death threats! He's just, like... I guess, he's upset that a werewolf is the sheriff?" Scott shrugged. "Apparently, him and Mrs. Argent talk about getting your dad removed from office. Sorry, Mr. Stilinski." Noah shrugged, more at ease with the threat than his son. It wasn't as if he didn't always have a few people wanting him out of office.
Before Stiles could work up a good rant that included Scott's Allison-induced memory lapse, hunters, and the California electoral system, the sheriff admitted that he'd met Gerard Argent. It stopped his son cold. "What?"
"Gerard Argent 'bumped' into me outside the restaurant. He had a couple guards with him." Stiles jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, and ready to fight. Even Scott was growling protectively. It was nice, but not needed. The sheriff ate some of his Sesame Chicken—delicious! "It was mostly posturing. Just like Shay Hardwicke when her son got ticketed."
Stiles glared at him. "No. Not 'just like' her. I doubt Supervisor Hardwicke has guns–"
"The Argents have a lot of guns," Scott confirmed.
"–or wolfs bane. They know how to hurt you." Stiles sounded genuinely worried.
It was a good point. Derek had filled him in on some of what Chris Argent had done in his search for the alpha. Breaking the window of Derek's car... The man should've been arrested, but Derek hadn't thought law enforcement would do anything. After all, the Argents had ties to police departments and sheriff offices across the western states. He was trusted, and Derek... Was not. It was a decent justification for Derek's non-action, but Noah wasn't Derek.
"I'm a public figure," he pointed out. "It's not like they can just disappear me."
"Allison said they're planning on getting you removed from office, not killing you."
Stiles wasn't mollified. "Of course they're not going to talk about killing the sheriff! Not openly!"
"You think it's some kind of code?"
"Of course it's code!" Stiles shouted, waving his arms wildly.
Before Stiles could give in to the worst of his conspiracy-laden imagination, the sheriff spoke. "That's not what worries me," he said. "But I'll wear my vest and take precautions. Is that good?" Stiles knew he hated wearing the heavy vest, so it was a considerable sacrifice.
Noah turned to his son's best friend. "Do you know if Allison's parents have mentioned Stiles?"
"Me?" Stiles paused with his butt only halfway to his seat.
"Um, I, uh. Don't think so?" Scott looked puzzled.
"Why would the Argents be talking about me?"
The sheriff took a sip of his beer, and thought of fresh-mown grass and the smell of gun oil. He was proud when his claws stayed in. "Gerard Argent knew your name."
Stiles grimaced briefly, puzzled but unafraid. "Everybody knows my name."
Noah didn't smile. "He knew your real name."
Both boys went still.
"Well, shit," Stiles finally said.
"Hmm," the sheriff agreed.