Chapter 4

The world was entirely different. She was different.

Henley's blood coursed through her veins, but her heart rate slowed. It was like everything was in sharper focus than it ever had been before. She could hear everything, see everything, sense everything happening around her.

It was overwhelming.

The woods were filled with life. Every single movement from the smallest leaf rustling in the breeze was an overwhelming sensation.

Henley pressed her hands over her ears, wanting to stop the input. Stop everything from intruding on her.

She felt the heat that already was within her build. The flames that traced over her skin burned hotter, glowed brighter and flamed higher.

A phoenix.

That's what that—that wolf man had called her.

The harder she tried to stop it from happening, the more the flames built. That was when the panic started to overtake her. There was no getting away from the flames, no controlling them.

The sound of footsteps echoed through her skull, so much louder than the regular night sounds of the forest.

Henley braced herself, it was an instinct to hold her hands out, a ball of flame resting in front of them, waiting for her to launch it at whoever was approaching.

She saw the glow of orange eyes in the depths of the woods. Her muscles tensed. If this was one of those werewolves, she was ready to let them have the full fury of her fear and anger.

A sheriff's deputy approached from the shadows of the trees.

But his eyes glowed.

Henley took a step back.

"Are you Scott's friend?" the deputy asked.

She was on fire, had fangs in her mouth, and apparently could launch fireballs. Who else would he think she was associated with?

"He's not a friend," she said forcefully. None of those freaks were her friend. They had turned her into a mutant, tied her up, and tried to convince her she had been changed for the better. Mad scientists would be a better word for what those weirdos were.

The deputy took another step toward her and Henley coiled her muscles, the flaming globe in her hands growing brighter and hotter.

The deputy stopped. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said.

Henley let out a laugh that sounded hysterical to her own ears. "Right," she said, her voice higher than normal with the overwhelming panic that was edging in. "I bet the guy who bit me didn't mean to hurt me! Just kill me. He said he wanted to kill me!"

"You were bit," the deputy said. He didn't sound like he doubted her, but she saw him eyeing the wings of fire that stretched out behind her.

"I was bit by a werewolf but something went wrong and I didn't die!" she said, her voice rising in pitch. The flames around her flared.

"You caught on fire instead," the deputy surmised.

He was young, his face trustworthy. But his eyes glowed. Henley couldn't trust him. He was one of them. One of those guys that wasn't human. Her heart started picking up its pace, the unnatural slowness that gave her focus giving way to a thudding in her chest. Her focus started slipping, her terror building as she started coming unhinged.

She shoved her hands out at the deputy with the glowing eyes without any thought of the consequences. The flames launched through the air between them and she staggered back with the force of flinging it away from her.

The deputy caught the fireball and was consumed with flames.

Henley gasped.

No. Not consumed. He was in the flames, the flames were surrounding him, but he was unscathed. He stared at her, his orange eyes glowing bright enough to rival the flames. When he opened his mouth to speak, she saw the same sharp fangs she could feel in her own mouth.

Whatever it was in her that was losing her grip on control built. It was nothing but pure instinct to throw herself at him.

#

The flames didn't bother Parrish. He easily absorbed the ball of flames the girl threw at him. He shifted then, unwilling to face her powers without his full defenses available. She let out a roar and jumped at him, making it at least six feet through the air before she made contact with him.

Jordan was surprised by the force behind her attack. She was small, but knocked the wind from him.

"Stop!" he said, trying to grab for hands that shoved at him. She clawed at him, but he jerked his head back before she could scratch his eyes.

She had a strength that didn't come from her body. It was enough to worry Jordan. Not for himself, but for anyone she may lash out at if he didn't get her under control. But it was untrained and unbridled strength. She had no training, no plan besides unleashing raw emotion.

Jordan got her hands behind her back, more the move of a deputy than a hellhound. She struggled against his hold.

"Stop struggling," he said, trying to break through the fury that was driving her. It wasn't something he had experienced. But he had seen enough of the others in Scott's pack, heard them talk about when they first started changing, to know she wasn't operating with any sort of control or logic.

She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder and bared fangs with a growl that was pure werewolf in spite of whatever the flames and wings made her.

Jordan didn't flinch. She struggled that much harder, but he had the upper hand now and held his grip on her.

The sounds of someone breaking through the underbrush drew his attention. Jordan stilled, preparing for whoever—whatever—it might be.

"You found her!" Stiles exclaimed with relief, coming out of the trees toward them. He pulled to a stop and bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. Scott didn't look winded.

"You found us," Jordan said. His flames dimmed, leaving just ash and the glowing aftermath in the creases of his skin.

"You weren't hard to track," Stiles said. Scott didn't say anything, just looked at the girl with a furrowed brow. "It's like following a couple human lanterns."

"Who is she?" Jordan asked.

Scott grimaced. "Peter's beta."

Jordan looked at the girl. Her flames were finally starting to fade. "Peter's…"

Scott met Jordan's eyes and Jordan could see he had the same concerns about Peter heading up a pack. "He didn't mean to turn her."

Jordan tightened his hold on the girl's arms. "That doesn't help her any."

"Peter's not known for thinking of others," Derek said, coming toward them from the opposite direction.

The girl was losing momentum. The only memory of the flames was the heat still coming off her.

Derek studied her with dark eyes.

"I'll take her," he said.

"And do what?" Stiles demanded.

Derek flicked dark eyes over toward Stiles. "And keep her safe."

"Scott and I can do that," Stiles argued.

Derek's eyebrow lifted slightly.

"We'll do better this time," Stiles said.

Jordan didn't want to know what the girl had already been through tonight with Scott and Stiles.

Derek looked at Jordan. "I could use some help. She's not entirely wolf."

"I saw that," Jordan said.

The girl spoke for the first time. "I'm a freaking phoenix," she muttered.

Jordan looked to Scott for answers. "Part hellhound, part werewolf," he said.

"Fire isn't something we're equipped to fight," Derek said. "You are."

Jordan looked back down at the girl. Her nearly white blonde hair hung in strings around her face. Her face was drawn.

"Let's go," Jordan said.

#

The night had gone from bad to worse. Peter looked at the aftermath of the fight in his apartment. The damage was the least of his worries. The phoenix he had created consumed his thoughts.

It wasn't his fault. He had meant to kill her. He reminded himself of that dispassionately, trying to keep his ire from rising. But at the thought of her—her family—his anger started to simmer again. She could play dumb all she wanted, but there was no way she didn't know who her family was. What they were.

His hand curled into a fist. His nails sharpened to claws. It took all his effort to withdraw the claws. He rolled his neck, trying to find an anchor to tether him away from the rage that had driven him when he saw her and recognized her as a Dawson, come back to Beacon Hills. Henley Dawson.

He looked out the window. The night was dark, no sign of her or any of her would-be rescuers down below him in the Beacon Hills woods. But that didn't matter. He knew where she would end up. His boy scout nephew wouldn't be able to turn away from her. An unfortunate side effect of his time spent with Scott McCall. Peter's lip curled.

He turned from his vantage point and went to get his keys. Scott and his pack could think Henley was some sort of unfortunate victim all they wanted, but that wouldn't change the truth of what she was. What she had done.

And as much as he wouldn't mind seeing her destroy Scott, he wasn't about to let her destroy him or Derek. Or Malia if she got involved. Which, knowing his daughter, she most likely would. He could almost guarantee Malia would be running into this headfirst and blind.

Peter held back the growl that threatened. If Henley did anything to hurt Malia, he wouldn't allow any room for error this time. Henley would be dead.

#

Henley looked at the near empty loft. A bed. A table. Tall ceilings that clearly came from the industrial history of the building. A row of windows tall windows on the opposite side of the room. As soon as she looked at the windows, Scott and Derek moved to block her way to them.

She scowled at them. "I'm not going through the glass."

Scott looked at her, warmth in his eyes, which were thankfully a normal shade of brown and not that bizarre glowing red. "You've gone out two windows tonight," he said.

"That's not my fault," she snapped. She felt the heat of anger rising and someone laid a hand on her arm. She whirled away from the touch.

Parrish, the deputy, pulled his hand away from her.

"Focus on right now," Derek said. "Nothing else."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded. "Don't think about all of you holding me hostage? Or ignore the psychopath who tried to kill me?" Her outrage echoed through the cavernous room.

The door to the apartment opened. Henley was acutely aware of the shift in every man's posture, hands curled like they were ready to use claws, feet apart in a fighting stance.

"I'm not the psychopath," Peter said, stepping into the room. He held her eyes.

There it was again. That pull towards him. Henley's breath caught in her throat and she caught herself silently pleading with Peter to explain the pull.

His eyes deepened in color when he looked at her. There was a silent promise there.

Then he blinked and glared at her.

Henley blinked back at him, the pull lessening as he closed his expression off.

"Wait," she said, what he had said sinking in. "I'm the psychopath?" The heat was back. Her blood went from simmering to scalding hot. She lifted her hand to lash out at him, but he was faster. He moved closer and grabbed her by the wrist before the flames built.

"Don't," he said, his hand like iron on her wrist.

Henley felt her lips curl back, the pressure of the fangs against her lips and she bared her fangs at him.

His eyes lit to red and he moved his head a fraction of an inch closer to her, holding her gaze.

The unspoken command was received. Her muscles cooled, her blood slowed. The pressure against her lips eased as her fangs receded.

"I'm not the one with attempted murder on my conscience," she said angrily, but lacking any sort of supernatural shift with the words.

Peter's mouth lifted slightly in dark humor. "Not attempted murder," he agreed. "Mass murder. That you succeeded at."

"What?" Henley exploded. She yanked her wrist away from him. He didn't put forth any effort to stop her. She shook her head, her blunt cut hair whipping in her face with the movement. "You got the wrong person, dude."

Peter's eyebrows rose slightly at her calling him dude.

"What are you talking about, Peter?" Scott asked.

Henley forced herself to look away from Peter. She had forgotten anyone else was in the room with them. Scott couldn't be believing Peter, could he? She looked at the deputy, alarm growing as she realized what Peter was accusing her of.

"I'm talking about her family's line of work. The family business, if you will."

Now the man was just talking crazy.

"They're hunters."

The shift in the room was palpable. The men weren't staying close to protect her. They eyed her with suspicion.

"Yeah, they're hunters," she said, moving her hands to her hips and squaring off against the werewolves and hellhound, steeling herself for them to shift again. "Antiquities hunters. Did they sell you an overpriced vase from Egypt or something? That's not quite mass murder."

They didn't let their guard down, but she saw the confusion creasing their brows. Except for Peter. The man looked sure of himself. She fought the urge to snarl at him. Didn't he have any setting besides cocky and arrogant?

"Antiquities hunters?" Stiles asked.

Henley blew out a frustrated breath. "Yeah. They look for rarities around the globe. They hunt down hidden things."

Stiles was giving her a weird look. Whatever. He was a weird kid. She caught herself before she threw her arms up in exasperation. She didn't want Peter to think she was launching anything at him.

"Did they ever fill you in on the details of the family business?" Parrish asked.

The question was a knife to Henley's chest. She fought to look like it didn't matter.

"No," she said shortly.

Peter looked more suspicious. "And why's that?" He clearly didn't believe anything she was saying.

Henley heard the growl at the back of her throat resonating when she glared at Peter. Admitting where she stood with her family was the last thing she wanted to do.

"And why's that?" Peter asked again, biting each word off.

Henley thought of all the times her father told her she was lacking what it took to be included in the business. She was too friendly. Too trusting. Too weak. And her brother had taken every opportunity to prove it to her.

"Because I'm not strong enough, or smart enough or whatever." She grit her teeth. As if following leads to find rare art took that much mental fortitude. "They think finding antiques is some sort of service to the world and I'm not cut out for it."

Clearly whatever she said didn't convince them she wasn't from a family of mass murderers.

"Is it possible your family isn't looking for antiques?" Stiles finally asked.

Henley looked at him. It all started to hit her. No. No. There was no way. "Then what are they hunting?" she asked with a forced laugh, scoffing at them, trying to convince herself they weren't about to tell her what sounded too crazy to believe.

Peter gave her a hard look. "Werewolves. The supernatural." His expression was completely unreadable. "It would seem they'll now be hunting you."

#