The Witch Vol.1 - Werewolves

January 23rd 2011 - Sunday
In the dawn's soft embrace, she hesitated to chase away the remnants of sleep clinging to her eyelids. This morning's reluctance was rooted not in fear but in the hope that the reality cradled in muscular arms around her waist was not a mere dream. She lay motionless, savoring the warmth of the man beside her, a surprising comfort given the previous night's surrender to the Darkness within her. This very thought brought her crashing back to reality—eventually, she would have to explain this to him. He had surely sensed that what was transpiring between them was far from mere physical attraction.
"I know you're awake," he murmured into her ear, his voice thick with sleep. "Feel like spending the day in bed?"
"Of course I do," she replied, turning to him with a broad smile. "But you promised me breakfast."
His only response was a throaty murmur as he rose, brushing his lips over the curve of her ear. As he dressed, she watched him with the satisfied smile of a cat who had lapped up the cream. The time for serious conversations would come later; today, they deserved a reprieve from their worries. For a fleeting moment, Sharon's smiling face flashed in her mind, recalling their market conversation: "If he brings you breakfast in bed, you'd better chain him to the radiator and not let him out." Clearly, Sharon had sensed what was coming, and Charlotte felt a mischievous urge to follow her advice.
After breakfast and a shower, she discovered Derek in the living room, going through her vinyl collection. He had just put on one of her beloved Presley records, but it was clear that Derek didn't appreciate The King's music. Their musical preferences clashed just as much as their physical chemistry clicked. She let out a heavy sigh, her mind drifting back to the Darkness that had been brewing beneath her skin since last night. She knew the werewolf could sense it, but he hadn't verbalized the questions she could see lingering in his eyes.
She busied herself with the cardboard boxes against the peeling wallpaper, unable to focus in his presence. Unwrapping the first box, she was startled by the sudden assault of aggressive rock music blaring from the crackling speakers - a fierce cacophony she hadn't realized Luisa had packed. Derek, on the other hand, sat there, leafing through a tattered book, clearly bored or annoyed, the scent of old paper filling the air. The book, a romance novel written in French, looked utterly out of place in his large, calloused hands.
"I don't believe you would find that kind of literature appealing," she observed, her eyebrow arching in amusement.
He placed the book back on the shelf with precise care. Charlotte wondered why Luisa had packed that book. Maybe her cousin was subtly urging her never to return to Louisiana. Derek took a seat across from her, his eyes searching for the right words.
"You know far more about me than I know about you, and that concerns me. What exactly are you? What does it mean that you are a Witch?"
"It means only that I am an ordinary human being with a slightly expanded perception. I can see and feel things that others might not, human auras, emotions, sometimes flashes of memories. But it's not like your hearing or smell, it doesn't work automatically, at least most times. Me, I need specific rituals and spells, which can be very whimsical and don't always work. It's hard to describe exactly," she explained, struggling with her own understanding of her gift and the Curse she knew his next question would inevitably touch upon.
"And your scent... You smell almost like a wolf—of forest, anger, blood, and..." He trailed off, unsure how to articulate everything he sensed from her.
She took a moment to pause, deep in thought. She wondered if she had developed clairvoyance, or if his thoughts were simply so transparent to her. 
"It's actually something else... In the past, I've had a string of bad luck, and I refer to it as the Darkness, or the Lurker. During one of my journeys, I came across a sinister cult that was performing blood sacrifices. Somehow, whatever they were worshiping latched onto me. That's the sensation you're picking up on."
"Is it This that makes us affect each other so much?" he asked, finally looking at her. His perceptiveness impressed her. The question deeply troubled him because he was afraid of losing his ability to control his instincts, which he had learned through a painful process.
"It does seem that way. This entity appears to be a hunting spirit, similar to a predator. Its essence bears resemblance to that of a wolf, but... Taming it has proven to be incredibly challenging," she confessed, her tone tinged with a hint of shame. "I believe it may be linked to the potency of your bloodline. Your family has always been known for producing exceptionally powerful werewolves."
"You clearly feel bad about it. Is it dangerous?" he asked, scrutinizing her intently, probably listening to her heartbeat to detect any deceit.
"In this form, I don't believe so. The flame may burn brightly, but it also extinguishes rapidly. This type of excitement is certainly less risky than anger," she commented, attempting to uplift the atmosphere. "Therefore, please refrain from irritating me."
"So, I must keep the dreaded witch happy?" he smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting. "I think I can take on that task."
She chuckled, feeling the tension ease between them. But as she looked into his eyes, she knew the serious conversations were far from over. Today, however, they could afford a brief escape from their realities.
🌙
January 24th 2011 - Monday
Before dawn, a scream jolted Charlotte awake – her scream. The sound tore through the stillness, snapping Derek out of his sleep. It took him a moment to orient himself before realizing no immediate threat loomed. Gasping for breath, she received a hot cup of tea from him, a method his mother strongly believed in for calming jittery nerves. Deep within, Charlie felt a strange gratitude for Derek's presence; it was a stark contrast to her usual companions of a dog and cats, who had all but abandoned her since Derek's arrival. The touch of his warm hands proved more comforting than Isle's watchful gaze or the soothing purrs of Behemoth and Astra.
Despite her best efforts, Charlotte couldn't recollect the exact details of her dream. It was as if the memory was shrouded in fog, leaving behind only the visceral sensations of blood and a piercing scream that still echoed in her ears. She briefly considered staying home, the idea of solitude gnawing at her resolve. Yet, the idea of confronting the day by herself motivated her to take action. They had a lot to accomplish, and their investigation had stalled over the weekend.
After calming herself, Charlotte moved to the bathroom to prepare for the day. She stood before the mirror, her extremely long hair cascading around her like a fiery waterfall. With practiced ease, she braided her hair, fingers deftly weaving in beads and feathers that added a touch of mysticism to her appearance. Each movement was deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if the act of braiding provided her with a semblance of control and normalcy. Derek leaned against the doorway, observing her with a mix of curiosity and admiration.
"You always do that?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"Every morning," she replied, not pausing in her task. "It's a way to center myself. The beads and feathers are... reminders."
"Reminders of what?" Derek's tone was soft, genuinely interested.
"Of who I am, where I've been, and what I need to remember," she said cryptically, finishing the braid and securing it with a small leather band. She turned to face him, her green eyes meeting his grey-green ones. "Ready to face the day?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," he replied, offering a small smile.
As she cautiously maneuvered her sleek Chevelle into the designated teacher parking lot, a bone-chilling sight sent shivers down her spine, causing her to freeze in place. The distinct metallic tang of blood permeated the air, intensifying the eerie atmosphere. A yellow school bus, its vibrant color tainted by gruesome streaks of crimson, stood as a macabre centerpiece. The doors of the bus hung askew, adding to the unsettling scene. A swarm of police officers, their presence both reassuring and disquieting, surrounded the blood-soaked bus, creating an impenetrable barrier of authority.
Dazed, she climbed out of her car, only to be startled by Sharon's sudden appearance.
"I'm guessing the date was a repeat performance?" Sharon's tone was light, attempting to divert Charlotte's attention from the grisly scene.
"Yeah... I followed your advice and chained him to the radiator this time," Charlotte joked, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "What... what happened here?"
"No one knows for sure. Some say it was a wild animal, others think it might be murder, but nobody has been found yet... not even half of one."
"Sharon, your humor is beyond me... even this morning," Charlotte replied wearily as they finally entered the staff room.
"Let's change the subject to something more pleasant... Tell me about Him."
"There's really nothing to talk about..." Charlotte muttered, desperately seeking a way to divert the conversation, but nothing came to mind.
The day began with a surreal quality, the events of the morning casting a long shadow. Charlotte couldn't shake the feeling that something sinister was lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to reveal itself.
🌙
The first lesson of the day was chemistry, taught by the ever-stern Adrian Harris. Scott shifted restlessly in his chair, an uneasy tension radiating from him. He leaned over to his friend beside him, whispering, "Maybe it was my blood on the door?"
Stiles dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "Could be animal blood. Like maybe you caught a rabbit or something?"
"And did what?" Scott replied incredulously.
"I don't know. Ate it," Stiles suggested, his shrug infuriatingly casual.
"Raw?" Scott was disgusted. He preferred his meat well-cooked, thank you very much.
"Yeah, you stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven," Stiles chuckled irritably. "How should I know? You're the one who can't remember anything."
"Mr. Stilinski!" Mr. Harris's voice cut through their conversation like a knife. "If that's your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the earphones out once in a while. I think you and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance. Yes?"
"No..." Stiles objected quietly.
The teacher ignored him and pointed for them to sit on opposite sides of the room. "Let me know if the separation anxiety gets to be too much," he concluded sarcastically. A few students snickered.
Scott ended up next to Harley, a black-haired, dark-skinned girl who threw him a sympathetic glance before turning her attention back to the teacher. From behind, he felt Jackson's gaze drilling into him. Scott stiffened, feeling the weight of the stare.
"Hey look! They found something!" Harley exclaimed, breaking the monotony as she darted to the window overlooking the school bus car park. The class quickly followed, crowding the window sills. Mr. Harris, seeing he had lost control, joined them.
"They found a body," Harley announced, almost proud of her discovery.
"That's not a rabbit..." Scott whispered, horror creeping into his voice.
Outside, nurses wheeled a stretcher to the ambulance. But before they could load the body, it sat up abruptly and howled incoherently. The students recoiled, terror gripping them.
"Well, this is good. He's not dead," Stiles tried to comfort Scott. "A dead guy can't do that..."
"Stiles... I did that..." Scott's voice was filled with dread, a lump of anxiety growing in his chest, making it hard to breathe.
Somehow, the boys made it to lunch, still haunted by the morning's events. They settled at their usual table, trays in hand.
"Dreams aren't memories," Stiles insisted.
"Then it wasn't a dream. Something happened last night. And I can't remember what," Scott said, his remorse palpable. They argued in hushed voices.
"How are you so sure Derek has all the answers?" Stiles asked, still skeptical of the grim werewolf.
"Because on the full moon he wasn't changed," Scott whispered. "He was in total control. And I'm running around in the night attacking some totally innocent guy."
"You don't know that."
"I don't not know it. I can't go out with Allison. I have to cancel," Scott said, his distress evident.
"No, you don't. You can't cancel your entire life. We'll figure this out," Stiles reassured him. "And if not, we'll go to Mrs. Benoit. Maybe she'll know something."
Just then, a smiling girl with reddish-blonde hair arrived at their table. Lydia's outfit, as usual, was a statement of the latest fashion, her makeup and hairstyle impeccable.
"She'll know about what?" she asked, resting her arms on the table.
"Uh... about homework," Scott stammered, surprised by Lydia's attention.
"Why is she sitting with us?" Stiles whispered to Scott, leaning over so Lydia wouldn't hear.
More of Lydia's usual crowd, including Allison, joined their table. Allison took a seat next to Scott, while Jackson approached, telling Brian to make way.
"How come you never ask Danny to get up?" Brian asked, disbelief and mild indignation in his voice.
"Because I don't stare at his girlfriend's coin slot," Danny Mahealani, a handsome boy with clear Hawaiian roots, replied smoothly. "So, they're saying it's an animal attack. Probably a cougar."
"I heard mountain lion," Jackson corrected.
"A cougar is a mountain lion," Lydia said automatically, then added in a higher, innocent voice, "Isn't it?"
"Who cares?" Jackson snapped. "The guy's probably some homeless tweaker who's gonna die, anyway."
"Actually, I just found out who he is," Stiles interjected, drawing attention to his phone and displaying a news clip. "Check this out."
"The sheriff confirmed that the victim, Garrison Meyers, survived the attack. He was taken to the hospital in critical condition."
"I know that guy," Scott said, overwhelmed. "He used to drive the bus back when I lived with my dad."
Lydia, visibly bored, demanded, "Can we talk about something slightly more fun, please? Like where we're going tomorrow night?" She directed the question to Allison and Scott.
Allison, caught off guard, stammered, "Uh... What were we going to do?"
"We hadn't decided," Scott replied.
"Well, I'm not sitting at home watching lacrosse videos again. If the four of us are hanging out, let's pick something fun."
"Hanging out? The four of us?" Scott was puzzled. He glanced at Allison, who was drinking water, equally surprised.
"When the hell were you going to tell me about this?" Jackson asked angrily.
"You want to hang out? The four of us? You and me? And them?" Scott repeated, disbelievingly.
"Sure," Allison squeaked, then added more confidently, "Sounds fun."
"You know what else sounds fun?" Jackson interjected aggressively, brandishing a fork. "Stabbing myself in the face with this fork."
Lydia laughed, cradling Jackson's hand. "Oh, come on, Jackson. How about bowling? You love to bowl."
"Yeah, but with actual competition," Jackson crowed.
"How do you know we're not competition?" Allison challenged. "You can bowl, right?" she asked Scott, grinning.
"Sort of..."
"Sort of? Or yes?" Jackson inquired.
"Yes. In fact..." Scott began.
Meanwhile, Stiles buried his head in his hands, foreseeing the disaster to come.
🌙
After a day filled with academic drudgery, Charlotte guided Isle to the vet for a much-needed check-up and bandage removal. The waiting room of the clinic, bathed in sterile light and the hum of quiet conversation, was not a place she expected to encounter the sheriff. But there he was, with a police dog in tow, echoing her own purpose.
Deaton, the clinic's sole veterinarian, had a habit of leaving the door ajar while working, and through this gap, Charlotte caught glimpses of him and his assistant bustling about. The sheriff's booming voice interrupted her thoughts as he addressed a boy Charlotte recognized as Scott.
"Staying out of trouble, Scott?" Sheriff Stilinski's voice cut through the air like a knife. Scott responded sheepishly as the police dog obediently sat on the examination table.
The sheriff handed a nondescript envelope to Dr. Deaton. "While I'm here, could you take a look at these pictures? Sacramento can't seem to identify the animal involved."
"I'm not exactly an expert on this," Deaton admitted, peering into the envelope with a clinical detachment that bordered on eerie. "Huh. Interesting. This guy was attacked in a bus?"
"We found wolf hairs on Laura Hale's body," the sheriff added, fishing for confirmation.
Scott, who had been a silent observer, broke his silence with a barely audible, "A wolf?" His voice carried a mix of disbelief and curiosity. "I mean... I think I read somewhere that there haven't been wolves in California for like sixty years," Scott added, more assertively this time.
Charlotte, unable to resist adding her two cents, strolled into the room, leaving Isle in the waiting room to avoid any tension with the police dog. "Wolves are migratory animals," she interjected smoothly. "They could have come from another state driven by hunger, instinct, or a strong enough memory."
Scott looked bewildered. "Wolves have memories?"
"Long-term memories, yes," Deaton affirmed, his gaze shifting from Scott to Charlotte. "If associated with a primal drive." He pointed to a photo in his hand. "These are claw marks. A wolf would have gone for the throat or spinal cord with its teeth."
Charlie feigned ignorance. "So, probably a mountain lion?"
Deaton's calm demeanor did little to comfort her; his too-calm acceptance of everything around him made her wary. "I don't know. A wolf could chase down its prey, hobbling it by tearing at the ankles before going for the throat."
The conversation dwindled as Deaton turned his attention back to the police dog. Charlotte, now restless, returned to the waiting room. When the sheriff came out, Scott realised Isle was the same dog he had helped a few weeks ago and the witch finally found out what had actually happened to her familiar. Allison Argent had tripped over the poor animal, but had caught Isle and bring her to the clinic, revealing a small yet telling connection between their lives.
🌙
After dropping Isle off at home, Charlotte drove to the reserve where Derek spent his days. He had insisted that everything important was concentrated there, assuring her they would find something. However, their investigation was constantly being interrupted.
First, a policeman showed up to check if anyone was loitering around. Charlotte felt a flicker of fear that they'd be discovered, but Derek managed to unsettle the police dog in the car, causing the officer to lose his nerve and leave without inspecting the crumbling building.
Then Scott appeared, adding to Charlotte's stress. She worried that if the boy discovered her acquaintance with the older werewolf, he would lose trust in her and become as hostile towards her as he was towards Derek. Strangely enough, Scott seemed too anxious to sense her presence. Derek went out to meet the boy, leaving Charlotte to sit quietly on the other side of the door, mentally repeating formulas to conceal her presence from the other werewolf's senses.
"I know I was part of you getting arrested and basically announced you being here to the hunters." Scott's voice was laden with remorse. "I also don't know what happened with your sister, but I think I did something last night." The older man's silence didn't help the boy articulate his thoughts, but he pressed on. "I had this dream about... someone. But someone else got hurt. And it turns out part of the dream might have actually happened."
"You think you attacked the Driver?" Derek wanted to ensure he understood the boy correctly.
"How do you know everything? Are you constantly keeping an eye on me? Did you see what I did last night?" Scott was terrified, seeking confirmation in Derek's question.
"No," the older werewolf replied, his tone and expression unchanged.
"Then can you at least tell me the truth? Am I going to hurt someone?"
"Yes."
"Could I kill someone?"
"Yes," Derek's answers were automatic, the certainty in his voice as heavy as an anvil.
"Am I going to kill someone?" Panic laced the teenager's voice.
"Probably."
Scott leaned heavily against a porch pillar, devoid of any residual hope. Derek approached him, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"I can show you how to remember, how to control the shift, even on a full moon. But it's not going to come for free."
"What do you want?" the teenager asked, his voice a whisper of desolation.
"You will find out. But for now, I'll give you what you want. Go back to the bus. Go inside. See it, feel it. Let your senses—sight, smell, touch—let them remember for you."
"That's it? Just go back?" Scott was surprised the task seemed so simple.
"You want to remember what happened?"
"I just want to know if I hurt him."
"No," Derek denied. "You want to know if you'll hurt her."
Scott walked away, almost immediately contacting his friend.
Charlotte sat silently, her heart weighed down by the immense gravity of the situation. The air around her grew dense, almost suffocating, as if it mirrored the tension she had just witnessed. She could almost feel the weight of uncertainty hanging in the atmosphere. But amidst it all, they had managed to forge a plan, offering a glimmer of hope. And with that, a flicker of determination ignited within her.
🌙
January 25th 2011 - Tuesday
The redhead witch came home after a grueling day at work, and for half an hour, she debated the wisdom of her next move. From her handbag, she retrieved a small string bag containing a piece of bloody cloth—a trophy she had snatched from the crime scene when no one was looking. It was a risk, but she knew it held secrets worth uncovering.
Navigating through a maze of moving boxes, she found an oblong tube housing several posters. Browsing through them vaguely, she selected the one she needed. Pulling back the living room curtains, she shrouded herself in privacy, wary of neighbors who might accuse her of satanic rituals. Beacon Hills had enough troubles without adding witch hunts to the list.
Charlotte spread a pentacle poster on the floor, its symbols as familiar to her as the lines on her palm. Placing a mirror in the center and the bloody cloth on top, she lit candles at each point of the star, their colors chosen with care. Standing within the drawn lines, she gazed into the mirror, chanting ancient formulas engraved in her memory. Her focus sharpened, her senses detaching from the present environment.
The mirror's surface undulated, creating a mesmerizing ripple effect that revealed the hidden world within. Through the distortion, Charlotte found herself transported into the interior of a yellow bus. The rows of dark, padded seats materialized before her, emitting a faint scent of musty upholstery. As her eyes met Mr. Meyers', a mixture of terror and pain consumed his gaze, sending shivers down her spine. With a sense of urgency, she squeezed herself between the seats, feeling the rubberized floor under her fingertips.
The visions that unfolded seemed so vivid, so tangible, that Charlotte often lost herself in their illusion. Peering cautiously through the narrow gap, her heart pounded against her chest as she caught sight of the attacker. It was a massive, black figure, with an animalistic aura that was both intimidating and unsettlingly human-like. Its blood-red eyes pierced through her, paralyzing her with fear.
A familiar voice, sharp and urgent, snapped her out of her trance. Startled, she turned, her heart pounding, irrationally thinking it was the worst idea with the monstrous creature lurking behind her. Yet, there, in the driver's seat, stood a transformed Scott, his presence filled with determination to save the injured man. With a swift and courageous movement, he lunged at the creature, the sound of his battle cry echoing through the air. Enormous claws slashed across his chest, the sickening sound of flesh tearing, sending him soaring through the air. The Alpha, enraged and powerful, hurled a back seat towards them, the rush of air and the menacing thud filling the tense atmosphere. Paralyzed by fear, Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, her body trembling, bracing herself for the inevitable impact.
Nothing happened, no pain, no noise. Silent and still, she struggled to pry open her eyes, but they remained tightly shut. Cold beads of sweat trickled down her body, chilling her skin. Uncontrollable tremors wracked her body, rendering her helpless. Beneath her closed eyelids, a whirlwind of images flickered incessantly, like a chaotic slideshow. She pondered if this was akin to the experience of those afflicted by epilepsy, trapped in immobility while every thud reverberated through their being. Determined, she resolved that if she emerged from this state, she would intensify her efforts to forge a friendship with Erica Reyes.
A firm grip on her shoulder jolted her awake, accompanied by a gut-wrenching howl that echoed through the air. As her senses returned, she fought to regain control, clamping her mouth shut to stifle the impending scream. Blinking away the haze, her gaze fell upon Derek, his powerful arms encircling her trembling frame. Seeking solace, she clung to him desperately, her tear-stained face a testament to her anguish. As his hand moved in a comforting rhythm along her spine, she yearned for more. The touch, though gentle, failed to alleviate the storm raging within her.
She slipped out of his embrace, her heart racing, and stumbled to the kitchen. In desperate need of solace, she splashed her face with cold water, feeling the immediate jolt against her skin. The last thing she needed was to be hit with an overwhelming wave of hysteria.
Derek measured her with a careful gaze, his brows furrowing with concern. The dim light cast eerie shadows across the room, amplifying the gravity of what he had just witnessed. If what he had seen was a normal emanation of witchcraft, he couldn't fathom encountering more witches. Few people would consciously choose to do what had happened to Charlotte. The weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders.

As he stepped into the house, a suffocating silence enveloped him, causing a shiver to crawl up his spine. Isle, lingered outside, sensing the foreboding aura that emanated from within. The two cats, usually aloof, suddenly darted past him, their figures blending seamlessly into the darkness of the encroaching night.

An unsettling tension hung in the air, palpable and unnerving. Strange sparks danced across Derek's skin, sending electric jolts through his body. His forearms prickled as the fine hairs stood on end, a physical manifestation of the otherworldly energy that permeated the room.

Heart pounding, he cautiously made his way to the living room, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. There, he saw the witch's silhouette, elongated and distorted, sprawled upon a pentagram etched on the floor. The sight froze him in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he believed the girl to be lifeless, until her body began to tremble, a faint sign of life. The relief washed over him, but the experience had left an indelible mark on his psyche. He vowed never to repeat such a harrowing ordeal again.

"I need to get out of the house, think about something else," she pleaded.
"Sure, let's go for a drive," he agreed, seeing she was still shaken.
As they drove around town, they stopped at a petrol station. Charlotte, hungry and the Camaro needing fuel, stepped out. As she exited the shop at the station, she froze, watching the scene unfold before her. She froze as three men flanked the car. Recognizing Chris Argent, she noted his cruel smile.
He was the epitome of a well-groomed, dangerous man. Standing at about six feet, his lean frame was always impeccably dressed. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back, giving him an air of sophistication. But it was his eyes that left a lasting impression—cold, calculating, and as sharp as a hawk's. Those piercing blue eyes seemed to see right through you, assessing every weakness, every vulnerability. His chiseled jawline and a day's worth of stubble added a rugged touch to his otherwise polished appearance. The aura of control and intimidation he exuded was palpable, making it clear he was not a man to be trifled with.
"Nice ride," he said to Derek, running a finger over the car's bonnet. "Black cars are hard to keep clean. If you have something this nice, you want to take care of it, right?" He cleaned the windshield with a brush. "Personally, I'm very protective of the things I love. But that's something I learned from my family. And you don't have much of that these days, do you?"
Derek's demeanor remained composed, his face impassive, until the mention of his family pierced the air. Charlotte, her anger palpable, noticed his fists tighten, the sound of knuckles cracking faintly audible. She quickened her pace towards him, her footsteps echoing through the tense silence. Yet, just as she approached, Derek's body suddenly loosened, his muscles relaxing. A faint scent of relief lingered in the air as Argent, a smug grin on his face, observed the scene, content with the outcome.
"You forgot to check the oil," Derek retorted as Charlotte reached his side. Argent ordered his men to check it. One smashed the side window with a rifle butt. Charlotte recoiled, but Derek's grip on her arm stopped her from intervening.
"Drive safely," Argent concluded, nodding at Charlotte.
As they drove off, Charlotte shook with fury. Derek's stone-faced expression held unspoken questions and concern.
"It's alright... I'm just having trouble controlling my anger," she reassured him.
"Remind me never to get under your skin. You're terrifying in this state," he attempted to joke, but his tone was serious.
"The first night, this state seemed to make you feel differently," she teased, raising an eyebrow, easing the tension.
They drove on, Derek plucking up the courage after a few minutes to tell her he wanted to go to the hospital and confront Mr Meyers, to perhaps find out who the attacker really was. Witch stayed in the car and waited for him. He came back heavily agitated, although he tried not to let it show. He did not go into the house with her and when she got out of the car, without a word, he drove off, leaving her wondering if he'd return.
🌙
Melissa trudged into her dimly lit home after an exhausting day on call, her spirit sagging with discouragement. She sole hoped to collapse into bed, but first, she needed to say goodnight to her son. Stepping into his room, she found it empty. A sigh escaped her lips, frustration mingling with fatigue. Just as she turned to leave, a noise from Scott's room caught her attention.
Suspicion prickled her skin. She backtracked cautiously, her eyes falling on a baseball bat leaning against the wall. Grabbing it, she crept into the room, brandishing the bat like a makeshift weapon. In the faint glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains, a dark silhouette loomed. Instinctively, she swung, stopping inches from her target—Stiles' freckled, terrified face.
Both let out startled squeals, like a pair of frightened schoolgirls. "Stiles! What the hell are you doing?" Melissa demanded, her voice a mix of exasperation and relief.
"What am I doing?" Stiles echoed, indignant. "Do either of you even play baseball?" He pointed to the bat Melissa still clutched in her hand.
Before Melissa could retort, the room flooded with light. Scott stood in the doorway, confusion etched across his features. "Can you please tell your friend to use the front door?" Melissa sighed, her patience wearing thin.
"But we lock the front door. He wouldn't be able to get in," Scott replied, as if it were the most logical explanation in the world.
"Exactly," Melissa said, rubbing her temples. "And, by the way, do either of you care that there's a police-enforced curfew?" Her eyes, weary and accusatory, roved over the two teenagers.
"No," they replied in unison, shrugging.
"Okay then. That's about all the parenting I can take for one night." Melissa tossed the bat onto Scott's bed and turned on her heel, her departure as swift as her entrance.
Scott laughed quietly as he bid his mother goodnight, his mood buoyed by a successful date. But his laughter died in his throat when he turned to see Stiles' crestfallen expression.
"My Dad left for the hospital fifteen minutes ago. The Bus Driver," Stiles began, his voice cracking. "They said he succumbed to his wounds."
"Succumbed?" Scott echoed, confusion creasing his brow.
"Scott... he's dead," Stiles clarified, the weight of his words hitting like a sledgehammer. Scott's face morphed through a kaleidoscope of emotions, from shock to grief, then rage.
Without a word, Scott bolted from the house, leaving Stiles in stunned silence. Fury fueled his sprint through the night, memories of the red-eyed monster attacking Mr. Meyers flooding back, vivid and haunting. He didn't slow until he reached a house shrouded in darkness and the shadows of ancient trees.
"Derek! I know you're here!" Scott's voice echoed through the house, raw with accusation. "I know what you did!"
"I didn't do anything," came a voice, cold and dispassionate, reverberating through the house.
"You killed him!" Scott ascended the creaking stairs, listening intently.
"He died," the voice repeated, devoid of emotion.
"Like your sister died?" Scott's disbelief cut through the tension like a knife.
"My sister was missing. I came here to find her."
"You found her..." Scott's voice wavered with anger and confusion.
"I found her in pieces!" Derek's voice crescendoed with fury. "Being used as bait to catch me."
"I think you killed them both," Scott concluded with grim determination. "And I'm going to tell everyone. Starting with the Sheriff..." He reached the top of the stairs, still searching for the source of Derek's voice.
Out of nowhere, a shadow came lunging at him from behind, grabbing hold of his shoulders and forcefully propelling him down the stairs. In the midst of his descent, Scott's transformation was triggered, causing his eyes to emit a golden glow, his brow to furrow, and his fangs to protrude. With remarkable agility, he landed gracefully on his feet, fully prepared to confront Derek, who had also leaped down to join him.
Scott forcefully grabbed Derek by his jacket, slamming him into a wall with such intensity that it threatened to shatter. However, Derek swiftly shrugged off the impact, deciding to remove his leather jacket to protect it from any damage. He casually rolled his neck, his eyes transforming from a vibrant electrifying blue back to their usual human grey-green color in a blink, too rapid for Scott to perceive.
The teenage wolf lunged once more, but was swiftly thrown against another wall. Derek, who possessed greater strength, granted Scott a moment to get up before launching a fierce counterattack, kicking him forcefully across the room. In retaliation, Scott grabbed a wooden board and forcefully rammed it into Derek, who quickly regained his composure and undercut Scott's legs, pinning him by the throat. The pain caused Scott to revert back to his human form, gasping for breath heavily.
Derek let him go, taking a step back while emitting a deep, guttural roar that reverberated through the house. Scott prepared himself for an imminent strike that never materialized. Tentatively opening one eye, he observed Derek, who had transformed back into his fully human form. Derek was breathing heavily, clearly struggling to reign in his murderous instincts.
"I didn't kill them. Neither of us did. It's not your fault, and it's not mine," Derek declared, his gaze piercing.
"This... this is all your fault," Scott shouted. "You ruined my life!"
"No, I didn't," Derek denied calmly.
"You're the one who bit me."
"It's not him, Scott," a new voice interrupted. Both men shifted their gaze to the doorway, where Charlotte Benoit stood. Her dark chestnut hair shimmered in the glow of the car's headlights.
"What?" Scott's confusion deepened.
Charlotte's gaze shifted to Derek, who nodded.
"I'm not the one who bit you," Derek confirmed.
Scott slowly backed away, his fingertips gingerly grazing the barely healed wounds on his neck. The touch sent a shiver down his spine as the memory of the attack flooded his mind, vivid and haunting. Blood stains adorned his trembling fingers, the metallic scent filling the air, a stark reminder of the violence he had endured. Overwhelmed, he sank into the plushness of the couch, his labored breaths punctuating the silence. Charlotte, concerned, reached out to offer comfort, but he flinched away, his gaze shifting between the two adults whose knowing expressions hinted at secrets he had yet to uncover.
"There's another," he whispered, realization dawning.
"It's called an Alpha," the witch specified simultaneously with Derek.
"The most dangerous of our kind. You and I, we're Betas," Derek explained. "My sister came here looking for him, trying to stop him. Now I'm trying to find him. And I don't think I can do it without you."
"Why me?" Scott asked, still not understanding.
"Because he turned you. You're part of his pack. It's you, Scott. You're the one he wants," Derek stated.
"And what are you doing here? Who exactly is he?" Scott turned to Charlotte, demanding answers.
"I came so you wouldn't kill each other. Your friend asked me for help," she replied truthfully.
"But why did you come to Beacon Hills in the first place?" Scott's anger flared. "Did you come together?"
"No," she answered, truthfully. "I came because I found out about the Alpha. He's dangerous, and my job is to protect people who know nothing about this part of reality. I'm a kind of guardian."
"And you know about me and him?" Scott pointed to Derek. Charlotte nodded. "Then who is Alpha?"
"I have no idea," the witch admitted, her voice tinged with regret.
🌙
January 26th 2011 - Wednesday
The day began with an unusual air, as Charlotte Benoit walked into work with an appearance starkly contrasting her usual casual attire. Draped in an elegant black knee-length dress paired with high-heeled shoes, her entrance caught the eyes of curious students. None dared to question the sudden change, save for one brave soul: Stiles. During a break, he approached her with his signature cheekiness.
"Going to a funeral?" he quipped, laughter in his voice, but his smile faded as she nodded solemnly.
"Ahm... sorry... And whose... Is it Mr. Meyers?"
"No, Mr. Meyers will be buried on Friday. Today is Laura Hale's funeral, as I'm sure you're well aware," she replied, her gaze piercing. "And I hope you're not planning to attend. I'd prefer you alive. You've already irritated her brother enough. Let's agree that I represent our little team of adventurers today, shall we?"
Stiles, after a moment of contemplation, nodded and retreated, his head hanging low. As he joined his friend Scott, Charlie waved to them, her expression softening before she exited the building and got into her car. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart.
Uncertainty gnawed at her. She didn't know if Derek wanted her at the funeral, but she suspected that if he didn't, he would have mentioned it. She also knew her students well enough to expect they'd try to spy on her, even if they didn't outright refuse her request. So, during the sparsely attended ceremony, she kept her distance from Derek, adhering strictly to the formal expressions of sympathy.
She observed the attendees closely. There were the sheriff and Officer Harris, probably there for duty. Dr. Deaton kept his distance from Derek. There were a few others who may have known Laura from her time in Beacon Hills. The undertaker and his son, who was one of her students, stood at a respectful distance, prepared to carry out their duties.
Charlotte yearned to comfort Derek, though his demeanor suggested he would reject it. Her attention, meanwhile, kept drifting back to a tall, slim boy with blonde hair and a stooped figure. Despite being on the school lacrosse team, he seemed isolated, his eyes avoiding direct contact, and a faint bruise marring his jaw.
She noted the stocky, broad-faced gravedigger, his features hardened and eyes hidden behind glasses. His tight lips suggested a stern disposition, and she hoped his hands weren't as heavy as his expression implied. Derek and Officer Harris also kept a wary eye on the father and son, furrowing their brows in suspicion. Charlotte made a mental note to inquire about this with Derek later, assuming he planned to spend the evening with her.
As a sudden realization struck her, she couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and terror. Over the past few days, Derek had practically moved in with her, a situation that had never happened before with anyone outside of her family. The emotional and physical closeness they were experiencing was uncharted territory for her, and her feelings were swirling in a near-panic. However, she knew she had to stay composed; after all, a cemetery was not the place for such introspection. She tried to rationalize that their relationship was solely driven by the Lurker and physical attraction, nothing more.
When the ceremony concluded, she quickly left, the rain beginning to fall as she drove away. In her rearview mirror, she saw Derek lingering, watching as his sister's coffin was lowered. A pang of guilt pierced her heart. She should have stayed to support him, if only as a friend, even though thoughts of deeper feelings clawed at the edges of her mind. Laura had died because Charlotte was late, and now she could only try to help Derek.
That night, Derek arrived at her house unexpectedly, as usual, through the garden door. He collapsed into an armchair, silent and weary. Charlotte handed him a mug of tea and retreated to her corner, continuing to unpack. After an hour of silence, she couldn't bear it any longer.
"I noticed you were watching someone at the cemetery," she said, breaking the tension.
"The older gravedigger's son was a friend of mine in high school," he explained. "He died in Afghanistan. It seems his father hasn't changed much since then." His tone was cryptic, but she didn't press further.
She moved to sit on the floor beside his legs, mirroring her dog Isle's usual spot. She wondered if she should leave him alone, but decided to take a chance.
"I'd ask if you're alright, but the answer is obvious," she whispered, placing a hand on his knee. "Would you like to tell me about her?" She sent a wave of calm through her touch, but he recoiled.
"Stop it!" he growled, startling her. Few realized when she was using her abilities. "Don't charm me," he added more gently, seeing the fear in her eyes.
"I'm sorry... I just wanted to help," she stammered, pulling away, but he stopped her by grabbing her arm.
"I know... But don't do it." He pulled her into his lap, her legs curling up instinctively. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. After a moment, his lips found her neck, seeking solace in the closeness.
As they sat together, the room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their own little world. The soft warmth of his embrace provided a comforting escape from the harsh reality they both faced, each gentle caress of his fingers on her back bringing a sense of security and belonging. Their bodies perfectly molded together, as if they were destined to be intertwined, their breaths synchronized in a rhythm that created a silent harmony, speaking volumes of the unspoken understanding between them. In that moment, the weight of their sorrows lifted, if only temporarily, as they found solace in the simplicity of their shared connection. They didn't need any words; their bodies spoke a language of comfort and support, providing a sanctuary from the pain burdening their hearts.
🌙
January 27th 2011 - Thursday
Stiles walked into the locker room after lacrosse practice, scanning the area with a detective's precision. His target wasn't his usual companion, Scott, but a different individual altogether. His eyes finally settled on a slim silhouette at the end of a row of lockers. With purposeful strides, he approached and tapped the boy on the shoulder.
"Hey, Lahey," he greeted, his face split into a wide, albeit forced, grin. "You work with your father at the cemetery, right?"
"Yeah..." the boy replied, eyeing Stiles warily with his blue eyes. If he straightened up, he might have been taller than Stiles, but he remained hunched, squaring his shoulders defensively before turning back to his locker.
"There was a funeral yesterday for that girl found in the woods, right?" Stiles pressed on, his tone insistent.
"And? There's a funeral today too... So what?" Lahey's voice was edged with irritation as he continued changing his clothes.
"At the one yesterday, Mrs. Benoit was there. You have her for history class too, don't you?" Stiles' curiosity was unrelenting.
"Yeah, the young redhead," Lahey confirmed, his patience wearing thin.
"Was she there with anyone? Maybe standing with the immediate family?" Stiles's persistence was met with a contemplative pause from Lahey.
"If you must know, no, she was alone. She stood off to the side and only moved to offer her condolences. Why do you care?" Lahey shot back, glancing at Stiles with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. "Even if she is single, you don't stand a chance with her. Not just because of the age difference..." He chuckled dismissively, slamming his locker shut and walking out, leaving Stiles momentarily stunned.
As the door swung shut behind Lahey, a mischievous grin spread across Stiles's face. He headed to the second row of lockers, where Scott was waiting, lost in thought.
"Well, you see, she was actually just there as a delegation," Stiles announced triumphantly. "And you know... If my suspicions are correct, even Derek is far too young for her."
Scott blinked, clearly distracted. "What?"
"I'm saying she confessed to being a witch, and Derek referred to her as a witch. Her name appears in all the credible articles I could find, some dating back to the 1970s! What's the likelihood of women not changing their names after marriage and naming their daughters after themselves?"
Scott's eyes widened as the pieces began to fall into place. He could almost hear the gears turning in his head.
"Meaning what exactly?" Scott asked, still trying to grasp the full implication.
"Meaning that our teacher is holding up really well for her age," Stiles replied, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
"She definitely doesn't look old enough to have graduated college and be teaching high school..." Scott mused.
"Maybe she's got a good anti-wrinkle cream, but I'd bet she's a hundred years old!" Stiles rubbed his hands together, thrilled at the prospect of unraveling yet another mystery that ordinary detectives could only dream of.