Scott didn't know how he knew where to go; he just ran. The instincts screaming in his blood, heightened by the full moon's oppressive glow, were a confusing, terrifying cacophony. But through it all, one scent cut through the noise, a beacon in the sensory storm: Allison. It was her perfume, the faint scent of her shampoo, the unique fragrance that was just her. He'd followed the ghostly trail of Derek's car from the party because Derek had taken her home, leaving a scent trail that Scott's new senses clung to desperately. Now that trail was leading him away from the road, deep into the rain-soaked woods of the Beacon Hills Preserve.
He launched himself over a fallen log, landing with a jarring impact that his human body would have protested for a week. Now, it was just a dull thud. His senses were on fire. He could smell the damp earth, the rotting leaves, the fear of a rabbit hiding in a nearby briar patch, and stronger than anything, her scent. He saw the car first, a black, classic Chevrolet Camaro, Derek Hale's car, parked and silent near the entrance to a hiking trail. The passenger side door was slightly ajar, and Allison's scent was strong here, confirming she had been inside. The trail didn't stop, though; it plunged into the darkness of the trees. He followed, moving with a speed and agility that still felt alien to him.
There, snagged on a low-hanging branch as if dropped in a hurry, illuminated by a stray beam of moonlight, was Allison's jacket from the party. Her scent was overwhelming on it. He rushed forward, his movements clumsy in his haste, and snatched it from the branch, pulling it to his face, inhaling deeply. It was her, but she wasn't here. This was a trap.
"Where is she?!" Scott roared into the darkness, the sound more of a growl than a human shout.
"She's safe," a calm voice answered from the shadows behind him. "From you."
Before Scott could even process the direction of the sound, a dark shape launched itself at him. It was Derek Hale. The two collided in a flurry of limbs and snarled words. They rolled and tumbled through the wet leaves, a chaotic mess of inexperienced, feral rage against cold, practiced power. Derek was stronger, faster. He easily overpowered Scott, pinning him to the ground, his forearm pressed against Scott's throat.
"What did you do to her?!" Scott choked out, struggling uselessly against Derek's grip.
"Shut up," Derek commanded, his eyes not on Scott, but scanning the darkness around them, his head cocked as if listening for something Scott couldn't hear. "It's too late," he hissed. "They're here. Run."
Just as Derek released him, the sharp zing of a projectile cut through the air. A gunshot? No, different. Both werewolves scrambled to their feet and bolted in opposite directions. Scott ran blindly, adrenaline and fear making his heart hammer against his ribs. THWUMP! A searing, white-hot pain exploded in his right arm. He cried out, a scream of pure agony, as he was thrown off balance, crashing into a large oak tree. An arrow, fletched with dark feathers, was embedded deeply in his bicep, pinning his arm to the trunk.
Inside Melissa's speeding sedan, the world was a frantic cacophony of scratchy audio and Stiles's panicked breathing. Alex had the microphone feed from Scott's shoe patched through the car's Bluetooth speakers. "...safe... from you," Derek's voice echoed, followed by the sounds of a struggle, grunts, and the tearing of fabric. "What did you do to her?!" Scott's pained voice. "Shut up... too late... They're here. Run." Alex's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Who's 'they'? Stiles, what the hell is going on out there?" Stiles just shook his head, his eyes wide with terror. Then came the scream. Scott's scream. It was raw, filled with so much pain that it felt like a physical blow, even through the tinny speakers. Stiles flinched as if he'd been struck. Alex's face became a cold, furious mask. "If something happens to him," he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerously low temperature, "if that bastard Derek let anything happen to my brother, I will personally bury him six feet under this godforsaken town."
Derek, seeing Scott pinned to the tree, cursed under his breath. He changed direction, a dark blur of motion, launching himself at the two figures emerging from the trees, crossbows raised. They were hunters. He disarmed one with a brutal swipe, sending the man crashing into a tree, and kicked the crossbow from the other's hands. The second hunter, older, with a grim, determined face, was Chris Argent. Seeing the tide turn, Chris pulled a handgun from a holster under his jacket, but Derek was already gone, melting back into the darkness.
Chris ran towards Scott, who was struggling against the arrow, whimpering in pain. But Derek was faster. He appeared at Scott's side, grabbed the shaft of the crossbow bolt with both hands, and with a sickening CRACK, snapped it. He then pulled the embedded arrowhead out of Scott's arm with a swift, brutal jerk. Scott cried out again. "Come on!" Derek hissed, grabbing Scott's good arm and pulling him away just as Chris Argent broke through the clearing. "We have to go!"
Chris, seeing them escape, didn't give chase on foot. He turned and sprinted back towards his own vehicle.
Derek and Scott ran, stumbling through the woods until they hit a paved road. Scott was clutching his arm, which was already starting to heal, the pain slowly receding into a dull throb. "Who… who were they?" Scott panted, leaning against a tree. "Hunters," Derek said, his expression grim. "The kind who have been hunting us for centuries." "Us?" Scott's eyes widened. "You mean… you? You did this to me! This is your fault!" Derek actually laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Is it so bad, Scott? You can see better, hear better, you feel stronger. You'll never get sick again. You probably won't die from any disease. People would kill for what you have. For them, this is no less than being immortal. The bite is a gift."
"I don't want it!" Scott bit back, his voice shaking.
"Oh, but you will," Derek said, his voice dropping. "And you know what? You'll need to learn how to control it. And that is something only I can teach you. So now, you and me… we're brothers."
In the car, hearing Derek's last words through the speakers, Alex's knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. "Is this bastard," he seethed, "trying to take my place?" Stiles, hearing the sheer possessiveness in Alex's tone, just rolled his eyes, too terrified to comment.
Suddenly, Derek's head snapped up. He could hear the sound of a car engine approaching. Fast. "Shit. They followed us. Run!" The two werewolves took off, running down the dark, empty road with supernatural speed. Moments later, the headlights of the hunters' SUV crested the hill behind them, pinning them in the beams. "Shoot at the legs!" Chris Argent yelled to the other hunter in the passenger seat. "We need one of them alive! To find the Alpha!" The passenger leaned out the window, aiming his crossbow. THWIP! An arrow shot past Derek's head. THWIP! Another skipped off the pavement near Scott's feet. They dodged and weaved, their reflexes unnaturally sharp.
Chris floored the accelerator, closing the distance. Just as he was about to overtake them, a new set of headlights appeared, coming straight towards them from a side road. With a horrifying screech of tortured rubber, Melissa McCall's sedan drifted into the intersection, coming to a perfect, sideways halt, completely blocking the road. Chris Argent slammed on the brakes, his SUV fishtailing on the wet asphalt and coming to a stop inches from the sedan's driver-side door. In the rearview mirror, he saw the two running figures disappear into the safety of the woods.
Stiles, in the passenger seat of the sedan, was pale and huffing, clutching the dashboard for dear life. "What the HELL, Alex?! That was your plan?! A freaking Hollywood stunt drift?! I think my soul just left my body!" "Shut up and get down," Alex commanded, his voice cold and steady. He got out of the car, his expression shifting from furious protector to bored, annoyed teenager. He looked at the hunters' SUV. "Hey, man! Who the hell is speeding like a maniac on a dead night like this? You could kill someone!"
Stiles, seeing Alex's shameless audacity in blaming them for speeding when he'd just executed a maneuver straight out of a car-chase movie, just stared, his mind refusing to compute.
Chris Argent, his face a mask of cold fury at losing his prey, flung his car door open. He strode towards the sedan, but stopped short as he recognized the driver. "You," he said, his voice clipped. "You're Scott McCall's brother." Alex, seeing Chris Argent clearly in the headlights, mumbled a single word under his breath. "Fuck. Scotty, you are so dead." He then plastered on a charming, slightly confused smile. "Oh, hey! Mr. Argent, right? It was you! Wow, small world. Or, you know, small town." "What are you doing out here?" Chris demanded, his suspicious eyes scanning Alex, then moving to the car. "Weren't you at Lydia Martin's party?" "Well," Alex began, stalling for time, trying to come up with a plausible lie. Chris Argent's gaze fixed on the passenger side of the car, where Stiles was attempting to hide, pulling his jacket up over his head, making himself look like a suspicious, huddled lump. Chris's expression shifted, the dots connecting in his mind, but in entirely the wrong way. A look of weary, parental disapproval crossed his face. "You know," Chris said, his voice laced with condescension, "you teenagers should really control your hormones. These woods aren't safe to roam around in at night. For… questionable activities." Alex instantly understood what Chris was thinking. He saw the direction of his gaze, the assumption that the huddled figure was a girl, that they'd snuck out to the woods for a cliché teenage make-out session. And did Alex care enough to correct him? Absolutely not. It was the perfect cover. "And what are you doing out here, Mr. Argent?" Alex asked, turning the question back on him, his tone innocently curious. "Hunting," Chris said simply. Alex's smile became a little sharper, a little more pointed. "Hunting? At night? Interesting. I always heard you shouldn't hunt at night. That's when the predators come out, not the hunters." Chris Argent, who had started to turn back towards his car, stopped dead. He turned back slowly to face Alex, a chilling stillness about him. The rain pattered on the roofs of the cars, the only sound in the tense silence. "Son," Chris said, his voice low and dangerous, a cold promise in his eyes, "I am the biggest predator in these woods."