The Witch Vol.1 - Werewolves

"Lock it! Lock it!" Scott screamed, his voice breaking with terror. The three of them huddled together near the front door of the school, desperately trying to evade the monstrous creature lurking outside.
"Do I look like I have a key?" Stiles retorted, equally frightened.
"Grab something..." Scott urged.
"What?" Stiles asked, panic evident in his voice.
"Anything!" Scott shot back.
Suddenly, Stiles steadied himself, his frantic breathing slowing as he straightened up and peered through the glass of the door they were hiding behind. His gaze fixed on something outside, and he grabbed the door handle.
"No!" Charlotte exclaimed, swiftly reaching out and grabbing his forearm. She had composed herself, her voice more controlled now.
"Yes!" Stiles broke free from her grip, stepping out of the school and heading toward the chain cutters lying nearby. He moved cautiously, scanning his surroundings for danger, unaware that the teacher had silently followed him.
"Hide somewhere. I'll be back with help," she whispered to Scott, who remained concealed behind the door.
As Stiles descended a few steps to retrieve the cutters, Charlotte leapt sideways, her focus shifting to Derek's motionless body. She couldn't just leave him like that, especially since he might still be alive. Werewolves, after all, didn't die so easily.
She spotted movement near the parked cars at the same moment her students did. Scott shouted to warn Stiles, who bolted toward the door, while Charlotte hurried to reach the unconscious Derek, just a few steps away. Her fingers trembled as she yanked a jar of mountain ash from her pocket. Struggling momentarily with the cap, she managed to scatter the protective dust in a circle around them. Instantly, a magical barrier formed, impenetrable to any supernatural being.
Charlotte caught a glimpse of Stiles as he made it to the door, slamming it shut just as the creature's massive body slammed into the barrier she had erected. The Alpha halted, frozen in place, its blood-red eyes glowing as they locked onto her. This was the first time she had been able to examine the beast so closely, without the paralyzing grip of fear, although her heart still pounded furiously in her chest.
A thunderous growl erupted from the creature's chest, and it bared its fangs at her, each one as long as her fingers. Its enormous silhouette towered over two meters in height, its skin black and covered with thick fur. Broad, muscular shoulders hunched forward, suggesting that the Alpha was most comfortable moving on all fours. Each limb ended in massive claws, strong enough to crush her skull with ease. He was unlike any werewolf she had encountered before, far more animalistic, with madness and a relentless thirst for blood burning in his eyes.
It took her a moment to realize the Alpha had stopped, nostrils flaring as it inhaled deeply, studying her scent. He curled his lips into what could only be described as a gruesome, bloodthirsty grin resembling characters in some twisted horror film. Yet, after what felt like an eternity, the creature turned and walked away, abandoning her alone with Derek's unmoving body.
It seemed the Alpha had deemed them no threat, no use to him—unlike his Beta, Scott.
She waited a few more seconds for her heart to steady, then traced the faint, almost imperceptible pulse at her lover's neck with fingers that felt as cold as ice. He was still alive, but she couldn't determine how much time he had left. Sifting through the contents of her pockets, she sighed in frustration. She couldn't exhaust her strongest amulet, which was meant to protect her students, but she also had no way of knowing how much power Derek would need to heal the wounds inflicted by the monstrous Alpha. She settled on a small, moon-shaped necklace that had been absorbing power for the last two months. It wasn't the most potent, but it wasn't the weakest either.
Derek lay face-down, which spared her from having to move him much to locate the wound on his back. She carefully lifted his leather jacket, remarkably unscathed, revealing a T-shirt soaked in blood shredded beyond recognition. She pushed the ruined fabric aside and recoiled slightly. Fragments of cloth littered the wound, but she had no time to remove them now. She placed the amulet at the edge of the wound, her hand trembling slightly as she silently recited the activation incantation.
Derek inhaled sharply, groaning in pain. He was conscious again, but she knew he didn't have the strength to move on his own. Clenching her jaw, she realized she needed to bring the car as close as possible. Digging the Camaro's keys out of Derek's jacket pocket, she cautiously scanned the area for the monster. Seeing nothing gave her little comfort—its absence could mean anything. Stepping through the protective circle, she sealed it behind her and clutched the strongest of her amulets as she made her way quickly and quietly to Derek's car. With her left arm still immobilized, it took her nearly fifteen agonizing minutes to haul the injured man into the car. She finally settled him into the driver's seat, hoping he'd gather enough strength to drive away before the Alpha returned to finish the job.
"Derek, listen to me, don't fall asleep," she urged, gripping his chin firmly with her right hand, forcing him to look at her. "You'll heal, but you need to get home. Leave, now. I'll handle everything else. Just get home," she whispered frantically, praying he could understand her through the fog of pain clouding his eyes.
Suddenly, the Alpha's howl pierced the night, cutting through the silence like a blade. Charlotte's heart skipped a beat as she saw the creature emerge between two parked cars, its massive frame looming in the dim light. For a brief, irrational moment, she hoped the creature wouldn't damage her beloved Chevelle, then remembered her own life was at risk. She sank deeper into the passenger seat, gripping Derek's hand tightly, panic rising within her.
She watched in horror as the monstrous werewolf tore the battery from beneath the hood of a nearby jeep with terrifying ease. The screech of metal grated on her nerves. She shut her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, the beast had vanished.
Breathing heavily, she climbed out of the car, silently pleading to all the deities she had never believed in to give Derek the strength for this one task. She found no prayer for herself, though, and knew she had to return to the school to save her students.
She pulled out her phone and tried calling the police station, but there was no answer—a troubling anomaly. Scrolling through her contacts list, she wracked her brain for someone she could call for help, but no one came to mind. Just then, Derek, with what little strength he had left, fumbled for his phone and handed it to her.
"Diana Harris... she's a cop, call her..." he muttered weakly, his voice barely more than a whisper, drained by the pain that tore through him with each breath.
Charlotte didn't have time to ask how Derek knew the officer. She quickly found Diana's number in his contacts and dialed. The voicemail kicked in almost immediately.
"A couple of teenagers are trapped at Beacon Hills High School." She stammered, her voice shaky with uncertainty as she struggled to explain the nature of the threat. Was it something human, or something far worse? Her gaze flickered to Derek, who, through the agony of each breath, whispered one word: "Truth."
With that simple cue, she swallowed hard and continued, her pulse quickening. She had called the police officer's private number, so there was hope the call wouldn't be officially logged. "They're being hunted by a werewolf. Big and furious... They need help, as soon as possible," she said, her voice stronger this time before she hung up abruptly.
She left the phone on the passenger seat and steeled herself, then headed back into the school to aid her students.
She burst into the school corridor just as the boys emerged from one of the classrooms. Sliding to a stop beside them, they all collided, startled by her sudden appearance.
"We'll have to take the route without windows," Stiles announced once he caught his breath.
"Every single room in this building has windows," Scott pointed out, making him realize the flaw in his plan.
"The route with fewer windows?" Charlotte suggested, still unfamiliar with the school's layout.
"The locker room," the teenage werewolf declared with certainty.
Without hesitation, the students dragged her along, practically shoving her into the men's sports locker room.
"Call your dad," Scott ordered, urgency clear in his voice.
"And tell him what?" Stiles retorted.
"Anything! A gas leak, a fire, whatever. If that thing sees the parking lot full of police cars, it'll take off."
"And if it doesn't? What if it goes full Terminator and kills every cop, including my dad?" Stiles shot back, his voice thick with doubt. Charlotte froze for a moment, realizing she hadn't considered that possibility. Diana might have an advantage over the sheriff, though—at least she knew the truth about what they were facing.
"They've got guns," Scott stated, as if that alone could fix the situation.
"And Derek had to be shot with a wolfsbane-laced bullet just to slow him down," Charlotte added, her voice laced with concern for the sheriff's deputies, who were oblivious to the supernatural threat stalking them. And she herself called them.
"Then we need to... We need to find a way out and run for it."
"There's nothing around the school for half a mile," Stiles said, showing an unusual and disheartening sense of practicality.
"What about your car?" Scott asked Charlotte, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
"It's an idea... it might work. If we can reach it. But we'll have to take Derek with us," she agreed, praying that Derek had slipped away from the school by now, which would at least relieve them of one concern.
"Fine, whatever," Stiles muttered, neither boy offering any resistance.
They made their way to the locker room exit, but Scott suddenly stopped his friend's hand halfway to the door handle.
"I think I heard something," he whispered, his voice tight with fear. "Quiet... Hide."
Without warning, Stiles lifted Charlotte off her feet as though she weighed nothing and shoved her into one of the lockers, her legs dangling above the floor like a rag doll. He ducked into the locker beside hers, too preoccupied to notice Scott's hesitation. But after a moment, Scott followed suit, deciding he didn't have time to come up with a better plan.
They heard the cloakroom door creak open, followed by the unmistakable thud of heavy footsteps. Charlotte's tension eased slightly, realizing the steps belonged to someone wearing shoes—clearly not the Alpha. However, her momentary relief was shattered when Scott shouted, causing her to tumble out of her locker and brace herself to fight. She took a step back at the sight of the janitor.
"Quiet!" Stiles squealed as he crawled out of his hiding place.
"Quiet, my ass! Are you three trying to kill me?" the janitor barked, clearly irritated. He didn't seem to recognize Charlotte as a teacher, which didn't surprise her under the circumstances. With no resistance, she let him shove her and the students out of the cloakroom. "Get out!"
But before the man could finish his sentence, something yanked him back into the room they had just fled. It happened so quickly that the three of them froze, staring in disbelief at the door behind which the janitor had just vanished. They might have stood there, paralyzed by shock, if not for the sudden, horrifying sight of the man's silhouette appearing in the small window, blood smearing the milky glass.
Scott rushed forward, desperate to help the caretaker, whose screams of terror and pain echoed through the corridor, but the door handle wouldn't budge. Stiles grabbed him and pulled him away, and without another word, they all fled down the hallway, knowing the janitor was already beyond saving.
Hoping that the Alpha would be distracted long enough for them to reach the car and escape, they made it to the front door. But their hope quickly evaporated when they realized the gates were locked and immovable. The boys investigated and found that the creature had barricaded them with trash containers. With no other choice, they moved on.
"I'm not dying here. I'm especially not dying in school!" Stiles panicked, his voice rising with each word.
"We're not going to die," Charlotte responded, her tone calm and firm, aiming to reassure the terrified boy.
"Then what's it doing? What does it want?" Stiles panted, still trembling with fear.
"Me. Derek says it's stronger with a pack," Scott explained, his eyes wide with the weight of the revelation.
"Great, a psycho-werewolf who's into teamwork," Stiles muttered sarcastically. "That's just perfect."
They were making their way through a glass-enclosed corridor when Charlotte felt an ominous gaze on her. She halted, and Scott, sensing the shift, followed her lead. It was he who first spotted the Alpha, perched on the roof on the opposite side of the courtyard. For a moment, the creature stared at them before it started moving—racing toward them on all fours.
"Run!" she shouted, and they bolted just in time. A second later, the Alpha crashed through the glass wall, landing exactly where they had stood. They sprinted as fast as their legs could carry them, making it to the stairwell and rushing down without slowing. Charlotte, though physically fit, could feel the burning in her lungs as exhaustion crept in.
They finally stopped in the basement, hidden behind a wall. Here, there were no windows, but Charlotte couldn't shake the feeling that they were trapped, with limited avenues for escape. A low growl echoed through the narrow corridor, and Scott peeked around the corner to see the Alpha advancing toward them. He motioned for them to keep moving.
"We have to do something," Stiles said, halting.
"Like what?" Scott asked, his voice laced with desperation.
"Kill it. Hurt it. Inflict some serious emotional damage. Anything!"
Fate seemed to give them a break as they stood next to the steel door of the boiler room. Stiles, thinking quickly, pulled the keys to his useless jeep from his pocket and devised a plan. He ordered Scott and Charlotte to hide around the corner while he tossed the keys inside the boiler room as a distraction.
The Alpha, in a frenzy, charged toward the sound, completely missing the boy, who slammed the door shut just as the beast crossed the threshold. Charlotte grabbed a nearby bench, and with Scott's help, they wedged it between the door and the opposite wall, trapping the rampaging Alpha inside.
For the moment, they were safe, able to catch their breath. But Charlotte still wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the enraged creature. Stiles, however, had other ideas. He climbed onto the bench, peering into the small window on the door.
"What are you doing?" Charlotte hissed, grabbing the back of his jacket.
"I want to get a look."
"Are you crazy?" Scott squeaked, his voice filled with alarm.
"It's trapped. It can't get out," Stiles said confidently, shining his flashlight through the window. "That's right. We got you," he taunted through the door.
"Shut up!" Scott snapped, glaring at him.
"No. I'm not scared of this thing," Stiles announced with venom in his voice. But when a huge paw smashed into the window, he recoiled in terror. "I'm not scared of you!" he shouted, now standing at a much safer distance. "Because you're not going any—" A disturbing clatter came from the neighboring room, cutting short his words, followed by the sight of ceiling debris falling through the glass.
A moment later, heavy footsteps echoed above them, followed by the creak of shifting tiles. The suspended ceiling collapsed, and without a second thought, the three of them bolted, racing out of the basement corridor as fast as they could.
After a few moments, Scott paused.
"Wait... Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Stiles asked, confused.
"The phone ringing... I know that ring! It's Allison's phone!" Scott gasped, panic flooding his voice. Charlotte pressed her eyelids shut, feeling an impending migraine. Didn't these kids have better things to do at this hour? Homework, watching inappropriate content, or simply sleeping soundly—anything that wouldn't add to the ever-growing pile of her worries.
Scott quickly persuaded Stiles to call Allison, and Charlotte had to admit it was the fastest way to locate her—though it also meant the murderous Alpha could do the same.
"Stiles?" came Allison's puzzled voice on the other end.
"It's me," replied Scott, his voice tense. "Where are you?"
"In the school, looking for you. Why weren't you at my place?" she asked, reminding him of their missed date.
"Where are you right now?" Scott pressed, urgency rising in his tone.
"On the first floor..."
"Where? Exactly?"
"The swimming... the swimming pools."
"Get to the cafeteria. Now," Scott's voice held such authority that Allison didn't hesitate to comply.
They raced into the trophy room just as Allison arrived, freezing when she saw them, clearly taken aback by the presence of her teacher. But before she could ask anything, Scott cut her off.
"What are you doing here? Why did you come?"
"Because you asked me to..." she replied, confused.
"I asked you to?"
In response, she held up her phone, showing a message supposedly from Scott.
"Why do I get the feeling you didn't send this message?" she asked, her voice tinged with rising fear.
"Because I didn't."
"Did you drive here?" Stiles interrupted, cutting into the tense exchange.
"Jackson did," she answered.
"Jackson's here too?" Charlotte interjected, her stress levels rising. At this rate, half the school would be gathered here, and she'd have no way of saving any of them.
"And Lydia," Allison added, shooting Charlotte a wary glance. "What's going on? Who sent that text?"
Before anyone could respond, Allison's phone rang again. She picked up just as Jackson and Lydia burst into the trophy room. Lydia had the phone pressed to her ear, while Jackson followed close behind with a disturbingly blank expression. They both froze, startled to see the teacher with their schoolmates. But there was no time for questions, as a deafening clatter and heavy footsteps echoed above their heads, drawing their attention.
"Run!" Charlotte commanded, and they all bolted after her, dodging chunks of falling ceiling by mere seconds. None of them dared to look back, though they could feel the hot breath of death on their necks, its growl echoing in their ears.
They dove into the first room they could find, slamming the door shut and throwing themselves at the benches and chairs to barricade the entrance.
"Scott, wait, not here!" Stiles protested, not helping with the barricade. Charlotte glanced at him and immediately understood what he meant, but she lacked the strength to speak.
"What was that? Scott, what was that?" Allison's voice quivered, thick with fear—so palpable that Charlotte could almost taste it, though the Darkness stubbornly refused to awaken, mocking her when she needed it most.
"What happened to the ceiling?" Lydia's voice cracked, hysteria creeping in.
"Just help me," Scott growled through his terror, his panic feeding into everyone else's. "Chairs. Stack the chairs..."
Ignoring Stiles' desperate shouts of "Guys, hold on!" and "Listen to me! It's Stiles! Wait!", the teenagers continued to pile more furniture against the door, panic rising.
"Hello!" Stiles yelled louder, finally breaking through the chaos.
The group stopped, turning toward him, all panting heavily, their faces etched with fear.
"Okay, nice work, great job, everyone," Stiles said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now, what do you think we should do about the twenty-foot wall of windows?" He theatrically waved his hand toward the massive panes of glass, emphasizing their rather glaring oversight.
In fact, they found themselves in a room with an entire wall made of windows, obscured by blinds, but still nothing more than a fragile sheet of glass. They had no way out and were trapped, but the beast could easily reach them if it wanted to.
"Can someone please explain what's going on? Because I'm freaking out, and I'd at least like to know why..." Allison exhaled, her terror palpable to everyone in the room, even those without heightened senses. She clutched Scott's sleeve, but he didn't respond, didn't even look at her.
Charlotte rolled her eyes, glancing over at the group of teenagers. The huntress heiress was behaving the most chaotically. Even Lydia was quieter—which, for some inexplicable reason, irritated the witch. Scott pulled free from Allison's grasp, stepping away and leaning heavily on a bench. He was clearly trying to plan, but was too unnerved to think straight. Jackson, growing more anxious, looked expectantly at Stiles, as if waiting for him to explain what exactly they had stumbled into. It was as if they had instinctively turned their expectations toward the boys, ignoring Charlotte entirely, despite her presence.
"Someone's killed the janitor," Stiles finally spoke, his voice husky as he attempted to buy Scott more time to calm down.
"What?" Allison let out a squeak and stood frozen in place, as if her feet were glued to the ground.
"The janitor's dead," Stiles repeated, casting a pleading glance toward Scott and Charlotte, hoping for support. Unfortunately, the young werewolf remained lost in his internal struggle, and Charlotte was too drained from using her magic to keep Derek alive. She couldn't help but wonder if he had regained consciousness and escape—one less burden on her mind for the moment, at least.
"What's he talking about? Is this some kind of joke?" Allison's voice trembled, and though her words sounded skeptical, it was clear she didn't find any of it funny.
"Who killed him?" Jackson asked, his nerves fraying visibly.
"No, no, this was supposed to be over. The mountain lion..." Lydia began, her voice shaking as her long-suppressed fear finally surfaced.
"Don't you get it? That wasn't a mountain lion," Jackson growled, frustration and fear intertwining in his voice.
"Who is it? What does he want?" Allison's voice shot up an octave, her panic intensifying. "What's happening? Scott!" she cried, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she looked to him for answers. Charlotte clenched her fists, feeling the temptation to slap some sense into the girl, wishing she would stop screaming before the crazed werewolf caught wind of her.
"I don't know!" Scott finally exploded. "If we go out there, he's going to kill us."
"Us? Kill us?" Lydia's grip tightened on Jackson's hand, her fear palpable.
"Who? Who is it?" Allison asked again, this time directing her question to Stiles, as it was clear Scott was too overwhelmed to answer.
Scott remained silent, casting a desperate look toward his friend, his back still turned. Then, in a voice both rushed and confident, Scott blurted out, "Derek. It's Derek Hale."
Both Stiles and Charlotte's jaws dropped, their expressions mirroring disbelief. The other three teenagers stared at Scott in shock, and even he seemed surprised by the words that had just escaped his lips.
"Derek killed the janitor?" Jackson asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. Admittedly, Derek had always made him uneasy, but never enough to suspect him of murder.
"You're sure?" Allison echoed, her voice tinged with confusion. She glanced at Charlotte, recalling the time the teacher had driven her home with Derek in tow. How could their friend be a killer? Such things didn't happen in real life. "Is that why you're here?" she asked Charlotte, now convinced they were a couple. The witch stared back at her, wide-eyed, unsure of how to respond.
"I saw him," Scott said, his voice more certain this time.
"The mountain..." Lydia asked, trying to make sense of it all.
"No, Derek killed them!" Scott interrupted, his patience fraying as he avoided the gaze of both his best friend and his teacher.
"All of them?" Allison's voice trembled, though her initial panic seemed to have subsided slightly, giving way to shock.
"Starting with his own sister," Scott's voice dropped, and Charlotte's hands clenched into fists, her teeth grinding together at the thought.
"And the bus driver?" Allison asked, still struggling to process the revelation.
"And then the guy in the video store. It's been Derek the whole time. He's in here with us..." Scott's voice faltered, his words sending a shiver through the room. Jackson shot an incredulous look at Charlotte, but she merely shrugged, unsure of what to say. The truth was bound to surface eventually, but for now, the lie seemed to have a calming effect on the students. She decided not to dwell on it; survival was her priority.
"And if we don't get out... he's going to kill us too," Scott finished grimly, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.
"Call the cops," Jackson Whittemore demanded, turning toward Stiles.
"No," Stiles responded curtly.
"What do you mean, no?" Jackson's voice rose, incredulous.
"I mean no. Want to hear it in Spanish? '¡No!'" Stiles shot back, his sarcasm thinly veiling his unease. "Derek killed three people. We don't know what he's armed with." The sheriff's son was clearly backing up Scott's story, likely thinking the same thing Charlotte was.
"Your dad is armed with an entire sheriff's department," Jackson snarled through gritted teeth, barely containing the swirling mix of anger and fear. "Call him."
"I'm calling," Lydia suddenly announced, a phone appearing in her hand as if she'd conjured it from thin air. Her voice, while calm, belied the nervous tremor in her fingers as she tapped in the emergency number.
"Hold on... Lydia, just wait..." Stiles moved toward her, intending to stop her, but Jackson grabbed his arm, holding him back.
"Yes, we're at Beacon Hills High School," Lydia said into the phone, her tone smooth. "We're trapped in here, and we need you to..." She paused, her expression shifting as she listened to the person on the other end. Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard. "But..." Abruptly, she pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at it in disbelief. "She hung up on me."
"The police hung up on you?" Charlotte couldn't contain her shock. How could an officer ignore a call for help? Hopefully, Diana Harris had listened to her earlier message.
"She said they got a tip-off about prank calls claiming a break-in at the high school," Lydia explained, repeating the dispatcher's words. "She said if I call again, they'll trace it and have me arrested."
"Then call again," Charlotte urged, realizing it might be their only shot at survival.
"They won't trace the cell phone," Stiles interrupted, shaking his head. He knew police protocols all too well. "They'll send a car to your house before they send someone here."
"What the... What is this? Why does Derek want to kill us?" Allison asked, her voice shaking as she sought answers instead of solutions. She directed her question at Charlotte, but when the teacher remained silent, she pressed her lips together and turned to Scott. "Why is he killing anyone?"
Stiles and Charlotte both turned to Scott, hoping for some sort of explanation, but none came. The others followed suit, instinctively sensing that Scott had some unspoken authority over the group. Perhaps it was something innate, something they all felt under their skin—that he was different, stronger, with a better chance of surviving this nightmare. Though they may not have known he was a werewolf, the presence of the supernatural had a way of leaving an impression.
"Why are you all looking at me?" Scott snapped, clearly frustrated, unsure of what to say or do.
"Was he the one who sent her the text?" Lydia asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
"No... I mean, I don't know," Scott stammered, avoiding her gaze.
"Did he call the police?" Allison pressed, joining Lydia in her line of questioning.
"I don't know!" Scott shouted back, his patience wearing thin. His voice cut through the tension, and Allison recoiled slightly, her eyes widening in shock at his outburst. It wasn't the reaction she had expected, and Charlotte noticed a flicker of satisfaction in Jackson's mischievous smirk.
"We could use a moment to regroup," Charlotte intervened, pulling Scott and Stiles aside from the other three teenagers. Her voice lowered as she addressed them. "Great, congratulations on throwing Derek under the bus." Her tone was quiet, but the frustration in her words was palpable. If it weren't for Scott's heightened werewolf senses, he might have missed the subtle sting in her voice. As it was, he could feel her anger clearly.
"I didn't know what else to say. I had to say something," Scott defended himself. "And if Derek's dead, it doesn't matter..."
"He's not," Charlotte stated firmly, her confidence undeniable. But Scott wasn't listening; his thoughts had already drifted to a new line of worry.
"Oh God, I totally bit her head off."
"And she'll totally get over it," Stiles reassured him, noticing that Charlotte looked far more inclined to bite off Scott's head herself than offer any comfort. "We've got bigger things to deal with. Like, getting out of here alive."
"But we are alive. And it could have already killed us," Charlotte interjected. "It's cornering us, pushing us against the wall."
"What? Like it wants to eat us all at the same time?" Stiles asked, not quite following.
"No. Derek said it wants revenge," Scott replied, seeming to finally regain some composure and think through the situation. Charlotte felt a flicker of relief—the more rational thought they could muster, the better their chances of survival. Given that only the three of them knew the full extent of what was happening, their odds were already slim.
"Revenge against who?" Stiles pressed, eager to piece together more information.
"I don't know. Allison's family?" Scott suggested, unknowingly closer to the truth than he realized.
"Maybe that's what the text was about. Someone had to send it..." Stiles mused, still trying to connect the dots.
"So, while loping through the woods, it stops to pull out its Blackberry?" Scott replied, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice.
"Hey, hey, hey. I'm the sarcastic one in this friendship," Stiles chuckled indignantly.
"Okay, assheads," Jackson shouted, careful to avoid eye contact with Charlotte. "New plan: Stiles calls his useless dad and tells him to send someone with a gun and decent aim. We good with that?" The group fell silent, exchanging uncertain glances.
"He's right..." Charlotte admitted quietly, though she hated the idea of putting more people in danger. She knew it was their best shot at surviving the night. "Tell the truth if you have to, but call him."
"I'm not watching my dad get eaten alive," Stiles whispered, his voice trembling. Charlotte knew why—the boy only had his father. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, trying to offer him some comfort. Stiles shook his head and moved away from the group, but just as he did, Jackson grabbed him.
"That's it. Give me your phone," Jackson demanded, reaching for Stiles' arm. But in an unexpected move, Stiles swung around and punched him square in the jaw.
"Jackson! Are you okay?" Allison rushed to his side as Lydia stayed back, watching the scene unfold with narrowed eyes. Despite the pain, Jackson was smiling, clearly pleased by the turn of events. Scott didn't notice, stepping in to stop Stiles from taking another swing.
The group stood in shock, exchanging confused glances. The sheriff's son, however, seemed to surrender, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing his father's number.
"Dad? Hey, it's me... and it's your voicemail," Stiles muttered, his voice tight with anxiety. "Um... I need you to call me back. Like now. Like right now..." A sudden bang echoed against the door, making everyone jump and instinctively huddle closer together. "We're at the school. Dad, we're at school," Stiles added, his voice cracking. If his father received the message, there would be no mistaking that this wasn't just a prank—it was deadly serious.
The door shook violently. Lydia screamed in terror, burying her face in Jackson's shoulder, while Allison remained silent, pressing her back against Scott, who stood protectively behind her. Stiles swallowed hard, glancing at the trembling door, and slid his phone back into his pocket. Charlotte frantically searched her pockets, praying she hadn't used up all the mountain ash. Unfortunately, only a small remnant remained in the jar—not nearly enough to protect them.
"The kitchen. The door out of the kitchen leads to the stairwell," Stiles suddenly announced.
"Which only goes up," Scott interrupted.
"Up is better than here," Stiles shot back, and without hesitation, they all bolted toward the staircase.
Charlotte could hear the furniture they'd used to block the door splinter as the Alpha smashed through, but by then, they were already fleeing. They burst out of the stairwell onto the first floor, scrambling to find the nearest shelter. The first unlocked door led them into Adrian Harris's chemistry classroom. Scott immediately jammed a chair under the door handle—a comical attempt at security given the monster they were dealing with, yet it was all they had.
Charlotte collapsed onto the floor, panting heavily, her chest rising and falling in time with the labored breathing of her students. There was no chance the Alpha wouldn't hear them—it surely knew exactly where they were by now. A growl echoed down the hallway, causing everyone to freeze, instinctively pressing themselves against the wall, hands clasped over their mouths to muffle their breathing. Scott squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gauge how far the creature was.
As the Alpha passed the room and moved away, Scott finally broke the silence. "Jackson, how many people can fit in your car?"
"Five, if someone squeezes onto someone's lap."
"Five? I barely fit in the back!" Allison exclaimed, incredulous.
"It doesn't matter. There's no getting out without drawing attention," Charlotte interjected, cutting off the debate before it escalated.
"What about this?" Scott asked, pointing toward a metal door in the room's corner. "It leads to the roof. We could use the fire escape to get down to the parking lot in seconds."
"But that's a deadbolt," Stiles pointed out, deflating the hope that had briefly sparked. But only for a moment—Scott's mind was already racing toward a solution.
"The janitor has a key."
"You mean his body has it," Stiles corrected grimly.
"I can find it. I can track him by scent... by blood," Scott said. Charlotte wondered how much of this strange conversation the others were truly processing, and how bizarre Scott's words must have sounded to them.
"That's a very bad idea..." Charlotte interjected, her voice laced with concern. "Do you have another one?"
"I'm getting the key," Scott declared, more confidently this time, as he began pushing his way between Charlotte and Stiles, who were blocking his path.
"Are you serious?" Allison stepped forward, stopping him. She must have been listening closely, Charlotte thought. How much had Allison actually heard and understood? And what did she know about her own family's involvement?
"It's the best plan. Someone has to get the key if we want to get out of here," Scott insisted.
"You can't go out there unarmed," Allison protested, her voice tight with fear.
Scott glanced around the room, then grabbed a pointer off the teacher's desk, ending in a comically oversized Mickey Mouse hand. Everyone stared at him, dumbfounded, and Stiles exhaled deeply, looking away.
"It's better than nothing," Scott explained, though no one seemed convinced.
"There's got to be something else..." Stiles muttered, visibly shaken by the idea of his friend venturing out alone.
"There is," Lydia's voice cut through the tension, soft but steady. It was the first time she had spoken since they'd fled their previous hiding spot. She pointed toward a locked cabinet full of dangerous chemicals. Charlotte frowned, not immediately understanding what the girl was suggesting. They certainly would not find rowan powder in a chemistry classroom.
"What? Like, throw acid on him?" Stiles quipped, confused.
"No, like a firebomb. That cabinet has everything you need to make a self-igniting Molotov cocktail," Lydia explained. Charlotte couldn't help but smile to herself—she had been right about Lydia all along. The red-haired student was far smarter than she usually let on. Amid all this terror, with limited knowledge of the real danger, Lydia had thought up a solution while everyone else was panicking. Charlotte, on the other hand, scolded herself internally for not coming up with the idea first. Instead of thinking of a solution, she had been too focused on supernatural methods.
"Self-igniting..." Stiles trailed off, still confused.
"Molotov cocktail," Lydia repeated slowly and clearly, seeing the baffled expressions on her classmates' faces. "What? I read about it somewhere," she added, trying to maintain her image, though her confidence faltered slightly.
"Well, we don't have the key to that cabinet either," Stiles sighed.
Without missing a beat, Jackson rolled his eyes and, without a word, smashed the glass with his elbow, his leather jacket cushioning the blow.
Lydia swiftly set to work, preparing the explosive mixture with precision. After a short while, she handed the finished bottle of liquid to Scott.
"No. No," Allison suddenly spoke up, her voice breaking the grim silence she had maintained until now. "This is insane. You can't do this. You can't go out there."
"And we can't just sit here waiting for Stiles's dad to check his messages," Scott countered, trying to reason with her.
"You could die! Do you get that? He's killed three people."
"And we're next. Someone has to do something," Scott replied, his tone firm. He turned toward the door, intent on leaving, but Allison grabbed his arm.
"Scott, stop. Remember how you told me you'd know if I was lying? That I have a tell?" she asked, and Scott nodded.
"You have a tell too. You're a terrible liar, and you've been lying all night." Tears brimmed in her eyes, her voice trembling with emotion. Jackson smiled to himself, pleased that no one was paying attention to him. "Please don't go. Don't leave us," she pleaded, her voice soft, almost breaking. But her words didn't sway Scott. He gently pulled his arm free from her grip and stepped back.
"Lock the door behind me," he said to the others, trying to walk away. But before he could, Allison pulled him into a long, desperate kiss.
Charlotte rolled her eyes at the scene. She seriously wondered what demon had persuaded her to work with these exasperating teenagers. Taking a decisive step forward, she interrupted the moment.
"Scott, let's go," she declared, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. They looked at her in surprise. "I'm not letting you go alone, and they'll have a better chance of surviving as a group than you will by yourself out there." She gestured toward the corridor. "Two pairs of eyes are better than one. We'll watch each other's backs."
Stiles locked the door behind them as they left, and the remaining group gathered nervously around one of the benches. Allison and Lydia sat huddled on either side of Jackson, while Stiles leaned against the wall just inside the door, his expression distant.
"I don't get this. I don't understand why he's out there, why he left, and... he almost didn't accept Mrs. Benoit's help. I can't... I can't get my hands to stop shaking," Allison muttered to herself, staring at her trembling hands, no matter how hard she tried to steady them.
"It's okay," Jackson murmured gently, taking her hands in his and locking eyes with her. His voice was unexpectedly soft, filled with a calm reassurance. Stiles shifted uncomfortably, though he remained silent, while Lydia's eyes widened as she observed the exchange.
"Everything's going to be fine," Jackson added, his lips curling into a soft, satisfied smile.
Unable to watch any longer, Lydia averted her gaze and looked around the room. Her eyes fell on the bottles of chemicals on the table, the same ones she had used earlier to make the Molotov cocktail. Two of the bottles, large and made of brown glass, caught her attention—they were nearly identical.
"Jackson, you handed me the sulfuric acid, right?" she asked, her tone suddenly sharp. "It has to be sulfuric acid. It won't ignite if it's not."
"I gave you exactly what you asked for," Jackson replied coldly, his demeanor suddenly shifting, his eyes narrowing as he glared at her.
"Yeah... yeah..." Lydia hunched her shoulders, avoiding his gaze. "I'm sure you did..." she mumbled, her voice barely audible as Jackson turned away, dismissing her concern without a second glance.
However, Lydia's reassurance did little to calm her nerves, and Stiles, too, eyed the containers on the bench with growing concern.
"What's Mrs. Benoit actually doing here?" Allison suddenly asked, breaking the tense silence.
"The same as us? Trying to survive?" Stiles replied, his voice taut with stress.
"Yeah, but why is she here with you guys? Derek's not her boyfriend, right?" Allison pressed, recalling the night at Lydia's party when the two had driven her home. They had spoken little, but she distinctly remembered them being together.
"Derek is..." Stiles stammered, his mind racing as he looked closely at Allison. "Did you see them together?" When she nodded, his throat tightened. He realized that if he didn't come up with a good explanation for why Charlotte was hanging around them, it could lead to serious consequences, both with the law and beyond.
"Mrs. Benoit..." he started, but then quickly corrected himself. "Charlotte is my cousin. She had car trouble, and we were supposed to help her... and we ended up running from a serial killer," he finished, proud of the excuse he had concocted. He hoped it would clear up any doubts Allison had about the strange situation.
Stiles was anxious about Allison having seen Charlotte with Derek. He knew it could've been any day when Derek had pulled the teacher into their chaotic world. But if they survived the night, he vowed to get answers from Charlotte without holding back.
Suddenly, a loud, guttural roar shattered the strained silence, causing all the teenagers to flinch in terror. The girls and Stiles instinctively covered their ears, while Jackson dropped to his knees, clutching his neck in agony. A pained scream tore from his throat.
Stiles noticed the fresh scratches on the back of Jackson's neck but was too stunned to move as Allison and Lydia rushed to help him up.
"I'm fine..." Jackson groaned, breaking free from their grip, clearly more terrified than he was willing to admit. "Seriously, I'm okay."
"It doesn't sound okay," Allison remarked, her worried eyes fixed on him.
"What's on the back of your neck?" Stiles finally found his voice, reaching out to inspect. But Jackson shoved his hand away quickly.
"It's been there for days," Lydia explained, her tone cold, and her expression suggested there was tension between her and Jackson. "And he won't tell me what happened..."
"As if you actually care," Jackson growled back, his eyes narrowing.
"Can we not argue for half a second here?" Stiles interjected, his voice laced with discomfort.
"Where's Scott? He should be back by now," Allison asked, worry creeping into her voice.
Suddenly, they heard movement behind the door, followed by the sound of a faint click. Allison turned, her heart racing, and saw the faint outline of a face through the glass.
"Scott?" she called out, rushing toward the door and frantically fumbling with the handle to open it. But before she could pull it open, the figure had already vanished, leaving her panicked and making a great deal of noise.
"What is he doing?" Lydia asked, her terror mounting as she watched Allison's increasingly hysterical attempts. "Stop it!" she shouted, the sharpness in her voice causing Allison to freeze in place, wild-eyed.
"Do you hear that? Listen!" Lydia urged, turning toward the window, her face full of sudden hope.
And then, cutting through the silence, came the unmistakable sound of police sirens in the distance, growing louder with every passing second. Help had finally arrived.
Exiting the room, they waited with bated breath for the reassuring click of the door lock. Scott and Charlotte cautiously moved down the dimly lit corridor, confident that they had safely secured the others inside the chemistry lab. Scott led the way, focusing intently on detecting the scent of blood, while Charlotte followed close behind, gripping a flask of explosive liquid tightly in one hand, her other hand pressed against her side.
The nocturnal atmosphere within the school heightened Charlotte's unease far more than anything she had experienced during the day. In the daylight, it was the people who unsettled her—explosive teenagers brimming with hormonal intensity, and the teachers, some genuinely called to the profession while others seemed to have landed there by default, all carrying an undercurrent of discontent. But at night, the feeling was different. Anxiety took root in her chest, fear of the unknown gnawing at her, intensified by the enveloping darkness that could hide many threats, capable of shifting one's fate in an instant, extinguishing hope.
As the witch followed Scott, she couldn't shake the feeling that danger was breathing down her neck. The teenage werewolf led them to the stairwell, descending to the ground floor of the school, from which they had fled at full speed recently.
The corridor near the cloakrooms was streaked with blood, and it didn't take a werewolf's keen senses to know that the janitor's body had been moved. They headed toward the gymnasium with the basketball court. Scott sniffed the air, tracking every scent he could pick up, and finally motioned for them to go under the bleachers.
It was an intriguing setup, one Charlotte hadn't encountered before. Wooden benches perched on a metal frame that folded flush against the wall, leaving ample space when retracted. They slipped beneath the bleachers, passing between the supports. The darkness limited Charlotte's vision, but it also sent adrenaline surging through her veins, helping her tap into the hidden layers of magic where the Darkness lay dormant.
A sound echoed behind them, making them freeze. They listened, but it didn't repeat. Charlotte glanced at Scott just as he flinched. A dark droplet had fallen on his face. He wiped it away and stared at his fingers. Blood.
Their heads snapped upward simultaneously. There, draped across a metal rack like a grotesque trophy, hung the body of the janitor. Blood dripped steadily from his lifeless form. Charlotte's grip tightened around the flask's neck, and a small, stifled gasp escaped her lips.
Scott kept his composure, his eyes zeroing in on the keys hanging from the janitor's belt. But they dangled just out of reach. The only option was to climb the nearby scaffolding.
Charlotte, her hands occupied with the flask, couldn't assist. The task fell to Scott, who approached the metal column and hoisted himself up. Despite his best efforts, he was a few centimeters short of reaching the keys. They dangled tantalizingly just out of his grasp.
Suddenly, a metallic groan reverberated through the room, followed by the resounding creaks of a long-neglected mechanism. The stands moved, slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed. Charlotte's heart raced as she realized the danger—they were about to be crushed if they didn't escape immediately. "Scott!" she shouted, stepping forward, torn between the urge to run and her worry for him. Panic gripped her as she watched him stretch toward the keys, refusing to give up.
In a heart-stopping moment, Scott snagged the keys just as the stands sped up. He leapt down beside her, and without a moment to spare, they bolted forward, barely escaping the deadly mechanism.
They tumbled out from under the bleachers at the last possible second. The flask nearly slipped from Charlotte's grasp, but Scott caught it just in time. They scrambled to their feet, a strange tension filling the air—a tension that hadn't been there before.
They looked up and saw the source. At the far end of the gymnasium, a hulking monster stood, its red eyes glowing ominously as it watched them. Slowly, deliberately, it moved toward them.
"Come on," Scott whispered, picking up Charlotte's flask, preparing to throw it. "Come here," he murmured, swinging and hurling it at the beast. The glass shattered against the Alpha's head, but to his horror, no ignition followed.
"Dammit," he hissed, barely scrambling away as the Alpha closed the distance with alarming speed, clipping Scott's legs and sending him sprawling to the floor.
Charlotte huddled against the wall, frantically searching her pockets for something—anything—that could help. Desperation clawed at her chest as she watched the monstrous werewolf drag Scott across the gym floor. The beast leaned over him, one massive paw pressing Scott's head into the ground. Charlotte knew the Alpha wouldn't kill him—not yet. He needed Scott for his pack. But the uncertainty of what the Alpha intended gnawed at her.
A deafening roar shook the walls, louder even than Scott's earlier amplified cries through the speakers. Terror gripped her, forcing her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the Alpha had vanished, leaving Scott alone and confused in the middle of the room.
Suddenly, Scott's body contorted, muscles tightening with brutal force. His spine arched, his body bending unnaturally as if undergoing a violent exorcism. The Alpha had triggered Scott's transformation. Charlotte felt an icy wave of dread—her once-kind student was morphing into a lethal killing machine. Her instinct screamed at her to flee, knowing she had only moments before Scott would turn.
When Scott finally stood, fully transformed into his werewolf form, he found neither his teacher nor the Alpha. He stood alone, his mind clouded with bloodlust and the murderous commands of his Alpha. He moved with predatory intent, driven by the sounds and scents of his prey. His footsteps echoed as he reached the chemistry room door, knowing his victims were just behind it.
As he reached for the handle, something struck him from behind. A figure had leapt onto his back, legs locking around his waist, hands gripping his head with a vice-like force. Small but firm fingers dug into his temples. Through the door, he heard Allison's voice, unaware of the danger just outside.
"Where's Scott? He should be back by now." Allison's voice sounded concerned.
"Scott," came a voice much closer—right next to his ear. "Get a grip on yourself." Strange waves of calm began spreading through his body, though they couldn't fully douse the bloodlust. "Focus, these are your friends..."
Beneath his eyelids, Scott envisioned a beautiful girl with dark hair and warm brown eyes, her smile pulling him from the darkness. His erratic heartbeat gradually slowed, the violent urges in his mind softening into memories of her. Waves of unnatural tranquility filled his thoughts, blending with recollections of her face.
"Yes, just like that... Relax... You don't have to do this," the witch whispered into his ear, her hands still pressing firmly on his temples. She was channeling magic directly into his mind, soothing the rage. Charlotte had braced herself for resistance, half-expecting Scott to throw her against the wall, making her his first victim. But to her surprise, Scott's restraint exceeded even her cautious hopes.
Suddenly, there was a clattering sound, and Charlotte looked over his shoulder. Scott had retrieved a key and was attempting to unlock the chemistry room door. But as he turned the key, it snapped in the lock, rendering the door unusable—neither allowing him entry nor permitting his friends to escape.
Despite Charlotte still hanging off his back, Scott seemed to have forgotten her presence. He stepped away from the door, moving backward and distancing himself from those he had been driven to attack moments before.
He stopped near a bend in the corridor and dropped to his knees. Only then did Charlotte cautiously release her grip on him, her hands slipping from his arms and waist. She could feel the tension leaving his body, his face slowly shifting back to its human form. She knelt beside him, gently brushing his hair away from his sweat-dampened forehead. Scott's breathing came in ragged gasps, his eyes avoiding hers as if ashamed.
With her right hand, Charlotte stroked his hair, while her left pressed painfully against her side. She winced, knowing she had no choice but to remove the bandage and sling that had supported her injured arm. It had been a makeshift solution, but without it, she couldn't have helped Scott return to his human state.
"Scott," she whispered, her voice soft, filled with relief. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Scott, it's all right. We're safe. You're safe. You will hurt no one..."
Her words trailed off as the distant wail of police sirens grew closer, their arrival signaling the end of one nightmare, but perhaps the beginning of another.
The flashing lights of several sheriff's department cars parked outside the school illuminated the dark surroundings. One group of officers hovered around the five teenagers and their teacher, while another swept through the building, searching for any remaining clues.
"You're sure it was Derek Hale?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, standing slightly apart from his son, Stiles, Scott, Charlotte, and Officer Harris.
"Yes," Scott confirmed, his voice steady, though it was the second time he'd said it.
"I saw him too," Stiles added, his gaze averted, avoiding both his father and Charlotte. "What about the janitor?"
"We're still looking for him."
"You looked under the bleachers?" Scott pressed.
"There was nothing there, Scott. We pulled out the bleachers just like you asked," Diana confirmed.
"I'm not making this up."
"And I believe you. I do," the sheriff reassured him.
"No, you don't. You have that look. Like you want to believe me. But I know you don't," Scott's voice grew tense, frustration creeping in.
"I hear you. And we're going to look over the whole school, I promise," the sheriff said, his tone firm yet calm.
Just then, the sheriff and Officer Harris were called away, leaving orders for the boys to stay put.
"Dude, we survived," Stiles said, spreading his arms in a forced gesture of triumph, a shaky smile on his face. He glanced nervously at Scott, trying to ignore Charlotte, who watched them with an unprecedented coldness. "We outlasted the Alpha. That's still good, right? Being alive?"
"We were in the chemistry room, and it walked right by us. You don't think it heard us? You don't think it knew exactly where we were?"
"Then how are we still alive?" Stiles asked, confusion flickering across his face.
"Because it wants me in its pack. But first, I think I have to get rid of my old pack."
"What? What old pack?" Stiles didn't understand.
"Allison, Jackson, Lydia... You."
Stiles fell silent, his eyes staring off into the distance, processing Scott's words.
"The Alpha doesn't want to kill us..." Stiles began, still lost in thought.
"How the hell is that not the worst part?"
"Because when he made me shift... I wanted to do it. I wanted to kill you. All of you," Scott admitted, his voice laden with guilt. He turned an apologetic look toward Charlotte, but his gaze quickly moved past her, landing on something behind her.
Charlotte followed his line of sight and froze. Sitting in one ambulance was Allan Deaton, the local veterinarian, being bandaged by a paramedic. His presence left them stunned, and the boys immediately approached him, their faces a mixture of disbelief and relief. Charlotte stayed behind, leaning against the hood of her car, watching them from a distance.
"Oh, there you are," Deaton said warmly as the nurse stepped away.
"How did you..." Scott began, but trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
"Get out? Not easy..." Deaton forced a smile. "And from what they've told me, I'm alive because of you. I think I owe you a raise."
"We'll let you talk to him later. The EMTs need to finish checking him out," Sheriff Stilinski interrupted, gently steering the boys back to where Charlotte was waiting. But Scott's attention quickly shifted when he spotted Allison nearby.
"Allison! Are you all right?" he called out, rushing to her and grabbing her arm gently.
"My dad's on his way," she replied, not meeting his gaze, tears shimmering in her eyes.
"Do you need me to do anything? Want me to come back with you—"
"No, I don't," she said coolly, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket.
"Okay..." Scott hesitated, uncertain of what to do next.
"And I also don't know what happened to you in there. I don't know what you were thinking... Maybe you weren't. But right now... I don't feel like I trust you," she confessed, her voice trembling, almost sobbing.
"I can explain," Scott interjected, pleading.
"I don't care."
"Okay. Don't say anything else. Please," he begged, his voice breaking slightly.
"Scott," she started, but he cut her off before she could continue.
"Stop. Please. Don't say anything. Stiles' dad is taking me home. I've got to make sure my mom isn't freaking out. And then, I'm going to get a new phone first thing in the morning..."
"Scott..."
"I'll get a new phone, and I'll give you a call..." Scott's voice faltered, sensing that, despite surviving the night, his life was unraveling.
"Don't," Allison finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What?"
"Don't call. Just don't," she said, big tears rolling down her cheeks, glistening in the light of the moon and streetlamps.
The sheriff pulled Charlotte aside near her car, deciding it was time to speak privately with the only adult involved in the incident. Up to this point, she had watched the exchange between the teenage couple, rolling her eyes in disbelief. She never imagined that the daughter of Hunters could behave so irrationally, panicking at every turn. Even Lydia had maintained her composure. Frankly, Charlotte felt ashamed of Allison's behavior.
"Do you confirm everything the kids said?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, his tone direct.
"No," Charlotte replied confidently. "I can't confirm everything, especially the identity of the attacker, because I didn't recognize him. And I don't know how or why the kids ended up in the school in the first place."
"Okay, then let's start from the beginning. What were you doing here at this hour?"
"To be honest, I was working on essays. I've been grading a new project I assigned, and I got a bit behind. I only realized how late it was when I heard a noise in the corridor."
"And that's when you met the kids?"
"Yes, they were running as if a monster were chasing them. The glass in the hallway suddenly shattered, and I saw someone following them. I joined them, and we locked ourselves in the chemistry room. The girls panicked, so I focused on calming them down and keeping them under control. I know the boys were talking, but I can't quite recall what about... Everything happened so fast."
"And what did the attacker look like?" the sheriff asked, pulling a piece of paper from his briefcase.
"He was... tall," she said, chuckling with a hint of nervousness. "He was much taller than you or the boys, even considering my height.".
"Could it have been this man?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, handing her a photo that, if not for the glare of lights, would have revealed Derek Hale's face.
"Well... he didn't have torches for eyes, but I don't think it's the same man," she said, scrutinizing the picture closely, more for show than certainty. "Do these lines indicate the suspect's height?" she asked, gesturing at the height markers, and the sheriff nodded. "I'm sure the person who attacked us was taller."
"Thank you," Sheriff Stilinski sighed, visibly weary, before politely dismissing her. "You're free to go home now."
Just as Charlotte was about to climb into her Chevelle, Officer Diana Harris caught up with her.
"You're the one who called me, right? From Derek's phone..." Diana asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Charlotte nodded.
"It wasn't him, was it?" Diana pressed, and Charlotte gave another nod. A sigh escaped Diana, concern flickering in her eyes. "I won't be able to steer suspicion away from him. He's going to end up on the wanted list," she muttered, her worry clear.
Catching Charlotte's puzzled expression, she offered a small, almost sheepish smile. "We go way back—old school friends. Practically known each other forever, though, truth be told, we haven't even had coffee since he came back. So, you can imagine my surprise when his number showed up on my voicemail..." She tilted her head, her tone light but edged with a seriousness beneath. "Think I can count on you to keep an eye on him?" She asked, though her gaze carried a hint of sarcasm, as if the favor was more serious than the smile that accompanied it.
A surge of conflicting emotions washed over Charlotte, but after a moment's hesitation, she nodded in agreement, accepting the responsibility of watching over the elusive werewolf. Diana Harris intrigued her. Standing at around one meter seventy, with large grey eyes behind glasses that reminded Charlotte of her own reading pair, Diana possessed a strikingly athletic physique—perhaps even more formidable than Kate Argent's. Clad in form-fitting black leggings and a matching T-shirt, her toned muscles were clearly defined, and a burn scar peeked out from beneath the sleeve, marring her otherwise flawless skin. Her wild, curly brown hair, reminiscent of a lion's mane, framed a face that exuded both fierceness and approachability.
Despite the commanding presence Diana carried so effortlessly, it was her warm smile and easy demeanor that ultimately broke through Charlotte's reservations. There was an undeniable strength beneath the officer's casual air, but it was the genuine kindness in her eyes that convinced Charlotte to trust her.
"I'll monitor him... assuming he's still breathing," Charlotte said dryly, watching Diana's eyes widen in horror.
"Just one favor in return," Charlotte continued with a smirk. "If you ever decide to go on a werewolf hunt... send me a text first," she quipped, handing Diana her phone number.
February 3rd, 2011 - Thursday - After Midnight
Charlotte walked home, more terrified than she had been even when facing the murderous Alpha. The events of the night had left her shaken, unsure of what to expect. The black Camaro was no longer in the school parking lot, which at least meant Derek had gathered enough strength to drive away. But whether he had got home was still a mystery.
When she pulled into the driveway beneath the garage, she found the door locked with a deadbolt and no sign of the Camaro. Anxiety churned in her stomach as she got out of her car and approached the garage. It was only when she got closer that she spotted the familiar black car inside. She found Derek slumped over the steering wheel, unconscious.
By some miracle, she had revived the werewolf just enough that he could help her a little in transporting him into the house and even upstairs to their shared bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed, facedown, unconscious once again.
Charlotte moved quickly, retrieving her first aid kit. The sight of him lying motionless sent another wave of fear through her, but she forced herself to focus. She started with his leather jacket, struggling to remove it from his limp body. His shirt, however, was beyond saving. Without hesitation, she cut it open, exposing the deep wound in his back. Blood had soaked through, and the torn fabric of his shirt had embedded itself into the gash. She carefully used tweezers to extract the remnants, her hands steady despite the racing of her heart.
The injury was severe—a fist-sized hole in his back, dangerously close to his stomach but, miraculously, not near his spine. She silently thanked fate for that small mercy, though she wasn't entirely sure if werewolves could heal from spinal injuries.
With the wound now clean, Charlotte bit her lip as she studied it. It was difficult to assess the full extent of the damage, but the bleeding had slowed, which gave her some relief. However, that could also be a bad sign—werewolves healed quickly, but if something had interfered with his ability to regenerate, it could mean trouble. To help speed up the process, she stitched the wound. She wasn't a trained medic, but over her long life, she had gained enough experience to handle this.
As she worked, her exhaustion grew. Each stitch felt heavier, the weight of the night's events pressing down on her. But she persisted, knowing Derek's survival depended on it.
When she finally finished, the wound was closed, though it was far from perfect. Her body felt drained, both physically and emotionally. She slumped onto the other side of the bed, too tired to even clean herself up. Derek's blood stained her clothes, but she didn't care. The adrenaline that had kept her going had faded, and within moments, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, barely aware of the man lying injured beside her.
Pain radiated through Derek's entire body, an aching numbness that seemed to pulse with every shallow breath. It was this discomfort that ultimately pulled him from unconsciousness. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was Charlotte lying beside him. His brows furrowed in confusion, trying to piece together what was wrong with this image. In just a moment, he noticed that blood covered Charlotte's body, causing him to wheeze sharply as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Red streaks marred her face, now peaceful in sleep. She was breathing, which brought him a slight sense of relief, but panic quickly followed. Was she injured?
He tried to recall what had happened, but the relentless pain clouded his thoughts. With effort, he raised his hand and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, only to realize that her hair was matted with something sticky. It took him another moment to realize that his hand, too, was covered in dried blood, which blended almost perfectly with her auburn locks.
His touch must have stirred her, for she blinked awake and smiled softly upon seeing him.
"You're alive," she said, her voice filled with obvious relief.
"Uh-huh," he muttered, his eyes still scanning her face, then moving down to inspect her entire form. "You too..."
"I'm not the one who was mortally wounded," she murmured, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she realized the state they were both in, both still wearing their blood-soaked clothes from the previous night. "I wasn't hurt at all." She paused, glancing down at herself. "I think we should get cleaned up."
It took over an hour for Charlotte to fully update Derek on the events of the night before. He still couldn't stand on his own for more than a few minutes at a time, so she propped him up on a stool in the shower. Only after she was certain he was settled safely back in bed, she took the time to clean herself up.
As she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, the state of her appearance startled her - dried blood clumped her tangled hair, makeup had completely smeared, and her clothes were ragged and filthy. Her normally smooth complexion looked pale, and the freckles on her nose—usually concealed by a thin layer of foundation—were now on full display. She barely recognized herself.
When she emerged from the bathroom, feeling slightly more human, she checked on Derek again. He was fast asleep, his body slowly recovering. Satisfied, she went downstairs to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. Realizing she hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, she suspected Derek hadn't either.
The simple act of cooking grounded her, allowing her scattered thoughts to find focus. But with clarity came the reality of their situation. Scott had lied to his friends and the authorities, and now she was harboring a fugitive in her home—a man suspected of multiple murders. She sighed quietly, stirring the pot on the stove. There was no avoiding it; she would have to trust Derek's childhood friend, though she was reluctant to bring anyone else into this mess.
Still, the thought that someone within the justice system understood the supernatural forces at play offered a small measure of comfort. At least there was someone out there working to protect Beacon Hills, someone who knew the truth about the world they lived in. And for now, that would have to be enough
February 4th 2011 - Friday - School Closed
Around lunchtime, the doorbell rang, snapping both Charlotte and Derek out of their afternoon slumber. Derek, still recovering slower than he cared to admit, remained upstairs, listening intently in case it was the police coming for him. Charlotte, despite her own exhaustion, rushed down the stairs, nearly stumbling and risking injury, but regaining her balance just in time.
"Diana..." Charlotte called out loudly as she opened the door, hoping to reassure Derek. The officer, standing on the doorstep, smiled warmly at the sight of the redhead.
"Sorry for the intrusion," Diana said, stepping inside, "but the sheriff ordered us to play detective, going door-to-door asking if anyone's seen the suspect. I decided to pay you a personal visit, especially since one of your neighbors claims to have spotted a mysterious black Camaro outside your house recently."
"No problem. Come on in..." Charlotte welcomed her into the kitchen. "Fancy a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you. I just wanted to check in and make sure you're all right..." Diana hesitated for a moment, suppressing a chuckle. "And to deliver a message from Stiles." She smiled, barely able to contain her amusement. "Congratulations, Stiles has promoted you to be his cousin," Diana said, barely able to contain her amusement. "Apparently, the kids at school were getting a bit too curious about your sudden appearance, so Stiles came up with an explanation."
"Ah... well..." Charlotte muttered, unsure whether to celebrate this new alibi or worry about the implications of Stiles' quick thinking.
Diana continued, blushing slightly and seeming a bit embarrassed. "He also wanted me to tell you he's declared himself an honorary member of your 'supernatural fan club.' Apparently, he thinks he's got the inside scoop on you and Derek, and for now, he's kept it under wraps. At least until the next full moon..." she trailed off, laughing softly.
"How much do you know?" Charlotte interjected, her tone sharp with curiosity and a touch of wariness. "About the werewolves..." she clarified.
"I know enough," Diana responded, her voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm. "I know they exist, and Derek is one, as was most of his family..." Diana paused, clearly weighing how much to reveal. "Derek and I go way back, actually. We've been close since primary school—his family lived practically next door to mine, and Laura used to babysit me sometimes." Her voice wavered as she recalled the memories. "I was at their house the night of the fire... So yeah, I know quite a lot. I also picked up on Scott's 'furry' secret, though that only clicked for me yesterday."
"And you believe me when I say Derek is innocent? That it wasn't him at the school?" Charlotte asked, her voice searching for reassurance.
"Yes," Diana answered confidently. "Derek wouldn't have killed Laura. I don't believe he could kill anyone." She seemed entirely unfazed by the deeper complexities of Derek's werewolf nature. "But unfortunately, there's not much I can do about the APB that's out for him—at least not until fresh evidence comes to light."
As they stood in the kitchen, the crackle of Diana's police radio interrupted both women. Charlotte didn't recognize the codes coming through, but Diana's expression shifted to focus. Standing quickly, she apologized and made her way toward the door, promising to help as soon as she could. Just as she stepped outside, she called over her shoulder, a little louder than necessary:
"Get well, dumbass."
Diana clearly directed the remark at Derek, who, despite still recovering, had been eavesdropping from upstairs.