Chapter Text
I stare out the window of my uncle’s sedan at my new school. It looks… normal. A big stone building, nothing too flashy or intimidating. Not like my last one. That place was crawling with celebrity kids—you couldn’t walk ten feet without bumping into someone with a famous last name.
This place feels different. Hopefully normal. Hopefully I can just blend in, be another face in the crowd. That’s all I want.
“You don’t have to go today, Emma,” Uncle Jake says gently. “We can wait, if you’re not ready.”
His voice is soft, like it’s been ever since... well, for weeks now. He’s been tiptoeing around me, careful not to say the wrong thing or speak too loudly. I know he means well, but what I really need is for things to feel normal again.
“I have to go sometime,” I reply, still watching the building. “Might as well get day one over with.”
He smiles, and there’s pride in his eyes, bright and warm. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Any last-minute advice?”
“Chloe said lacrosse is big here. Otherwise… just don’t make a fool of yourself and—”
“No magic,” I cut in, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’m not trying to be the school freak on day one.”
“Either Chloe or I will be here after school. Text me if you need anything.”
“I will. Bye, Uncle Jake!”
“Bye, Emma. Have a great day—and good luck!”
I step out of the car and take a deep breath. First day at a new school—and it’s already March. That’s not weird at all.
This won’t be so bad… right? Hopefully, everyone just ignores me, and I can coast through the next two months without drawing any attention. It’s just school, I remind myself for the hundredth time this morning. I’m good at school.
As I step inside, I glance down at my jeans and sweater, suddenly self-conscious. What if I’m underdressed? What if people laugh? I’ve always worn a uniform—this whole “dress yourself” thing might make everything harder.
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what they think. I won’t be here long enough for it to matter. Just two more months, then graduation, then I’m gone. I just need to survive this.
It’s just high school. No one here is going to understand me anyway.
I push open the office door with my shoulder and wait at the front desk. The principal appears after a moment—an older man, with a kind face, old enough to be my grandfather.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, giving me a once-over.
“My name is Emma Foster, sir. Um… today’s my first day.”
“Ah, yes!” He smiles, clearly remembering. “The new student. I’ve been so swamped, I nearly forgot.”
“It’s alright,” I reply automatically.
He moves to the PA system. “Lydia Martin to the office, please. Lydia Martin.”
I sit down and twist my fingers in my lap, silently counting down the minutes until this is over. First days are always the worst.
“Welcome to Beacon Hills,” he says, offering another warm smile. “I’m Principal Argent. Where are you from?”
“North Carolina,” I answer politely.
“Far from home.”
“Yes, sir.”
A girl walks into the office wearing a cute floral dress, her red hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She’s stunning. Effortless. The kind of person people naturally gravitate toward.
“I was called to the office?” she asks, her voice bright.
“Yes, Miss Martin.” Principal Argent nods toward me. “I’d like you to show our new student, Emma Foster, around today.”
“Okay,” she agrees easily. She turns to me with a warm smile. “Hi! I’m Lydia. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I reply, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel.
She takes my schedule and scans it quickly. “Awesome—we’ve got a bunch of classes together. History, Econ, Chem, and Math.” She squints a bit farther down. “And you’ve also got English, Art, and P.E. Classic schedule.”
I trail behind her toward our first class, History. The classroom’s unremarkable. Beige walls. Rows of desks. It feels comfortingly bland compared to the polished, high-tech halls of my old school. At least here, things seem...normal. There are trophy cases in the halls. Lockers with chipped paint. People laughing, slamming doors. Ordinary.
Lydia chatters as we move between classes, telling me who to avoid and which vending machines eat your money, but I only half-listen. I’m too busy soaking in the normalcy. It’s weirdly nice.
Our next stop is Economics. The teacher, a tired-looking man in his thirties, walks in and immediately starts sorting papers at the front of the room.
“Class,” he says. “We have a new student joining us today... uh—” He glances at the paper in his hand, then up at me. “What’s your name again?”
“Emma,” I say quietly.
“Right. Emma. Everyone, welcome her to Beacon Hills.”
I feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. Chloe’s voice echoes in my head: Stand tall. Don’t shrink. But my stomach rolls. I might vomit instead.
“You can sit next to McCall,” the teacher says, gesturing vaguely to the back row.
I slide into the empty desk, keep my eyes down, and focus on the board. Thankfully, I recognize the lesson. My old school covered this last year in an advanced course. At least I won’t fall behind.
A few boys in the corner get scolded for talking, but it seems like that’s a regular thing here. The discipline is definitely looser than I’m used to.
Then, mid-lesson, I hear a stifled sob. I glance sideways and see Lydia—she’s crying. Her face is pale, eyes wide with something deeper than just sadness.
And then I feel it.
A wave of something cold and wrong pulses through the room. It’s not panic—it’s darker. Heavier. It creeps along my spine and presses against my chest like smoke. My breath catches.
I mutter a small spell under my breath—a cleansing charm, one meant to banish away darkness. Not a big one. Just enough to clear the air.
Lydia blinks. Her shoulders relax, and she wipes at her eyes like she doesn’t even remember crying. The pressure in the room lifts, and I suck in a sharp breath. My shirt is sticking to my back with sweat.
Something is wrong here.
I fight the urge to reach for my phone. Normally, I’d text my mom or dad. Ask what that kind of energy could’ve been. But there’s no one to text now. No one to call. I'm alone.
The teacher—Coach, apparently—doesn’t even look at Lydia.
“Anyone else want to try answering?” he asks, sarcastic. “This time in English?”
The class laughs.
I grip my pencil and jab it into my notebook, fury curling tight in my chest. How can he just ignore that? Even someone with no magical sensitivity could tell something wasn’t right.
And yet… they’re all just laughing.
I glance at Lydia. She’s pulled herself back together like nothing ever happened. But I saw it. Felt it.
Whatever that was—it wasn’t normal. And I’m pretty sure she knows something.
I should talk to her.
She’s been kind to me. And if she’s in danger… or if she’s involved…
I need answers.
When the bell rings, I make my way to Lydia’s side.
“Are you alright?” I ask gently.
“I’m fine,” she replies sharply, not meeting my eyes. “Let’s go to Chemistry. Follow me, Emma.”
Okay then. I guess we’re not talking about what just happened. I wonder if she even realizes how strange it was—or if she’s just pretending. Either way, I keep my questions to myself and follow her down the hallway.
The Chemistry lab is slowly filling with students, most of them already deep in conversations about weekend plans or whatever celebrity drama is trending. I wish I could join in, talk about something light—normal. But I know that’s not happening. Not for me.
Just get through this. One day at a time.
I head toward an empty seat near the teacher’s desk, but Lydia calls me over.
“You can sit with me,” she says quickly, like it’s important. “Come on—meet some of my friends.”
I follow her to a table near the center of the room. No one mentions what happened last period, and I’m not sure if that’s comforting or unnerving. Lydia introduces me to a few students—some are surprisingly friendly.
Just as I sit down, two boys rush over to the table.
“Uh, new girl, right?” one of them asks, stopping short in front of me.
I raise an eyebrow. Rude.
“You can’t sit here,” he continues matter-of-factly.
“Yes, she can, Stiles,” Lydia snaps, lips pursing in annoyance. “Don’t be a jerk.”
Two other students slide into the seats behind us while the boys grudgingly take the spots on either side of Lydia and me. They keep glancing over their shoulders like they’re expecting something—or someone.
This is… odd.
“She has a name, by the way,” Lydia adds, glaring at them. “It’s Emma. Don’t be heathens. Try recognizing a girl as her own person.”
“Um, hi,” I say awkwardly, offering a half-wave.
“This is Scott,” Lydia gestures to the guy on my right—the same one I sat next to in Econ. “And this is Stiles.”
“Hey,” they say at the same time, which is a little creepy.
“And that’s Allison,” Lydia points across the room to a girl who’s just sat down and is watching the boys with clear suspicion. “She’s my best friend. Allison, this is Emma. She’s new—Principal Argent asked me to show her around.”
“Hi,” Allison greets me with a polite smile.
Before I can respond, the teacher enters from the back of the room. He’s tall, lean, and already scowling. Great.
“Our new student, Emma Foster, has joined us,” he announces, scanning the room until his gaze lands directly on our table. “Miss Foster, I sincerely hope you're not as dimwitted as some of your companions. Though… I won’t get my hopes up.”
Wow. Okay. I swallow the retort rising in my throat. I had the highest chemistry grade at my last school, thank you very much.
The teacher walks behind Stiles and claps a hand on his shoulder.
“Einstein once said there are two things that are infinite: the universe and human stupidity,” he says. “I’m still uncertain about the universe, but I’ve personally encountered enough stupidity to fill a black hole.”
The class laughs. Stiles grins like he’s heard it all before.
I can’t believe teachers here get away with this kind of behavior. At my old school, instructors were respected andrespectful. They were there to help students grow, not humiliate them.
Not here, apparently.
“So,” the teacher continues, flipping through a stack of papers. “To combat the plague of ignorance infecting this classroom, we’ll be running a series of group experiments. Let’s see if two heads really are better than one. Or, in Mr. Stilinski’s case… less than one.”
More laughter. I glance at Stiles, expecting him to be embarrassed, but he just leans back in his chair like this is his everyday life.
“Erica, take the first station…” he begins reading from his list.
Half the boys in the room shoot their hands in the air.
I roll my eyes. Some things never change.
“I didn’t ask for volunteers,” the teacher snaps. “Put your hormonal little hands down. We’ll start with Mr. McCall...”
I start my experiment, rotating from station to station. Honestly? I don’t hate this. For once, I get to talk to people without sounding awkward—because when it comes to Chemistry, I never sound stupid.
Each partner is polite, if not exactly warm. Some make small talk, clearly curious about the new girl. I get it—it’s not every day someone transfers in the middle of the year. I keep things light, easy. Stick to what I know.
At each table, I follow the instructions precisely. There’s something comforting in the structure, in knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. I focus, keep my head down, and keep moving—until the final rotation brings me to a table where the air feels… different.
The girl already sitting there has “mean girl” written all over her. She’s gorgeous—there’s no denying that—but her outfit is a little more revealing than most, and her posture screams bored queen bee. She’s watching Lydia with an expression I can’t quite place. Not admiration. Not jealousy either. Something else.
“Hi, I’m Emma,” I say, keeping my voice neutral but steady.
“Erica,” she replies, barely glancing at me.
I set my materials down. “Should we get started?”
She doesn’t answer right away—just keeps watching Lydia across the room. Something about the intensity of her gaze puts me on edge. After what happened this morning, I don’t like it. Lydia seemed so… unaware of what was happening to her. Innocent. Vulnerable, even. Whatever this is—whatever Erica is—it feels off.
“Sure,” she finally says, flicking her eyes back to me. “Go ahead.”
The teacher’s voice cuts through the low hum of conversation.
“Time! At this point, you should be looking at a crystal.”
I hold up my jar, smiling a little despite myself. A perfect crystal has formed, its edges clean and symmetrical. I glance around. Most jars look like failed science fair projects. I thought it was easy, but maybe that’s just me.
The boy across from me grins and lifts his own jar. He’s handsome—tan skin, black hair, easy smile.
“Now for the part of this experiment you’ll all actually enjoy,” the teacher announces. “You can eat it.”
A few surprised laughs ripple through the class. My partner shrugs, breaks off a piece of the crystal, and pops it into his mouth like it’s no big deal. I raise an eyebrow. Bold move. But apparently safe?
Before I can try it myself, a sudden shout slices through the classroom.
“LYDIA!”
I jump, nearly knocking my books to the floor. All eyes turn to Scott, who looks horrified.
“What?” Lydia snaps, her eyes narrowing.
Scott slowly sinks back into his chair, a blush creeping up his neck. Yeah, that’s definitely a crush. Poor guy.
The moment passes, and the room starts to buzz again with low conversation and crunching sugar crystals.
I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to work with everyone—there were only so many rotations. It would’ve been nice to start learning more names, figuring out who’s who. But I guess that’ll come with time.
For now, I’ll stay under the radar.
Fade into the crowd.
Just another student.
But even as I think that, I know it’s a lie. Something’s off in this school. I felt it with Lydia. I see it now in Erica’s stare. The magic—whatever it was—wasn’t a fluke.
And I’m going to find out what’s really going on here.
After the chaos of Chemistry, the rest of the day slips by more quietly—and honestly, I’m grateful. No more outbursts, no strange sensations. Just the usual droning of teachers and students pretending to care.
Still, that dark feeling from earlier clings to the edges of my mind. I can’t shake it. What could have caused something so strong, so wrong, in a town this small? Surely my uncle would’ve mentioned if Beacon Hills was… weird. Then again, he doesn’t exactly hear nature the way I do. So maybe not.
I’m swapping out my books at my locker when I spot Lydia approaching, her perfect red hair gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights.
“So,” she says, leaning casually against the locker next to mine, “I was thinking—maybe we could study together sometime. All day, you’ve had the answers. No one else ever really keeps up in class, and I’d love to have an actual intelligent conversation for once.”
“That might be fun,” I reply, giving her a small, genuine smile.
“And—” she adds, flashing a grin, “—you’re officially invited to my birthday party next week.”
“Oh. Thank you,” I say, a little surprised. “You’ve been really nice to me today. I thought this would be way harder.”
Before she can respond, Stiles barrels down the hallway toward us, flanked by Allison and another guy I haven’t met yet.
“Lydia! We have to go. We’re doing a study group tonight, remember?”
She gestures toward the new guy. “This is Jackson. Jackson, this is Emma—I’ve been showing her around.”
Jackson gives me a tight-lipped “Hey,” with all the warmth of a brick wall. Instantly, I feel like I’ve intruded. Like I’m not meant to be here.
“I should head out anyway,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “But I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again, Lydia.”
“Wait, you should come with us!” she blurts. The others exchange loaded glances, but Lydia doesn't even pause. She hooks her arm through mine, leading me toward the parking lot. “We desperately need another brain for homework help. Trust me.”
I text my uncle to let him know where I’m going, and he texts back with a thumbs-up emoji and a reminder that my school-night curfew is 11 p.m. His usual mix of chill and concern.
Lydia chatters beside me as we cross the parking lot, but I can’t help noticing the weird tension radiating off the others. Allison walks with her arms crossed, Stiles keeps glancing over his shoulder, and Jackson’s jaw is locked like he’s chewing nails. High schoolers shouldn’t look this stressed.
Allison breaks the silence after we pile into the light blue jeep. “So, Emma—where are you from?”
“North Carolina,” I say, smiling politely.
“What brought you to Beacon Hills?”
There it is. The question I’ve been dodging all day.
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. I knew it was coming—this moment always comes.
“My uncle lives here,” I say slowly. “I came to live with him.”
“Oh.” Allison’s voice softens. “What about your parents?”
“They died,” I reply quietly.
A beat of silence follows. Heavy.
“I’m so sorry,” Lydia says, her voice hushed and sincere, eyes wide with sudden sympathy.
“It’s alright.”
I see her elbow Jackson in the rearview mirror. He winces. At least someone seems to care. Lydia might be my one and only friend here.
“What do you do for fun, Emma?” Allison asks gently, clearly trying to change the subject.
“I like to read. Hike. I was on the cross-country and tennis teams at my old school… but Chloe—my uncle’s girlfriend—told me it’s all about lacrosse here?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says from the driver’s seat, glancing at me through the mirror. “I’m on the team. Jackson’s our co-captain.”
“That’s cool,” I reply, noncommittally. “I’ve never actually seen a lacrosse game before.”
“You have to come to the next one,” Lydia insists before anyone else can jump in. “Allison and I always go to cheer the boys on. You can sit with us.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling again. “That might be fun. Thanks, Lydia.”
We pile out of the Jeep and Stiles practically yanks Lydia up the front steps. “If we’re studying at Scott’s, then where is Scott?” someone asks.
“Meeting us here, I think,” Stiles answers, already heading up. I follow, Allison and Jackson trailing behind. Allison leans close to him as we cross the porch. “Thanks for coming,” she whispers.
“I needed to talk to her anyway.” Jackson mutters.
Once inside, Stiles locks the door and drags a chair in front of it like we’re bracing for a siege. My stomach drops. That cold, wrong feeling rushes back—the one from class. There is something supernatural here. So much for my “no magic” plan. I should’ve bet with Jake and Chloe on how long I’d last; I’m pretty sure the odds were not in my favor.
Stiles fumbles for an excuse, but it sounds thin. When Lydia and Jackson head upstairs, I turn on the other two. I know my face is probably unreadable—Mom always said I had a great resting-bitch face—but I don’t care.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand.
They exchange looks. Stiles goes pale. “I told you about the robberies and, um, the murder,” he says.
“You should leave,” Allison warns softly.
I hear those faint whispers again—the ones that only come when I’m in danger—threading around the room. They make my skin prickle.
“Don’t threaten me,” I say, my voice low and hard. “What are you doing to Lydia? That wasn’t a simple panic attack in Econ. I felt it.”
“Felt it?” Stiles echoes, bewildered, and shoots a look at Allison.
“Tell me what’s happening,” I press. “Or Lydia and I are leaving. You won’t be able to stop us.”
Standing up to Lydia’s friends feels strange, but this isn’t right. Lydia looked like she didn’t even realize what was happening to her. I’m not leaving her alone if something is preying on her.
Stiles is staring out the window, every inch of him taut with fear. “Allison?” he says, tossing his phone toward her. “Call Scott. Now.”
She snatches the phone and bolts into the next room, biting her lower lip. The house suddenly feels too small, the air too thin, and I realize I am not just a new girl anymore—I’m already in the middle of something that should have stayed hidden.
“Stiles, let me look outside,” I demand, clenching and unclenching my fingers to keep from shaking.
“Uh—you don’t want to—” he starts, but I’m already moving. I shove past him, and he stumbles just enough for me to get to the window.
The street outside is cloaked in shadow, the lone streetlight flickering like it’s nervous too. Four figures stand on the sidewalk, perfectly still, all wearing matching black leather jackets. They’re too far to make out clearly, but their posture tells me everything: this isn’t a friendly visit.
“They want to hurt Lydia?” I ask, my voice low and sharp.
Stiles swallows hard and nods slowly.
“Why?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, looks away. I get it—he’s not going to say, not to a stranger. I wouldn’t either. But without answers, I can’t do anything.
“I know about the supernatural,” I tell him flatly.
His head snaps toward me, eyes going wide. Shock rolls off him in waves.
Before he can speak, I press on. “Now tell me—what are they?”
Allison reappears in the doorway, staring between him and me. Neither says a word. Frustration spikes hot in my chest.
“I need to know what they are!” I snap.
“Werewolves,” Stiles blurts, the word tumbling out like he can’t hold it back anymore.
Allison covers her mouth, her eyes flashing between us.
I nod slowly. Werewolves I can handle. Dad once single‑handedly stopped a pack from tearing through a daycare camp. They’re dangerous, sure, but not impossible. And if they want Lydia, I’m not sitting on my hands.
“What I’m about to do,” I say quietly, “you will tell no one about. Deal?” My voice carries the weight of a threat—it’s not a request.
“We tell Scott,” Allison shoots back immediately. “He’s helping us protect Lydia too.”
“Fine,” I concede. “But if you tell anyone else what I’m about to do…” I let the silence stretch, heavy with warning. “I will have to come after you. Understand?”
Stiles nods fast, Allison hesitates but finally dips her head. They share a look—half disbelief, half thinking I’m crazy. I don’t care.
“I need candles, a bowl of water, and a knife,” I say.
Allison returns with three mismatched candles—decorative, but they’ll do. Stiles appears with a mixing bowl of water and a kitchen knife clutched in his hands.
I snap my fingers. The candles flare to life, flames steady and bright. Stiles lets out a startled squeak.
“You’re a—”
“A witch,” I say calmly, setting the bowl on the table. My fingers dip into the cool water, power humming just under my skin.
“Wow,” he breathes. “I didn’t know they existed.”
“I’m doing this for Lydia,” I say, my voice flat but steady. “I felt the darkness that attacked her this morning—and I banished it.”
Stiles stares at me in a new light, suspicion melting into something closer to awe. “You snapped her out of that?”
“Yes,” I answer curtly.
“What are you going to do?” Allison whispers.
“To who?”
“The wolves.”
She nods, worrying her bottom lip like it’s going to break.
“I’m going to take away their abilities,” I say simply. “At least temporarily.”
“You can do that?” she asks, eyes flicking to the candles.
“Yes. Unless it’s a full moon. Which it’s not.”
“Will it hurt them?”
“No,” I say quietly. “But Lydia will be safe.”
“They won’t be able to use their fangs, claws, or enhanced speed or strength. People can still be hurt without those things, but…” I take a breath. “I’m leveling the playing field.”
“But—Scott…” Allison glances at Stiles, and suddenly it’s obvious. Scott isn’t just their friend—he’s one of them.
“Only those in my immediate vicinity will be affected,” I clarify. “I don’t want to harm anyone. But hopefully, this sends those people a message to back off.”
“Do it,” Stiles says firmly.
I close my eyes, draw a slow breath, and reach for the power humming through the candles, the water, the knife. The air thickens, warm and charged. I prick my finger, a single drop of blood spiraling into the bowl. The water ripples outward like it recognizes me.
Then I begin to speak:
“Syndéste tis dynámeis sas sti flóga.”
The words taste like copper and heat. The candles flare, the flames stretching high and blue for a heartbeat before snapping back down. The floor seems to vibrate faintly under my feet.
Allison and Stiles are staring at me with a mixture of fear and wonder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Allison reach into her bag and pull out a crossbow.
My stomach drops. Terror spikes down my spine. What if she’s actually here for me? What have I done?
“Not for you,” she blurts quickly, waving me off.
“You’re a hunter,” I realize, my voice a whisper of disbelief and fear.
Her expression drains of color. “How did you know?”
“I’ve met a group of hunters before,” I murmur. “Different prey. But you have the look.”
“I didn’t even know witches existed,” she admits.
“We’re usually good at hiding," I murmur. I only wish that was true.
"Now tell me everything,” I demand and their story comes quick after that. How I end up in the same place of all these werewolves is beyond me.
“How long will they be without powers?” Stiles asks, voice tight.
I pick up the small candle and set it carefully on the table. The flame trembles but holds. “Until the flame burns out,” I say.
“That’s all?” he presses.
“Anything longer would require a lot more than a drop of my blood,” I tell him bluntly.
Stiles looks like he’s about to argue. “Just—shoot one of them!” he blurts at Allison.
“Are you serious?” she snaps.
“We told Scott we could protect ourselves,” Stiles argues. “So let’s do it. Or at least give it a shot.”
If they go out and try to fight without knowing what they’re doing, no one wins. I can see that clearly. Maybe I can stop it before anyone gets hurt. Maybe this is why I’m here.
“Stop,” I tell Stiles. “Let me go talk to them.”
“They’ll kill you!” Allison says.
I meet her eyes. “I can take care of myself. Alphas have bowed to witches before—centuries of history. It’s…complicated. But I won’t let a pack decide Lydia’s life tonight.”
Stiles exhales, raw and unsure. “But—”
“I can protect myself from three teenagers and a new Alpha,” I finish.
I don’t wait for another protest. The porch boards creak under my feet as I step forward. Four heads swivel to stare. My jaw clenches; I walk up straight, the way I watched my parents at every meeting.
“Derek Hale,” I call, loud and steady as I approach.
“Who are you?” The man replies.
“That’s the new girl,” Erica sneers.
“My name is Emma Foster,” I answer formally, keeping my voice level. “Of the Foster coven of old.”
Recognition flickers across Derek’s face—relief and calculation. Thank God he knows the name; otherwise I’d be in deeper trouble. I’d heard of the Hales before—stories from visiting witches—but nothing recent. Stiles had warned me they were a known pack, and that detail suddenly matters. I didn't pay much attention when people visited with news of other supernaturals.
“Those in that house are under my protection now,” I say, eyes fixed on the alpha. “If you value your pack, leave.”
“Come on Derek,” Boyd laughs coldly, while Erica and another boy with curly hair walk away, arm in arm. “This little girl can’t stand up to us. She’s like five foot nothing.” He moves forward and gags as he tries to no doubt flash his fangs at me. “What? What's happening to me?”
Derek looks at me and then back at Boyd, something strange flickering in his eyes.
I keep my expression calm. “I’ve bound you. You can’t use your abilities right now.”
“She can do that?” Boyd questions in shock, looking at Derek in panic.
“Yes,” Derek answers sharply, surprising me. He meets my eyes with a cautious respect. “My mother knew witches. I only met a couple as a child—scared the hell out of me.” He sounds honest, and for a moment I almost smile.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone," I assure him. "But as the representative of nature it’s my job to make sure you all live harmoniously.”
“Then we’re at a stalemate," Derek replies. "Because I'm here for a reason and that reason is a monster.”
His words almost make me falter. A monster? My pulse skips, but I force myself to stand straighter. “You are a Hale,” I say, my voice as even and regal as I can make it. My mother was a master at this, my father even better. I have to follow their example now. “You should still have a sense of honor. Killing a teenage girl will not win anyone to your cause. Lydia is under my protection—afflicted or not. Do you understand me?”
Derek pauses. I can see the calculations behind his eyes, the flicker of old instincts. He knows what I am, and we both know he cannot outright defy a representative of nature without the spirits turning on him. At least, I hope he knows.
“Yes,” he says at last. “I understand. But I have two conditions.”
I incline my head, waiting.
“If that creature comes after us,” he continues, “we can defend ourselves—and innocent people.”
A fair clause. “And?” I ask.
“You have to help us if we need it. Be my adviser.”
Those are reasonable requests. “I accept your terms.”
We shake hands. Power sparks faintly at the touch; I can feel the spirits binding us both to the agreement, like cool threads weaving through my fingers. Without looking back at the house, I lift my hand and flick my fingers once. The candle’s flame inside gutters out.
“You are as you were,” I say.
I watch Derek’s ears twitch, his head tilting slightly like he’s catching a sound I can’t. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters.
On the porch, Scott, Allison, and Stiles appear, tense and grim. They shove the curly-haired boy and Erica down onto the lawn at Derek’s feet. So they weren’t sneaking off to goof around after all. My stomach knots.
“I think I finally get why you keep refusing me, Scott,” Derek says, his voice dark. “You’re not an Omega. You already have a pack. But you know you can’t beat me.”
“I can hold you off until the cops get here,” Scott shoots back. In the distance, faint but growing louder, sirens wail.
Then a hiss cuts through the night—sharp, wet, and close. Much closer than the sirens. The wind whirls, cold and whispering danger. Goosebumps rise across the back of my neck.
Movement catches my eye on the roof—something fast, dark, and wrong. My blood runs cold as I recognize it from one of my grimoires: a Kanima. Just as terrifying as the ink-and-parchment sketches promised, its limbs cling and coil, eyes reflecting the porch light with a reptilian gleam.
“Get them out of here,” Derek orders Boyd, voice clipped. Lydia bursts out onto the porch at that exact moment, her eyes wide with confusion.
“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” she yells.
“Can you track it?” Derek asks me, red eyes flashing.
“I need something of the persons…or a family member’s blood.” But we don't know who it is so none of that will work. “Bring me a few candles. I can try to find him on my own. It will take longer and the results will be delayed.”
“I’ll start tracking him by scent. Boyd show her where we’ve been staying and help her, get her whatever she needs. Text me when she has a location.” “Okay,” he agrees while picking up the two unconscious wolves, one in each arm and putting them in Derek’s car. I'd only met Erica, I don't know the name of the other boy.
“Why are you helping him?” Stiles demands harshly.
“I agreed to advise him as his pack witch,” I say calmly. “The spirits accepted our deal. I have to help him now.”
“What about us?” Stiles presses.
“Part of the deal was that he couldn’t harm anyone in the house unless he was harmed first,” I tell him. “That includes you.”
“We could use a witch, right, Scott?” Stiles mutters.
“Dude, we don’t know anything about her,” Scott replies warily.
Allison lays a hand on his arm. “She helped us protect Lydia when she didn’t have to.”
“Lydia was the first person to show me kindness at school,” I say softly. “And there’s something else at work here…” I tap my finger against my lips, thinking of that dark pulse from earlier. “I’ll work on that too.”
Scott hands me his phone. “Put your number in. I want to know everything Derek knows.”
“That’s a two-way street,” I warn, but type my number in anyway.
“Dude, she took away all their abilities in like a minute,” Stiles stage-whispers. “And she lit candles with a wave of her hand. I think we could use her help.”
Oddly, I’m flattered by his words.
The sirens are closing in now. I scoop up my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and head toward Derek’s car. Boyd is already there waiting, engine running.
“Um—hi,” I say to break the silence. Boyd doesn’t answer; he seems like the type who talks when there’s something worth saying. Traffic is light and we cut through the intersections, the city thinning until we pull up to an abandoned rail depot. It’s the kind of hideout that disappears into the landscape—perfect if you want to be ignored.
The warehouse smells like rust and old rain. Boyd kills the engine and we climb out. The place isn’t exactly homey, but if Derek’s trying to stay off the grid, this fits.
When the others file out, Boyd hands me the candles I asked for—ten mismatched pillars that will do for a locator. I set them in a rough circle on the hood, arrange my map of Beacon Hills on the car roof, and prick my finger. The first sting is sharp and bright; a bead of blood rolls onto the paper.
“Invenimus hunc hominem per sanguinem meum,” I intone.
The red spreads, almost as if pulled by a current. It creeps across streets and neighborhoods until it pools downtown—on the rough side of town, the one Chloe warned me about when I moved here. I frown; this little town has its shadows after all.
“It’s there,” I say, tapping the wet spot. “This will track him for about an hour. I don’t have the energy to hold it longer.”
Boyd leans in, snaps a photo, and shoots it off to Derek. I do the same for Scott, keeping my end of the bargain.
“Can you help them?” Boyd asks gruffly, nodding toward Erica and the other boy sprawled on the floor.
“I can try.”
I crouch beside the boy first. Up close, he’s just unconscious, not injured beyond that—easy enough to fix. I place a hand against his chest, close my eyes, and whisper, “Dùisg.”
His eyes snap open. He gasps, a startled grunt tearing from his throat as he jerks upright. In his scramble to back away he knocks into me, sending me off balance. My elbow cracks hard against the ground. Pain flares up my arm, sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“What the hell happened?” he croaks.
Boyd kneels next to him. “You got your ass kicked, man. Erica too.”
The boy blinks at me, confusion turning to wariness. “Who is that?”
Suddenly self-conscious, I fold my arms over my chest like a shield.
“She’s a witch,” Boyd says in a lowered voice. “Derek made a deal with her. She woke you up.”
I rub my aching elbow and turn away from them, taking a couple of shaky breaths to calm the thud of my heart. I don’t want to hear whatever’s coming next—the mutters, the suspicion, the word freak. I’ve had enough of that already.
I kneel beside Erica, noticing her eyes wide open—almost startling in their intensity.
“Erica, can you hear me?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she answers faintly.
“Can you move?”
“No!”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“That bitch Allison got me with venom from that monster.”
Kanima venom—a paralytic. I’d only read about its effects; I’d never seen it firsthand.
“Where did it touch you?”
“My hand,” she says, eyes flickering nervously.
“Incante Sana,” I mutter, waving my fingers over her hand.
“Can you move now?”
“No.”
“Have you been struck by the venom before?”
“Yes,” she replies, breathless.
“How long did it take you to regain movement?”
“I don’t remember.”
I sigh softly. “Without researching the venom more, I can’t do much right now. It should wear off with time. Given your healing ability, I’d guess it’ll be faster than usual.”
“Okay.”
“If you face it again, bring me a sample of the venom. I’ll try to work on an antidote—or at least a way to ease it.”
“Are you really a witch?”
I offer a small smile. “Yeah.”
I help pull her up by the jacket, leaning her against a nearby pole so she can sit upright and keep an eye on what’s happening around us.
“That’s pretty cool,” she says quietly.
“Glad you think so,” I reply with a smile. “Keep track of how long it takes to regain feeling and let me know.”
“I will,” she promises.
I grab my things and snap my fingers, extinguishing the candles scattered on the floor. A wave of tiredness crashes over me, but I shake it off. I can’t afford to show weakness around these people—I barely know them or their motives. The only one I’m bound to work with is Derek. Even he doesn’t need to know that my energy to cast spells isn’t endless. At least till I know him better.
“I should get going…” I call out to the boys hovering a little ways off.
“You’re not going to wait for Derek?” The boy whose name I still don’t know calls after me.
My stomach growls, and I check my watch. My uncle and Chloe have probably already eaten dinner. I have things I need to do. This isn’t what I wanted. I’d planned to be just a face in the crowd. But it never goes the way I want.
“I came into tonight thinking I was just going to study with some kids from school… not offer my services as the new town witch.”
“Are you saying you need to do homework?” Boyd teases, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Well, yeah,” I frown and count off on my fingers. “We have Chemistry, English, and I’ve got Algebra.”
“We do our homework here,” Boyd says. “And we’ll help with Erica’s too, since, well… you know. You could join Isaac and me,” he offers politely. The cold attitude I felt from him in the car is completely gone. I wonder what changed? Is it because he's seen me do magic?
“That way Derek can talk to you when he gets back. I'm sure he'll want to.”
“Only if we get something to eat,” I reply with a small smile. “I’m starving, and I have to be home before eleven.”
Boyd leaves to get pizza, taking some cash I hand him. After my parents died, I was left with quite a bit of money. I don’t advertise it, but I could buy a whole lot of pizza. Still, I’d give it all up just to have one more conversation with them.
Isaac watches me as I sit down near Erica, the concrete cool beneath me. I reach into my bag for a pencil, but I can feel his eyes tracking every move I make. It’s not hostile, but it’s intense—focused in a way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I try to ignore the flutter in my stomach.
“So… what’s your story?” he finally asks, voice low and unreadable.
I glance up at him, narrowing my eyes slightly. He seems genuinely curious, though I don’t forget he was ready to rip someone apart just hours ago. My grandma would be screaming at me about how dangerous wolves are. It feels good to ignore that voice in my head. “What do you mean?”
He gives a small shrug, but there’s something almost playful in it now. “You just don’t seem like the type to hang out in abandoned train depots with a bunch of pissed-off werewolves.”
I smirk faintly and turn my attention to my math homework. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think this was how my first day of school would end, either.”
He watches me scribble out an answer. “So… how did you know about us?”
“I didn’t. Not until Stiles and Allison filled me in,” I say, erasing a wrong answer and rewriting it quickly.
His expression darkens slightly as he checks his phone. “Don’t blame them. They were trying to protect Lydia.”
“You took away my strength,” he says next, and his voice tightens with frustration.
“I also woke you up when you were unconscious,” I reply flatly, not looking up. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second, then shifts his weight slightly, eyes still on me. “Where did you learn to do all that?”
“My family,” I say quietly. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because,” he snaps, sounding very much like a stereotypical wold. “Having everything ripped out of me like that felt… wrong.”
“You were going to kill Lydia if you had the chance,” I say, still calm. “And it turns out she’s innocent.”
“She’s hardly innocent,” he mutters, but it sounds more like habit than conviction.
I drop my pencil for a moment and look at him head-on. “Look, this isn’t the first day I wanted either. So forgive me if I don’t have a lot of sympathy. I didn’t ask to be your pack witch.”
He snorts. “Yeah, well… that went out the window fast.”
“Why did you even say anything?” he asks, quieter this time.
“It’s in a witch’s nature to step in when conflict between supernaturals and humans threatens balance,” I explain. “We’re not supposed to let things spiral.”
“I’d say screw balance,” he says, bitterly. “Screw all of it.”
I chuckle softly. “The spirits wouldn’t agree. Witches don’t get to opt out. We’re always involved. Whether we like it or not.”
He watches me again for a few seconds, and I notice the shift in his gaze—less wary now. Curious. Studying.
“I saw you in Chem today,” he says. “You were good.”
“You mean when you were trying to assert your dominance in front of Scott and Stiles?” I tease.
He grins—an actual, crooked grin—and it catches me off guard. It softens him. Makes him look almost… boyish.
Now that the initial anger at the spell is over, he seems friendly enough. “Think you could help me out?”
I pat the space beside me on the cement. “Sit. I’ll walk you through it.”
He strides over without hesitation and sits down beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. I walk him through the problem step by step, and he listens without interrupting—a surprise. After a few minutes, Boyd joins us, still chewing a slice of pizza.
“Your turn,” I say, handing him a pencil.
Isaac leans back on his hands, watching me from the corner of his eye as I help Boyd with the next question.
About an hour later, the heavy creak of the warehouse door announces Derek’s return. He steps inside with that same dark, brooding expression I’ve come to realize might just be his default setting. His presence immediately shifts the energy in the room—commanding, wordless, and sharp like a blade unsheathed.
“Emma,” he says, his voice low as his eyes flick to me seated cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open books and scribbled homework.
“Um… hi,” I reply, not quite sure how to greet someone who’s technically my magical employer.
Isaac straightens beside me, his body going taut, and I feel Boyd shift beside him. A second ago they were joking about who was worse at Chemistry, and now they’re both sitting like soldiers awaiting orders. So that’s what an Alpha does to a room.
“Did you get it?” Isaac asks, tension coiled in his voice.
Derek shakes his head, jaw clenched. “No. It got away. Fast. I did see the Argents, though.”
“Did they attack you?” Boyd asks quickly, worry rising in his tone. “We should’ve gone with you.”
“No. The Kanima is too dangerous. You three aren’t ready for it, too new to this.” Derek pauses, scanning the room. “How is Erica?”
“She’ll recover,” I answer, already stuffing my notebook into my bag. “The paralysis is from the venom. I can't do anything without a sample of it."
“I have some.” He pulls a small vial from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.
I take it carefully, holding it up to the low light. The venom inside gleams—thick, clear, and almost luminous. Its syrupy consistency clings to the glass like it’s alive.
“I’ll try to brew something—an antidote, maybe a resistance charm. No promises, though. I’ve never dealt with this specific toxin before.”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve?” he asks, and his voice softens just slightly.
For a moment, I see my mother’s face flash in my mind. Her hands stirring mixtures with impossible precision, the smell of herbs and fire and magic filling the kitchen. She would’ve known what to do with this. She always did.
“Not anymore,” I say quietly.
Derek’s eyes flick to mine. “I’m sorry.”
I nod, unable to say anything and Derek exhales slowly, then jerks his chin toward the far side of the warehouse. “Walk with me.”
I glance back at the boys, who are now flipping through my homework like it’s some alien language, and then stand, slipping the vial into my jacket pocket.
“You were right,” Derek says quietly as we step deeper into the shadowed part of the warehouse. His voice has lost its edge. “About what you said before—that a Hale should have honor. I owe you an apology for how I acted.”
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “Seeing that Kanima… I understand why your first instinct was to kill it.”
He glances at me, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “I’ve heard of your Coven. I thought you were still on the East Coast.”
“I was.” I look down at my hands, twisting my fingers together. “I came here to live with my uncle. He doesn’t have any magic,” I add quickly, before Derek can ask.
“Why?”
“My parents died.” The words slip out like a confession.
Derek’s expression softens, and he places a hand on my shoulder—warm, steady. “I’m sorry. I lost my family young too.”
“It’s been really hard,” I whisper, and I have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep a sob from breaking loose. “They were everything to me.”
He nods slowly, like he’s feeling every word. “My mom knew a witch once. She helped her with everything… even more than a Druid. But not every pack was lucky enough to have one.”
“We’re hard to come by nowadays,” I tell him, my voice steadier now. “My mom said a lot of witches fled the States over the last decade. No one ever told me why. It was all hush-hush.”
“You’ll be welcome here, as part of my pack,” he says firmly.
The words hit harder than I expect. I’ve never been part of anything—never been anything but Will and Abby’s daughter. For the first time since they died, I feel something like belonging flicker inside me.
Derek reaches into his jacket and hands me a slip of paper with his number scrawled across it. “If you need anything, call me. And I’ll make sure the others look out for you at school.”
“I don’t need help at school,” I say, frowning. “I’m fine.”
“You’d be surprised,” Derek replies grimly. “That school is a magnet for danger.”
“I can protect myself,” I insist, lifting my chin.
“Now you won’t have to,” he counters. “Erica, Boyd, and Isaac will look out for you. Because I’m going to tell them to. You’re a better ally than I ever could’ve hoped for, Emma. My pack looks out for our own.”
His words are so sincere I can only nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“If you need to go home, I’ll drive you,” Derek says.
“That’s okay,” I reply immediately, waving him off. “I’ll call someone—”
“No,” he interrupts, already walking toward the car. “After everything you did tonight, I’m not letting you walk home or catch a ride with someone who doesn’t know what’s out there.”
"Alright," I agree softly. "My Uncle will get worried if I'm late."
I sling my bag over my shoulder and follow him to the car. It’s sleek and dark, like most of Derek’s vibe, and smells faintly like leather and pine.
I toss my bag into the front seat and glance back toward the warehouse.
“I’ll see you guys at school tomorrow,” I call out.
Boyd gives a nod from inside, but Isaac leans against a rusted beam, watching me with a look I can’t quite read. “Bye, Emma,” he says, voice a little softer this time.
I sink into the seat and let the hum of the road and the flicker of headlights against empty streets lull me into a strange kind of calm. So much had changed in one night—more than I could even begin to process.