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Three days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes. That’s how long the one they called Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski had been separated from his pack.
Three days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes. Stiles realized what happened nine minutes after his pack was taken. Therefore, the hunters were unofficially dead at the countdown of three days, four hours, and thirteen minutes.
To Stiles, though, time blurred. It was a stain of colors, a snarl at the back of his throat, and the faintest ringing in his ears that made him feel like he was losing his mind all over again.
Three days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes. It was the longest Stiles had ever been alone.
He was greeted by gunshots first.
At a first glance, Mieczysław was nothing but a boy. A boy who grew up surrounded by wolves, an emissary to a bunch of wild animals. There were rumors about what rested behind the amber of his eyes, but few people chose to believe them. Because he was scrawny, he was human, and it seemed like easy pickings when a group of hunters chose to go after the crumbling pack.
At a first glance, Mieczysław was nothing but a boy. And that that always been the easiest way to lure in unsuspecting prey.
He was greeted by gunshots first. The screams that followed were a welcome sound he hadn’t heard for far too long.
There was something about the smell of gunpowder in the air, the feeling of blood on his fingertips, and the taste of ash in his mouth that made Stiles feel alive. He could be wrapped in the darkest shadows or walking through the heat of a blazing fire and the smile on his face would never waver. At a first glance, he was nothing but a boy. A weakling. But to the hunter watching him tear through their ranks without even blinking, it was like hell had become a place on Earth.
The hunter’s name was Col Henderson. And he hadn’t wanted to take the job in the first place.
Beacon Hills was a shell of what it used to be. At first, Col hadn’t even believed the rumors were true. The rumors saying there was still a werewolf pack patrolling its borders, that is. He’d been hunting since he was old enough to carry a gun and at this point in his life, he wanted a challenge. Something to make him smile when the beast went down; something to make him feel proud when the light faded from the monster’s eyes.
The Hale pack had been fairly easy to round up. Most of them were feral to the point of being wild animals anyway.
It was the emissary that remained elusive.
“A bunch of mutts,” he told the man at his side, listening to the distant sound of snarling wolves from another part of the compound. “Good for nothing but a bullet between the eyes.”
The hunter only grunted, looking tired. And honestly, Col couldn’t blame him. They were all tired. The emissary had yet to come for his pack and they’d been sitting around all day, waiting for something that didn’t seem to exist.
Until the sun touched the tips of the trees, that is.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
Col first saw him when the compound doors slammed open. He was on his feet in a second, loaded rifle held tightly in his hands. The already dying lights above his head flickered and briefly went out— and when they came back on, a lone figure stood in the compound’s entrance. His head was head tilted slightly and his eyes practically glowed against the faint darkness.
There was a dull spark in them that held nothing but the last remnants of humanity. Humanity that had been clinging to the boy for years now, though that hadn’t mattered for a long time now.
A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. One that sent a chill down Col’s spine.
“Emissary,” someone breathed. And Col didn’t even realize the word had come from his mouth until amber eyes fixed on where he stood. The boy raised an eyebrow.
“My pack,” he said. “I want them back.”
There was a loud click as the man next to Col loaded his gun. The emissary’s attention immediately snapped to him and Col almost sagged to the floor, suddenly aware of each breath that he had been holding.
“You're going to give my pack back,” the emissary said again, the smile slipping from his lips. He took a step forward and immediately, every gun was trained on him. The boy paused, eyes flashing, but it didn’t seem to be out of fear.
No, there was a new look on his face, replacing the amused one that had been there previously.
It was cold and dangerous. The bags under his eyes seemed to darken, holding the exhaustion of each day that he’d been without his pack. Around him, the shadows grew as the softness of his face hardened.
“No?”
In the distance, one of the wolves yelped. Loudly.
And just like that, the spark of humanity in the emissary’s eyes flicked out.
Col had faced a lot of beasts in the past. He’d gone after born wolves and those newly turned. He’d taken down a dozen packs and faced an alpha that nearly ripped him to shreds. Col told his blissfully ignorant friends that he hunted deer and then went home to a list full of names— one of every monster he’d ever killed.
He’d seen a lot over the years. But nothing added up to the boy that stood in front of him, eyes turning to stone as he caught the sound of his feral pack in the distance.
Once more, the lights overhead blinked out. But this time, they didn't turn back on. In a moment, the silence had turned to gunshots, gunshots turned to screams. And dammit, Col hadn’t even wanted to take this job in the first place.
He stumbled back, pulling his walkie from its clip on his belt.
“Backup! We need backup!”
Static was his answer. Col stumbled blindly through the darkness, trying to get as far away from the screams of his fellow hunters as fast as he could. There were things he’d heard about the Hale pack’s emissary, but he’d never imagined any of them were true. In fact, he'd laughed at 'exaggeration of it all.
The job of an emissary was to keep the pack connected to themselves, to their humanity. Col hadn’t thought much of the feral pack they’d put in chains but this boy seemed to be even less human than all of them combined. Less than the alpha who had nearly bitten Col’s head off, less than the betas who had snapped and snarled the entire way to captivity.
In his panic, Col stumbled over his own feet and fell hard to the ground, his gun skidding somewhere across the floor. Suddenly, the lights flicked on and when he looked over his shoulder, all that was left were bodies.
The one they called Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski stood among them. His eyes raked over the entire room, not a single emotion on his face. Then, they snapped to where Col had fallen and that smile from earlier tugged at the corners of his mouth once again.
Col shoved himself up and turned, running faster than he ever had into the depths of the compound.
They had come to Beacon Hills with an even number of eighteen hunters. When Col turned the corner, stumbling to a stop as a dozen guns aimed in his direction, there was some part of him that wondered if even double that would be enough.
“Henderson?”
“Don’t shoot, dammit!”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Behind him, the sound of footsteps echoed off the cement floor. Col’s heart skipped a beat and he slowly turned around.
“You took my pack,” the emissary said, turning the corner. “Now I’m gonna take them back.”
Col retreated back behind the line of guns. The emissary’s gaze traveled over them all and his eyes darkened. He took a step forward, ignoring the tightening of every finger around the trigger.
“It’s doesn’t matter how many of there you are,” he said, words almost a snarl. He moved closer— Col started to tremble. “I’m going to kill every single one of you until I find them. Do you understand me?”
“Stand down, boy!”
“Do you understand me? I’ll burn this whole fucking place down if I have to!”
Someone fired. Sparks flew.
Somewhere in the distance, one of the wolves howled.
It happened too quickly. Col scrambled for his spare pistol and a crackle of electricity filled the air. Something was burning, the smell like a sour acid began to fill his nose. Col's eyes burned, his hands were shaking too hard to get a proper hold on his gun as he scrambled back away from the fighting. It was like a nightmare brought to life and when he managed to make himself look back, the sight that awaited him was even worse.
The emissary’s eyes were brighter than fire. The air around him swam with the shadows and his face was so pale, it was like the blood drained right out. Distant howls collided with the chaos in the air and Col momentarily flashed back to his latest kill— a young omega, newly bitten. She’d looked at him like he was the Grim Reaper and it had made him feel powerful. Being the predator always did.
For the first time in his life, Col Henderson knew what it was like to be the prey.
The emissary flicked his wrist and Col slammed up against the nearest wall, losing all ability to breathe as the boy approached. There was something about him. Something darker than night, colder than death.
“Big bad hunter. Where is my pack?”
Struggling for breath, Col managed to point down the hallway. The boy followed his gaze and then hummed.
“Thank you.”
Three days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes. Stiles had realized what happened to his pack nine minutes after they were taken. Therefore, the hunters were unofficially dead three days, four hours, and thirteen minutes ago.
The clock continued to count— three seconds on the timer. Col looked at the emissary like he was the Grim Reaper.
And at second one, the boy smiled.
-
An emissary’s main job had always been to keep a pack connected to their humanity. However, as a group of bold hunters learned the hard way after capturing a bunch of feral werewolves known as the Hale pack, the one known as Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski, barely had any humanity in himself to begin with.
There was a hum under his breath as he released his pack one by one. The betas first and his alpha right after them, whose eyes glowed red as he barely contained a series of whines. The second the chains were off, clawed fingers latched onto Stiles's arms and sharp fangs skated up the side of his neck. Stiles smiled, tracing bloodstained fingers through Derek’s hair.
“It's okay. I'm here now.”
Warm breaths snuffled against his skin. “That was stupid.”
“I know.”
“And dangerous.”
“But so fun.”
Derek drew back, his attention zeroing in on a darkening red patch right underneath Stiles’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”
"Only a little."
"Does it hurt?"
“They took my pack,” Stiles said, a dangerous glow in his eyes. “Isn’t a little agony worth it?”
The red of the alpha’s eyes burned even brighter. Derek growled and pulled him into a hungry kiss— one that promised a much more thorough examination later. The man's lips were a little cracked and Stiles could taste blood. Humming at the back of his throat, he kissed Derek harder.
Three days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes. That’s how long the one they called Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski had been separated from his pack. The longest he'd ever been alone.
But he wasn't anymore.
They left the bodies as a warning to anyone who dared cross the Hale pack again.