Chapter Text
The woods are cold.
Even through his fur, Derek can feel the chill. The Preserve is covered in a light layer of frost that turns the dark night gray, and the wind cards icy fingers through Derek’s thick coat. He noses at the frost on a bush as he walks, snuffling at the sensation of melting snow against his sensitive snout.
Moonlight drips down the trees, bouncing off the light layer of snow and filling the Preserve with a soft gray light. It’s gorgeous out here, with the sounds of the forest hushed and the sky a gentle sheet of churning clouds. It’s isolating in the most soothing fashion.
Derek would live in this weather forever, if he could.
He’s been waiting for winter. It’s his favorite time of year, when everything goes quiet, preparing for the long rest of the year. The slow wilting of the trees and plants makes his heart hurt just a bit, but he revels in their cycle. The renewal in the spring reassures him, helps him believe in his own ability to bounce back. It’s the way of life to have low points.
Patrol is his favorite time of day, too. This is the best time for it, in the moments before dawn, when the Preserve is wintry silent and empty of the humans who like to sprint loudly down the paths. Even back at the Pack house, nothing had stirred, no noise reaching his ears but the soft breaths of safe, sleeping packmates.
Derek is meant to be watching for danger. The edge of their territory borders on Hunter land, and their presence rings a constant alarm, but Derek has made peace with their proximity. From what he can tell, the Argents are good people - they only hunt creatures who have done harm - but he’s heard the horror stories of hunters gone rogue, and it’s hard to trust someone who so loudly proclaims themselves a werewolf hunter.
Even without the Argents looming over their shoulders, Beacon Hills has its own dangers. The town is aptly named, with the Nemeton in the Preserve bringing new and distressing creatures every few weeks. Everyone and everything wants a chance to get their hands on the power of the ancient tree.
Thankfully, they seem to be in a lull, the chaos finally giving way to a stretch of relaxation. The pack has finally had some time to rest, and Derek knows that everyone has been appreciating it. He can feel each of them begin to unwind, tension bleeding from their posture and contentment beginning to fill their scents.
It’s a relief for all of them.
Derek picks up the pace, bounding towards the edge of his territory. The feeling of freedom fills him as he soars over his land, and he allows himself a moment to roll in a patch of icy ferns.
Cora would never let him live this down, if she knew.
Eventually, the desire to run begins to wane, and Derek allows himself to slow, trotting until he reaches a burnt husk of a pine tree. It marks the Southern edge of the territory, and he pushes his snout into the charred bark, snuffling for any unfamiliar scents. It just smells like his pack, though, like his betas, and a knot in his chest loosens.
Immediately, the spell of the muted morning is broken by the distant sounds of shouting.
Derek’s ears swivel towards the sound, and he begins to trot in its direction, fur puffing up. He can’t make out the words, but the closer he gets, the more sounds he can hear.
He curses himself for even thinking about something as unbelievable as peace .
There are people running, snapping sticks and crushing plants. The familiar hiss of arrows fly through the air, followed by the thud of them hitting the dirt as they miss their target. The group of people are murmuring to each other, warnings and pointers and directions as they trek forward.
It’s unclear what the group is firing at - the footsteps sound like another human, but that means little until Derek can see or smell them. He’s assuming the group of people are hunters, based on their choice of weapons - it’s not like the typical law enforcement officer is using a bow and arrow to hunt a criminal.
Derek reaches the edge of his territory and pauses. He can smell the hunters now, blood and sweat and rage as they follow their creature through the thick woods. The trees are hindering their chase, helping their prey to hide and catch its breath, but Derek doesn’t step in. He’s too busy trying to catch the scent of the beast they’re following.
There’s nothing clear. The woods smell like they always do, like fresh soil and a cocktail of potent flora. Even as Derek opens his mouth to search the air more clearly, he catches nothing special - nothing but a distant note of panic.
Derek can hear the creature, can taste the fear in its body as it scrambles through the underbrush, but he can’t smell it. Something about the whole thing makes his stomach flip uncomfortably, and there’s something else odd about the figure that he can’t quite put his finger on.
Derek moves closer to the hunting party. He doesn’t go so far as to join them, not yet, but he wants an explanation.
The hunters come to the burnt stump before they pause, wondering whether it’s worth it to cross into Derek’s land. Whatever they’re chasing must be important - or dangerous - because they only hesitate for a moment before they continue their chase.
Slowly, Derek falls into step with them. He stays far enough into the trees that they won’t see him, listening to the creature as it slowly but surely pulls ahead of them. Part of him longs to chase - the hunters may not be able to catch it, but he would, and he’s so curious it almost hurts.
He studies the figure of the creature a little longer, watches it vanish out of his hearing range, before he realizes exactly what had been so unbelievably odd about it. It doesn’t have a heartbeat.
A shudder runs up his spine, and he snaps his teeth, distressed.
It’s definitely not a human - the speed and stamina would’ve been enough to guess, but the lack of a clear scent or a heartbeat is the most obvious clue Derek’s ever seen. Since he doubts he’ll be meeting the thing tonight, he’ll need to consult Deaton - or Peter - in the morning. One of them has to know about a creature that can shield itself so thoroughly.
Derek is sure it has to be some form of magic - likely a cloaking spell of some sort - although he’s not sure why the thing’s breath would escape a spell that’s otherwise disguising it so well. Maybe it had been a personal casting, and it had managed to overlook the more simple details.
In the time Derek had taken to consider the creature’s oddities, the hunters had finally come to a stop. They were a good half a mile into Derek’s territory, and he could hear their heartbeats rabbiting as they gave themselves a break. They were chatting among themselves, discussing the being they’d let escape - one of them called it a bloodsucker, and Derek filed that away for later.
He waits for them to turn around to leave before he shifts back and steps out of the treeline. The sound of his bones realigning makes a few of the hunters startle, but the woman leading the group just narrows her eyes. “Alpha Hale,” she greets, voice steely. “We apologize for the intrusion.”
None of them acknowledge that Derek is nude, although the woman in front’s eyes rake up and down his figure appreciatively. He ignores the scent of arousal that begins to rise from her, cloying in the otherwise untainted air, and instead focuses on the weapons in the hunters’ hands.
Most of them are carrying crossbows, although one younger woman has an ancient looking longbow strung over her shoulder. There are pouches in their jackets and bags that are full of mountain ash and mistletoe. They have packs of wolfsbane bullets strapped to their belts, in clear view.
The hunters look like they’re after a wolf.
“Argents,” Derek finally replies, dipping his head. “Why are you crossing the border?”
A few of them look at Derek like he’s stupid. “We’re looking for the last of a group of supernaturals,” the leader says. “They took out a family a few towns over. We’ve got most of them, but one of them made it out this far.”
“What kind of supernatural?” Derek frowns. “I haven’t heard about anything managing to kill humans recently.”
“They killed hunters, actually,” the leader sniffs. Her blonde hair bounces when she juts her chin out, meeting his gaze. It’s a clear challenge, and Derek fights not to rise to the bait. “So we’ve been keeping it quiet. And honestly? We’re not sure what they were. We’ve got people looking at the bodies, but our best theory at the moment is wendigos.”
Derek’s lip curls at the mention, and he feels a rare bolt of sympathy for the hunters before him. Wendigos are nasty things, creatures that seek out human flesh, even though they’re capable of living on more innocuous diets. Thankfully, their bite doesn’t pass on, and they’re a generally dying breed - the only living wendigos are born, and most humans aren’t chomping at the bit to have sex with someone who’s planning on eating them afterward.
Plus, wendigos almost never last long enough to sustain a pregnancy themselves, and eating the carrier of your child is often detrimental to the survival of said baby.
“Alpha Hale,” the woman says, clearly taking his silence as some form of dismissal. “Again. Apologies for the inconsiderate disturbance. We’ll put in a formal request for further incursions into your territory - but as a warning, I suspect we will be here quite often in the coming weeks.”
Derek raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t protest quite yet. It’s his territory, meaning anything that enters is his responsibility. He doesn’t like the idea of the hunters coming and going, especially when he has so little information on the creature they’re hunting. “You’ll keep me updated on the situation,” he says, more a demand than a request.
A few of the hunters shift uneasily, but the blonde woman only nods. “Of course. You’ll receive all the information we do.”
“Good,” Derek offers a stiff nod. “How long did you say you’ve been tracking it?”
“On its own? A few months,” the hunter gives him a cruel smirk, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t like that look on her. “We got the rest of the coven after a couple of weeks - it didn’t seem like they were expecting anyone to stop them.”
Derek hums noncommittally. He doesn’t entirely believe the hunter’s story - both because he’s not stupid, and because Peter likely would’ve heard about something like this - but she hasn’t lied yet, so he has no reason to challenge her.
“We won’t let it hurt anyone in your town,” the hunter says, and it sounds like she’s going for comfort, but Derek can’t ignore the gleam in her eyes. She’s far too happy for a woman meant to be in mourning.
“Hm,” Derek responds. He’s not giving her the benefit of an agreement. “In the meantime, get out. Come back with an official request.”
The scent of interest wafting from the woman sours, turning dark with incredulous anger. “Of course,” she repeats, voice still sickeningly sweet. “Be careful out there.”
**
Derek stays long enough to hear the hunters cross to their side of the border before he moves in the direction the unknown creature had gone. Unsurprisingly, it’s hard to track something without a scent or heartbeat, and he’s already given up by the time he reaches the Northern edge of the Preserve.
Derek has half a mind to walk around the town, but if the creature’s made it this far, it likely has a plan for what to do with this town. He curses the timing of the whole situation - it’s mid-winter, right before break, so there are plenty of unfamiliar faces around town, visiting family or on small-town vacations.
It’s going to be much harder to spot anyone new, especially if this one is smart enough to escape hunters for months on end. Derek wonders what it wants from this town - according to the hunters, it’s eating humans, but is it killing for the hunt or for the food? Is it stuck feeding on human flesh, no other option in sight, or is it a wendigo, feeding on the pain of the innocent humans in the town?
Derek growls to himself, pawing at the dirt of the trail beneath him and snuffling angrily. He needs more information. He needs to know if the creature was running to Beacon Hills on purpose, or if the hunters had driven it here. He needs to speak to the thing itself, instead of relying on secondhand information from unfamiliar hunters.
The sun isn’t up yet, but Derek knows he won’t be sleeping anymore, so he does another lap of the Preserve before he returns to the Pack house. When he gets back, Peter is already up, sipping a mug of coffee and leafing through an old, leather-bound book. He doesn’t look up when Derek steps into the kitchen, but he motions towards the half-full coffee pot, and Derek grunts a sound of thanks.
They sit at the counter in silence for nearly twenty minutes before Peter finally speaks up. “Alright, I’ll bite. Are you going to tell me why you smell like hunters and anxiety, or are we going to have to wrench it out of you?”
Derek rolls his eyes. “What do you know about wendigos?”
Peter’s lip curls. He sets his book down on the table. “Far too much. Why?”
“When I went out for my patrol,” Derek starts, “there was a party of Argents, already a mile over the border.”
“What?” Peter sits up straighter, setting down his coffee. “Did you speak to them? Why were they in the Preserve, of all places?”
“One of them said they were hunting an unidentified creature who had killed a hunter family a few towns over,” Derek says. “Did you hear anything about this?”
Peter scoffs, crossing his arms. “They had to have been lying. I would’ve been informed if something had managed to take out an entire family of hunters. The Argents wouldn’t have been able to keep that quiet, and they wouldn’t have wanted to, either. Not if they were actually looking to catch the thing.”
“They weren’t lying,” Derek argues. “I was listening to all of them the entire time.”
“So a hunter knows how to fake a steady heartbeat, one of the most common tricks for fooling a wolf - how terribly unlikely. She’s lying about something.”
Derek huffs. “I didn’t ask for your advice on how to deal with the hunters. I asked if you knew anything about wendigos. We’re keeping an eye on the new creature in town, not the people we already know to be wary of.”
Peter glares, gritting his teeth, but Derek doesn’t budge. He already knows the hunters are being shady - he’s not stupid, contrary to his uncle’s beliefs - but he also knows they’re not the most important piece of this puzzle.
Finally, Peter gives in, rolling his eyes and sighing. “They’re purebred creatures, made to cause pain and suffering - they tend to feed on humans in spite of having other options. They’re carnivores, of course, but they don’t have to subsist on human meat - although, if a Spark attempts cannibalism, there’s a chance of becoming a wendigo. Quite a brutal way to lose your power, all things considered. Wendigos are honestly quite weak.”
Derek shakes his head. This is all stuff he already knew, barring the whole human transformation part - and none of it gives any clues towards the creature in the woods. “Do you know anything about their scents?”
“What?”
“Their scents. Do they have a scent?”
Peter’s eyes narrow, confused. “Of course. Every living being has one. I'm not especially familiar with a wendigo's unique smell, but it would follow that they have one as well.”
The chair beneath Derek wobbles as he slumps back, bothered. Peter clearly doesn’t know any more than Derek does, even though he’s meant to be the pack’s researcher. “Do you know of anything that doesn’t have a scent?”
Peter levels him with an unimpressed look. “What do the words ‘every living being has a smell’ mean to you, nephew?”
“It means you’re wrong,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “The creature out in the woods didn’t have a scent. I wouldn’t have known anything was there if I didn’t hear its footsteps.”
“Then maybe it was a decoy of some sort,” Peter shrugs. “Or maybe your nose is broken.”
Derek ignores the poke. “What do you mean, a decoy?”
“A zombie. A robot. A mannequin being briefly puppeted by some form of magician to draw your focus away from the real person escaping,” Peter sighs loudly. “I don’t know, Derek, I’m trying to make guesses, because all you’ve given me about this thing is that it doesn’t have a scent and the hunters think it’s a wendigo.”
“Fine. It didn’t have a scent,” Peter makes a sound of annoyance, and Derek offers another long stare. “I’m not done. It didn’t have a scent or a heartbeat, but it was moving like a human. I heard it trip a few times. I could smell its fear, too.”
“It didn’t have a scent... but you could smell its fear?” Peter frowns.
“Yes,” Derek says. “I don’t know any more about it, alright? I was distracted by the group of hunters making themselves at home in my territory.”
Peter hums. “I’ll look into it, but I haven’t heard of anything like this before.”
Derek grunts in response, standing from his seat. If Peter hasn’t heard of something before, it makes it unlikely there’s an available explanation - Peter prides himself on an extensive knowledge of weird, atypical creatures.
He trudges up the stairs angrily, ignoring Erica’s mumbled request from across the house for him to walk quieter. It’s nearly 6 in the morning at this point, and most of them have a few days of school remaining before their Holiday break - they should be up by now.
The pack house is organized by time as a wolf - bitten members stay on the lower floors of the house, and born wolves are higher up. Derek has the attic to himself. Peter sleeps on the second floor, with Cora and Boyd. Isaac and Erica are on the first floor, although Erica and Isaac regularly end up in Boyd’s room.
It’s supposed to be for safety - humans and untrained wolves closer to the exits - but Derek’s pack doesn’t have any humans, and the few of them without healing, like Deaton and Lydia, don’t stay in the house. Because most of them aren’t at any real risk, Derek doesn’t try to enforce the sleeping order.
In general, Derek doesn’t care much about the order of people’s sleeping spaces, but before the fire, this was how his mother had organized the house. When he had the house rebuilt, it seemed easiest to follow her lead when they had been picking bedrooms - she was who he looked to for examples most of the time, after all.
The attic is made up of a few rooms, and originally, Derek was going to give it to Cora, but Peter insisted he should have a floor to himself. Something about being the alpha and showing his dominance over his pack. Derek didn’t care all that much, but he wasn’t exactly against the additional personal space.
By the time Derek is settling down at his desk, preparing to do some research of his own, he can hear his pack moving downstairs. Erica, with much protest, has been dragged out of bed by Boyd, and Isaac is brushing his hair clumsily while he loads his backpack with the textbooks and papers strewn across his desk.
The sounds of them preparing for the day makes his heart swell, and he pauses in his typing to listen to them. There’s a grunt from Cora as Isaac tosses a protein bar at her - she’s never hungry in the mornings, not until she’s properly awake - and a loose jingle of car keys as Erica tries to sneak her hand into Boyd’s pocket to take them, plus the rustle of clothing as Boyd elbows her away.
Derek loves his pack.