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Summary
Something is happening in the Preserve. The ley lines are humming. Someone has been drawing ritual circles in clearings that haven't seen magic in a generation. And there's a boy—a teenager, living rough in the woods—who smells like woodsmoke and ozone and something impossible. Derek wants him gone. Derek wants him caught, interrogated, expelled, because the last time someone showed up in Beacon Hills smelling like something they shouldn't, people died. But the boy won't talk. The boy runs. The boy looks at Derek with amber-gold eyes and a sharp jaw and an expression of such carefully controlled grief that it makes Derek's wolf howl. And Stiles—Stiles, who was supposed to be leaving, who had one foot out the door and a Georgetown acceptance letter on his laptop—Stiles can't stop looking at the boy either, because something about him feels like recognition. Like déjà vu. Like coming home to a house you've never lived in.