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After Cora died, no one was really surprised when Peter killed Aiden. An eye for an eye. Aiden was the one that killed his niece, and despite that kill giving Peter back that all-too-familiar red glow to his eyes, everyone was too caught up and distracted by Jennifer Blake, by Deucalion and Kali, to pay Peter much attention.
Which was exactly how Peter liked it.
Binding a fae into service wasn't difficult. The fae were spirits, and just like any other spirit, they were easy to catch and easy to use. The only problem with the fae is that they liked to inhabit human bodies. Changelings, they called themselves, and sometimes those human minds could be strong. Intelligent. Strong enough to resist, or even overcome, a binding. But Peter was confident enough in his skills.
Before Stiles became the research monkey for this motley group of teenagers, before the fire, before Derek was even old enough to recognize the difference between his bellybutton and his dick, Peter's father taught him how to be useful. You're never going to be an Alpha, his father would say. That path is meant for another. Peter wasn't the best fighter, either. He wasn't naturally strong. He was lanky, built a bit like Stiles in his youth, which was a bit disappointing to a family of wolves. But what they didn't understand was that Peter was smart. Canny and patient. His father saw it and nurtured it, giving Peter volumes of old lore to read. To extract the useful information and ignore the filler. To learn old rituals and study the magic. To be an authority on who and what they were, so no one could ever scoff at him. Peter would always be important.
Now, Peter wasn't a wizard or a sorcerer or anything like that, because that would be ridiculous. He hadn't been born with any sort of spark. What he was was a lore-keeper, and with that came even more power than any witch, wolf, or man with a weapon could ever possess.
–
Lydia never saw it coming. Why would she? How could she? She had no idea what was happening to her, or more precisely, what had happened to her. Had she always been this way? Had she been born this way? Was she even human?
It felt odd, not having free will. Not necessarily bad, because she found herself quickly relying on Peter's commands and demands, and fulfilling them made her happy, but she remembered what it used to feel like to be able to make her own choices. But she didn't resent Peter, not really. Not in any way that counted.
Everything was muted, anyway. Her feelings, emotions. The only thing that mattered was to do what he asked. To just be what she was and to do a good job of it. Because Peter was keeping her safe. Safe from their enemies who would use her if they could, any way they could. Or if she wasn't useful, they would just dispose of her. Kill her. Hostage her to get what they wanted.
At least, that's what Peter told Lydia when she wandered into the forest clearing that night at three o'clock a.m., the new moon a dark splotch in the sky, to find Peter crouched beside a circle made of sea salt, water, incense, and a jagged furrow etched into the earth. It had been months since the rival Alpha pack had been dealt with and everyone had calmed down about Peter being an Alpha now. He'd bided his time, really. Patience was absolutely one of his virtues.
“As long as I have this, you'll be safe,” Peter told her, unfolding his hand to show Lydia the smokey, almost gummy-looking chunk of amber that nestled against his palm, like it had been made for his hand to hold.
Lydia smiled as a soft breeze blew red tendrils of hair back over her shoulders, whipping them out behind her. Peter gave her a necklace with an aquamarine pendant to wear, and the chain was long, keeping the stone out of sight between her breasts. A secret.
“That's nice,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
–
Peter didn't start killing people for a few weeks, but when he started he didn't stop. It had to be fast and merciless; all or nothing. He knew exactly how this group of kids and hunters worked, and he knew exactly how to dismantle them, too. Trust was a fickle animal. Human beings were desperate to give it out, to earn it from others, but when it was broken it took so long to repair that it almost wasn't worth it. But sometimes, in the rare times, it was.
Scott was the first to die, of course. Tear out the heart and the body follows, and no one had more pure heart than Scott. Peter didn't want any competition from a true Alpha, especially not one he'd sired. Looking at Scott was like staring into a fun house mirror; a twisted, unrecognizable version of something you could have been once upon a time. Jealousy burned through Peter's veins and he was tired of pretending he was okay.
But trust, see; that was Scott's downfall. When you open your heart, it's easier to bleed out, and Peter made certain to teach Scott that lesson in lurid detail before yanking the still-beating muscle out of the kid's chest and eating it.
Isaac was next, carelessly murdered on Peter's way to get to Chris Argent. Stupid of Isaac to think he was strong enough to protect anyone yet, but his attachment to Allison had grown so much over the past few months that it made him even stupider. To Peter's advantage, he supposed.
Peter killed the hunter in his sleep like the honor-less villain he was, and left Isaac's body on the sidewalk for the paper boy to find. No twinge of guilt and no reluctance in his step as he strode away, because Isaac had never really liked him anyway. Lydia caught up to him after stealing a .44 Magnum from Chris Argent's garage, as well as a box of aconite ammunition. She didn't know why she'd done it, but she told herself it was to keep Peter safe. Just in case.
Lydia led him to Stiles, Allison, and Danny. She can remember the way they screamed at her, for her to help, for her to Run! Do anything! Don't just stand there, Lydia! The way she regarded the humans impassively as Peter dug his teeth into all three of them, soft bellies bearing his maker's mark.
It was like a dream. Or a nightmare.
Lydia canted her head and frowned prettily, bare feet dirty as she stood calmly, her eyes slightly glazed as the humans writhed and squirmed on the floor of Derek's loft, the space long abandoned by the younger Hale in the wake of Scott's death. She didn't feel any connection to them at all, really, but tears streamed down her face, regardless. It seemed her eyes were always rimmed in red these days.
Peter waited for them to turn, kept them chained until the full moon, and when their power was at its peak, he slaughtered them like they were pigs, all three screaming in the way only dogs can scream, bunched in the corner of the room, hugging cement and bare brick as their bodies fell limp, one by one.
Peter took their power, too, and Lydia didn't feel a thing because he told her not to. They were a means to an end, and Peter was keeping her safe.
–
Peter took her out of town after that. For weeks they drove from city to city, and Lydia couldn't stop crying. She couldn't stop screaming. Wailing, sobbing, choking cries that led Peter from one person to another. The sick, the dying, the suicidal; she found them for him and he turned them all. Turned them and killed them. Absorbed the power of each wolf until he became nearly unstoppable. A force to be reckoned with.
Peter Hale had been weak for much too long, and as he told Lydia as he stroked her cheek, brushed the tears away with his thumb; he would never be weak again. They would never be victims again.
Back to Beacon Hills, now. Back to take one last wolf into him, but Peter wanted to take care of Derek alone.
He ordered Lydia to remain behind, not letting her accompany him even as she choked on tears and grabbed at his arm, his hand, screaming his name as he walked away. Peter didn't understand that Lydia needed to be there. She needed to warn Derek.
It was just in her nature, as it was in his now to destroy all who opposed him.
–
Peter found Derek at the old house. Predictable, really. Wounded dogs always ran back to safe places when they were scared.
“Why?” Derek rasped, blood gurgling out from between his lips, his wide eyes slowly and ignobly fading from a brilliant red to dull crimson, and then diminishing to a muted, steely blue, flecked with gold around the pupils, and only the barest rim of red around the iris as Peter stole the Alpha back from his nephew.
“Why?” Peter repeated the question, his eyebrows lifting and expression shifting to vaguely curious, as if he'd never really bothered to ask himself that question. He pulled his claws out of Derek's chest with a callous snicking sound, letting Derek fall gasping and prone on the bloody floor as Peter leaned back to casually crouch, glancing off into middle distance. Derek coughed and curled up onto his side, teeth gritting so hard he could hear them as he desperately willed himself to heal. But everyone knew that a wound from an Alpha took longer to heal, was more brutal, and Peter was strong, now, so much stronger than Derek.
Peter was as strong as a killer needed to be.
“Why...” the elder Hale said again, face screwing up a bit in slight confusion, like he was trying to recall something he'd forgotten awhile back. As if the two were chatting over a casual meal, Peter tucked one bloody arm around his middle and hummed, tapping the gore-coated, claw-tipped finger of his other hand against his lower lip.
“Well,” Peter sighed as he glanced down at Derek who was futility attempting to get up, the muscles in his back and arms trembling in his weakness. “I have a feeling my answer isn't really going to impress you, or surprise you. In fact, you're probably going to be really disappointed in me,” he chuckled softly as an insincere look of brief regret ghosted his features.
“Already there,” Derek snarled through clenched teeth as he slowly and painfully pulled himself up to collapse on the couch, his slashed chest heaving with each laborious breath he took. Peter had punctured one of his lungs and broken his sternum, long with a few ribs, and each pounding thud of Derek's heart brought a terrifying pain. He knew it was only a matter of time.
“I suppose I could wax poetic and give you some spiel about kindness versus emotional attachment,” Peter said, pushing himself to his feet and speaking with his hands, adding a flourish to his words as he spoke, quite adept at ignoring Derek's verbal barbs. “Maybe recite the tale of Old Yeller, only changing some of the details to suit you. Like, instead of making the dog rabid, we just make him weak and inept.” Peter's expression flattened as he stepped over to Derek, turning to drop down onto the couch beside him before throwing an arm around the back of his nephew's broad shoulders. “Emotionally damaged, hollow and empty inside,” Peter continued, chuckling humorlessly. “Cruel and impatient. Vulnerable. Basically, a terrible Alpha.”
“What, are you supposed to be the example-?” Derek began, just a hint of that trademark defensive sarcasm creeping into his voice, implying the younger Hale didn't feel quite defeated just yet.
“You stole from me!” Peter roared suddenly, the sound reverberating through the old house, shaking what little glass was left in the windows as Peter's wolf growled through his human voice, causing a distortion in his throat as the two warred for dominance. Derek suddenly found himself on the floor again, on his back again, with Peter's clawed hand around his throat and a snarling, salivating maw full of long, sharp teeth in his face. “You murdered me. Me.”
“You fucking psycho,” Derek tried to choke out, hands reaching to scrabble at Peter's fingers, to yank at his wrist, but the younger Hale's lack of two functioning lungs and a heart being caressed by shards of sternum made him a little too weak to fight. As Peter's fingers tightened around Derek's throat, he saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, heard the thudding of bare feet on old wood, and heard the awful wailing cry that Lydia tried to muffle with her hands as she watched Derek's fate sealed in blood before her.
“I'm not a psycho,” Peter growled as he dug claws in hard enough to rip Derek's throat out, while simultaneously driving the fingers of his other hand back into his nephew's chest and curling them around his heart, snapping veins and arteries with hard, angry fingers, before yanking the lump of muscle out of Derek's chest with a heaving, frustrated sigh. “Why can't anyone understand that I just want what's best?”
“Best for you,” came Lydia's trembling voice from right at Peter's side, and before he could even register what was happening, she began to sob again. A soft keen caught in her throat, causing the hairs on Peter's arms and the back of his neck to stand up, because she was staring him right in the eye, her gaze unwavering, and she hadn't moved a step away. Peter's eyes narrowed and a warning growl tore from his throat, but before he could even bunch his muscles to attack, Lydia's left hand came out and depressed the nozzle of a bottle of bear spray, about the size of a can of Raid, right into Peter's face.
Peter roared and threw his hands up to protect his eyes, but it was too late. The capsicum drilled into his skin and teared his eyes up to a swollen mess. His mucus membranes practically exploded, leaving the Alpha in a sniffling, snorting, growling muddle, half-crouched on the floor. He furiously scrubbed at his face with the front of his shirt, which was a phenomenally stupid idea considering the bear spray that clung to the material.
“You little bitch!” Peter snarled, claws out and eyes blazing red as he whirled on Lydia, swiping half-blind at where he could hear her, smell her. “How the hell did you get free?!” Lydia stumbled backwards, almost tripping over her own bare feet as she turned to lurch back out toward the porch, disappearing out the door. Peter's skin was red and splotchy, though the burns were superficial even for a human, so they were healing nearly as quickly as he'd acquired them. But Lydia didn't need much time; just long enough to shove her hand in her purse.
Peter crashed through the half-open door, taking it off his hinges as he lunged, his depth perception completely shot. He was enraged, partly due to Lydia's gall, and partly due to apprehension. He could smell that something wasn’t right, here. She'd obviously broken her bindings to him, and Peter only knew of one way for a spirit to unbind itself, and that sort of force of will was rare on the ground.
But Peter should have expected it of Lydia. She was the smartest out of all of them, wasn't she?
“Tell me, Lydia,” Peter taunted through clenched teeth, hands balling into fists as he stepped out fully onto the dilapidated porch, keeping his eyes trained on the dusk-ensnared woods that sprouted from the ground just yards away. “How does it feel knowing that if you'd just been a little bit better, you could have saved the lives of all of your friends? If you'd just been stronger, smarter.”
Peter knew she was right next to him, and he could smell the firearm. He could also smell her fear, hear her heart jack-rabbiting away against her ribs. He smirked a bit, just the corner of his mouth tugging up. Because this would be the defining moment, wouldn't it?
“It feels awful,” Lydia whispered, her voice thick with the continued tears she couldn't seem to shed quickly enough, and the new ones that welled and threatened behind her eyes and in her throat. “I don't think I've ever felt worse than I do right now. But I'm pretty sure I know what will make me feel just a little bit better.”
Peter should have known it was coming. Hell, he did know, but he'd been shot before. Bullets were just an inconvenience. So maybe he decided to let her shoot him, right in the head, because Peter knew that the power he'd taken in would be more than enough to heal a head shot just fast enough for him to watch the terror blossom on her face as he came at her to take her throat. But he hadn't exactly counted on the wolfsbane bullet. One of the Argent's bullets. Huh. No wonder he hadn't smelled it.
And so Peter Hale found a dishonorable end on the front porch of the house he should have died in years ago. His slack body toppled face-first down the stairs as gray matter and blood and violet steam rose from the wound that was, really, a good-sized crater where the top of his head used to be. He lay still, eerily so, but Lydia's steps were trepidatious as she crept closer, the grip of the .44 Magnum encased tightly in both of her pale, long hands. Her face was a mask of doubt, wariness, and shock, and the moment she heard the pinched, suffocated struggle for breath coming from Peter she screamed again, though this was a pure scream of fear, before forcing her eyes shut so hard she saw stars and unloading the rest of the cylinder into Peter's spasming body.
Peter's arrogance had been his downfall. By hindering Lydia's ability to warn Derek of his death, he'd inadvertently forced her fae spirit to summon all of its strength, all of Lydia's will, to break free of the hold Peter had put on her. The tears that streamed down her face, undiminished, would be her constant reminder that, despite her strength, she'd been too late.
As she ran toward the woods, away from the flames that began to lick at the ruins of the old Hale house, she consoled herself knowing that the Hale's chapter was now closed, and all their misgivings would be expunged by the cleansing fire she sparked with gasoline and matches, matching the one that had meant to claim them all those years ago. All guilt and sadness erased and all evil burned away. She could at least give them that.
The trees parted for Lydia and she disappeared, night curling around her like a disguise that would keep her safe from now on. The forest accepted her back as one of its own and she could finally breathe without shuddering.