On Fire

by Nancy Holder

  “Oh.” Scott didn’t know what to make of that, and it worried him a little. Maybe the Argents were going out werewolf hunting. “But he thinks you’re going to Lydia’s, right?”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, lowered her head, and nodded. She didn’t like lying to her parents. He knew how that felt. He hated lying to her.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He thinks that first we’re going to study in the library, where we’re not allowed to have cell phones on. And then, he, um, thinks I’m spending the night at her house.” She gazed up at him mischievously with those huge dark brown eyes of hers, and he thought he would explode. He still couldn’t quite believe that of all the guys in school, Allison Argent had picked him to be her boyfriend.

  “So aren’t you?” he asked her. “Spending the night at her house?”

  She wrinkled her nose, half shy, half flirty. “Maybe not,” she replied.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stiles suited up and hit the field. Coach Finstock’s black hair was wild and free, his gray eyes blazing, and he was taking roll while bellowing out warm-ups. He saw Stiles and said, “Where’s McCall?”

  “He had to go home, Coach,” Stiles said, eyes wide and innocent. “Food poisoning.”

  The coach did a double take. “What? He makes first line and then he takes a day off on account of a little food poisoning? Where’s the team spirit in that?”

  “He’s really sick,” Stiles replied, keeping the innocence vibe flowing. He was the king of the “who-me?” fake out, after having trailed after his father on so many of his calls, then pretending not to know any of the gory details. Before the return of Derek Hale to Beacon Hills, local crimes hadn’t actually been all that gory. But now that Derek was in town, the ick-o-meter was at full tilt. Coincidence? Stiles thought not.

  “Sick,” Coach echoed, sounding disgusted.

  “Barfing, totally barfing. Everywhere,” Stiles confirmed. “Hurling chunks the size of ice cu—”

  The coach made a sour face. “Okay, all right, Stilinski. I don’t need a picture.” He grunted. “Even though I’ve got one now, thank you very much. Hey.” He looked around. “Where’s my captain?”

  He meant Jackson, of course, and right on cue, Danny, Jackson’s best friend, jogged on over.

  “He went out of town with his parents, Coach. They cleared it with the office.”

  “Right, right,” Coach Finstock said, nodding. “I remember now. Excused absence. No problem.”

  Stiles was disgusted. He knew that was a total lie, one planned well in advance. Danny might have not known where Jackson was this morning, but he was playing his part now. Jackson’s parents were already out of town, and Lydia had asked Jackson to get out of lacrosse practice so they could get a jump—so to speak—on their weekend alone.

  Jackson was the most committed lacrosse player Stiles had ever seen—what players called a “lax-head,” but hey, if Lydia crooked her finger Stiles’s way, he’d drop out of school if she wanted him to.

  Except that Jackson was missing from the party.

  And Scott went sleepwalking last night, Stiles thought nervously.

  No, no way. Scott had not killed Jackson. There’d be a body.

  Unless he ate him all up or something.

  “Stilinski, are you going to puke, too?” Coach Finstock asked, peering at him. “Cuz if you think you’re going to hurl, you can hit the showers, buddy. We’ll do fine without you.”

  Jackson’s little posse of minions snickered and Stiles felt his cheeks go red. Guys like Jackson—rich, athletic—they always got the breaks.

  “I’m fine,” Stiles insisted.

  “Okay, then let’s get it moving. And tell McCall one more missed practice and he’s benched.”

  Guys like him and Scott, not so much.

  Yet despite my class envy, I hope Scott didn’t eat him. Talk about your food poisoning.

  “I’ll tell him,” Stiles said. And hopefully, he won’t be behind bars when I do.

  • • •

  Hundreds, if not thousands, of fresh bullet holes dotted the charred walls of Derek Hale’s family home. Amazingly, it was still standing after Kate Argent had let loose inside with a submachine gun the day before. She’d sauntered into his house with two of her goons and taunted him about Laura’s death. Enraged, Derek had attacked them. But Kate had laid him low with a cattle prod. She reminded him that there were bite marks on Laura’s body. The Alpha had killed her, Kate insisted. So why didn’t she and Derek help each other out? If Derek told her who the Alpha was, Kate could get rid of him for both Derek and the hunters.

  But once she’d realized that Derek didn’t know who the Alpha was, she’d decided he was expendable. That was why she’d tried to machine-gun him to death—and nearly brought down the house. His house and he were the last of the Hales—except for his uncle Peter Hale, a scarred vegetable wasting away at Beacons Crossing Home, a long-term-care facility. Derek could still remember Uncle Peter before the fire—a prankster with a wicked sense of humor.

  Before the fire that the Argents set. I know they did it.

  Derek did another set of push-ups. His back and chest were glistening with sweat and his arm muscles were aching. He ignored the pain and did another set of reps. He was driven. He needed endurance, and strength.

  It was only a matter of time before Kate came back, and he had to be ready.

  To tear her apart.

  Meanwhile, he had other things on his mind. He’d had a dream, and he never dreamed. It hadn’t been so much a dream as a nightmare, and it had awakened him at 3 a.m.—the hour of the wolf—when he bolted upright, sweating and panting, as if he’d been running for hours.

  In his dream, he’d been trapped in the forest, and it had been burning all around him. And the only way out was blocked by the Alpha, whose gravelly voice carried over the firestorm: “It’s almost time. My time. You follow me, or you die.”

  The nightmare Alpha showed itself then, massive, his eyes glowing scarlet, his mouth bristling with fangs. He rose on his hind legs, his howl victorious as he displayed dominance over the werewolf before him—Derek Hale, his inferior in status and strength.

  In a heartbeat, Derek shifted. He attacked, taking the Alpha head-on, attempting to fling the huge monster onto his back. The Alpha swiped at Derek’s head, but Derek flattened himself on the ground, rolling over. Assuming Derek was displaying submission, the Alpha lowered his massive paw as he stared Derek down. But instead of averting his gaze to accept his junior rank, Derek bared his teeth and went for the Alpha’s throat.

  The Alpha roared in fury at Derek’s arrogance, rose on his hind legs, and threw back his head, keeping his neck well out of Derek’s reach. Then his brought down his front leg again, this time slashing Derek in the flank.

  I can’t win this, he thought, but his wolf brain said Kill him. Before he kills you. Because he will. He will come at you and at you—

  There will be many Alphas, other Alphas; each one you kill will bring another. There will be blood on your hands forever. This one, today; another one, tomorrow.

  And on Wolf Moon . . . legions.

  Humans will try to destroy you.

  If they fail, an Alpha will succeed.

  Derek had jerked awake in his sleeping bag with a growl. Then, before he could forget, he strained to recall how the voice of the Alpha had sounded. Male? Female? Maybe if he could remember, he would have a clue as to the Alpha’s identity. The Alpha had bitten Scott McCall, and was urging Scott to kill with him. Once Scott did that—and he would—the Alpha would own him. And it would be that much harder for Derek to defeat the Alpha and avenge his family.

  There are a few people I’d like to kill, he thought, but no way would he put himself under the control of an Alpha he didn’t even know. And besides, what he’d told Scott was true: as a werewolf, he, Derek, might be a predator, but he wasn’t a killer. There was a difference, and anyone who’d been born a werewolf and raised by werewolf parents woul
d know that. Scott had simply been bitten, apparently at random, and if he, Derek, didn’t teach him how to deal with it, Scott would wind up either under the control of the Alpha or dead.

  Dead, because Derek would kill Scott himself, rather than allow him to expose the existence of werewolves to the humans who lived in Beacon Hills. Scott had threatened to tell Chris Argent everything. That was when Derek had taken Scott to see Uncle Peter, make him see that the Argents were ruthless killers. Eleven members of Derek’s family had died in the fire that had swept through this house six years ago. Men, women, children. Not all of them werewolves.

  And none of them deserving of the hideous, fiery death dealt to them by the Argents.

  His sister, Laura, had been his Alpha after their family had been destroyed. And now she was dead. She’d been cut into pieces and left as bait to bring Derek back to Beacon Hills. Derek had assumed the Argents had killed her, but Kate had sworn they hadn’t—just before she’d tried to cut Derek in half with a barrage of submachine-gun fire. Cold-hearted bitch. If ever someone had deserved to die . . .

  Growling, he clenched his jaw against his fury, switching from two-armed push-ups to single-hand. He had to stay strong and fast. Or the next time the fire came, it might devour him, too.

  Maybe that was what the dream had meant—he was going to be faced with a choice, and soon. He didn’t like being squeezed between an unknown Alpha and the Argents. And having to deal with Scott on top of that. Derek needed a pack, others to make him stronger. And the only way that could happen was if he either joined the Alpha’s pack as a Beta, or became an Alpha himself by killing the Alpha. Right now he was a lone wolf, and most lone wolves had short life spans.

  But that wasn’t the entire dream, he reminded himself. I dreamed about other Alphas coming after me. Why? It’s not a crime to kill an Alpha. I’m a werewolf. The way we progress in status is through challenge. If my opponent won’t back down, it’s within my rights to take what’s mine in any way I can. Even death.

  Derek was deeply troubled. After the push-ups, he tore out of the house and jogged shirtless through the forest, aware of the scents of rabbits and squirrels, the rot of undergrowth, the piney scent of trees. He felt the blood pumping through his veins, the strength of his body, his endurance. As difficult as his life might have become, he wouldn’t trade it for the relatively safer but dull, bland life as a human. He used to work off all the extra testosterone by swimming laps. That was how he had met her.

  He raced up into the hills, gazing down at his home, and farther down, a few of the buildings of Beacon Hills. Then he caught the scent of a wolf—a full, natural wolf, not a werewolf. He sniffed again to make sure. What was it doing there? There hadn’t been any natural wolves in California in more than sixty years.

  Then he caught the scent of Scott McCall. Fresh. Recent. Scott had been in the forest this morning. Doing what?

  Spying on me?

  Derek let loose a low growl. He wanted to shift but he controlled himself. It was day, and you never knew who was watching.

  Or plotting.

  Like I am, he thought.

  • • •

  Scott rode shotgun in Allison’s car, reading off the directions on his smartphone while Allison kept driving east, moving from the regular part of town to the bad part of town, and creeping ever closer into what was definitely the worst part of town. Scott had had no idea that such a place even existed. Allison’s car glided past blocks of boarded-up buildings, liquor stores, pawnshops, and some kind of clinic where you could sell your blood.

  “Remind me never to get a blood transfusion,” he muttered. “The doors are locked, right?”

  She toggled the power-lock button and gave him a quick nod.

  “So you’ve never been to this neighborhood, either,” Allison said. She looked cautiously through the windshield. “No wonder Lydia didn’t want to come.”

  Scott frowned, seriously pissed off at Lydia for talking Allison into doing this. He was really glad he’d come with her.

  She slowed as a guy in a filthy coat started pushing a shopping cart bulging with trash bags across the street. Scott cocked his head, listening. The man was rambling to himself, counting by twos.

  “Don’t stop. Just go around him,” he cautioned.

  She nodded and did as he asked. Scott couldn’t imagine being in this neighborhood after nightfall. He wondered where the homeless man went to sleep. Scott definitely didn’t picture him and Allison sleeping anywhere near here. So much for that dream.

  We’re kids anyway, he thought. No one would rent a room to us. Well, except maybe around here.

  Allison glanced over at him. They had almost arrived at their location. He didn’t want to think of Allison getting out of the car. They should turn around and get out of there.

  “Allison, let’s leave,” he blurted.

  She glanced over at him. “You’re scared?”

  “Yeah, aren’t you?” he replied honestly.

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “This place is really terrible, Scott. I want to leave. But if Jackson’s here, he might need help.”

  But not our help, he wanted to say. Sheriff Stilinski’s help, maybe.

  Almost as if she could read his mind, she said, “I promised Lydia I’d check the motel.”

  He heard the stubbornness in her tone of voice. It was obvious he wasn’t going to be able to talk her out of going through with the plan. He thought about asking her to stay in the car, but the problem was, he didn’t think she’d be any safer alone in the car than out on the street with him. Except, if he got too stressed and shifted, then she’d be in even greater danger.

  I can’t let it happen, he thought. I won’t. He’d just have to keep reminding himself of that.

  Allison’s phone rang and Scott nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked at the caller ID.

  “It’s Lydia,” he said.

  “Put her on speaker,” Allison asked him.

  “Hi, have you found anything?” Lydia’s voice was distorted. Allison’s cell phone reception was weak. Another strike against going to the motel.

  “Just three dozen strip clubs and a place to pawn my birthday necklace,” Allison said a little heatedly. “Oh, look, there’s another liquor store. With iron bars across the windows. Tell me the truth, Lydia. Did you know just how bad it is around here?”

  “I thought it would be gross but . . . how bad?” Lydia asked, sounding contrite.

  “Way bad,” Allison said. “I’m kind of wishing I had pepper spray or something.”

  Me, too, Scott thought.

  “I’m sorry I asked you to go,” Lydia admitted. “I’ve never actually been to the bad part of town.” She fell silent, as if she were trying to decide what to say next. Scott respected that silence. Lydia was clearly having a crisis of conscience. She wanted to find Jackson, but she didn’t want to put Allison in harm’s way. Scott liked her for that.

  “Have you come up with anything?” Allison asked her.

  “Well, I searched the Net for Hunter Gramm and nothing came up,” Lydia replied.

  “That’s not good,” Allison said, and Scott nodded, agreeing. “Maybe it’s an alias, for when he goes undercover or something.”

  “Or it’s a big scam. But Jackson never falls for things like that, and there’ve been a few people trying to shake money out of the Whittemores with all kinds of crazy schemes. Fake charities, supposed long-lost relatives. So he knows the drill. When you’re part of a wealthy family, you get cynical.”

  So that’s what it’s called, Scott thought.

  “So . . . this detective—not a detective?” Allison asked.

  “I don’t know. Jackson would be supercautious. He’d need proof.” She sighed. “But he’s been off his game lately. In more ways than one,” she added languidly. “Maybe this has something to do with that.”

  “Well, we’ll see what we can find out,” Allison promised her.

  Scott groaned inwardly. It was time fo
r them to hang a left, but he didn’t tell Allison. He wanted them to just leave. Jackson was so not worth it.

  But Allison must have remembered his rundown of their route, because she put on her blinker and they turned the corner, facing a plain, two-story beige stucco building that said Thrifty Inn. It wasn’t an inn by any stretch of the imagination, but it was at least five times nicer than Scott had anticipated, given what they’d driven through to get to it.

  Allison looked over at Scott. “The motel’s not that bad,” she murmured. “We can just go in the lobby and ask. I have a picture of Jackson on my phone.”

  Why is that? Scott felt a little flare of jealousy, and he wanted to ask her about it. Then he calmed down a little, figuring Lydia had sent it to her specifically so they could show it to John Doe, Jane Smith, and Bambi von Boob Job.

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly.

  “Okay, we’re going . . .” Allison said, and then the phone dinged.

  “Call failed,” Scott reported, frowning down at her phone. He pulled out his own and checked his reception. Five bars, looking good.

  “Well, I guess we were done talking,” Allison said.

  “Park there,” Scott said, pointing to a streetlamp. Allison nodded and pulled to the curb. Scott cocked his head and willed his enhanced werewolf vision into action. He knew his eyes were glowing amber as he swept his gaze around, seeing everything in infrared, looking for details he would miss as a human. He climbed out first and scanned the area carefully. He saw nothing that threatened danger.

  And he didn’t sense the presence of the Alpha.

  He walked over to the driver’s side and gave Allison a nod. She pushed open the door and flashed him a quick, uncertain smile in return. “Opening my door is very chivalrous of you, Scott. But you know I’m not a girly girl.”

  “Me, neither,” he said, “but the sooner we’re out of here, the lower my voice will get.”

  She had the best dimples when she smiled. He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers, marveling at how soft her skin was. She smelled great—like flowers, maybe roses—and the sun caught gold strands in her dark chestnut hair. He felt a little wistful as they walked together to the front door of the motel. He sure didn’t want his first time with Allison—his first time with anybody—to be in a place like this. But it was still only early afternoon, and she had a stay-out-of-jail-free card: her parents’ permission not to be home until tomorrow. So maybe . . .