Archive of Our Own ^beta

The woods were darker than Stiles remembered.

He stood at the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve, flashlight clutched in his right hand, phone in his left. The screen glowed with Scott's last text, sent approximately four minutes ago.

Scott: dude im sorry. mom says i need sleep for tryouts tomorrow. lacrosse is important
Scott: we can look for the body another time
Scott: seriously go home

Stiles had typed out three different responses and deleted them all. He got it. He did. Melissa McCall was terrifying when she wanted to be, and Scott needed to make first line this year. They both did. It was their ticket to not being complete losers for the rest of high school.

But there was a dead body out here. Well, half of one. His dad had gotten the call two hours ago, and Stiles had been listening from the top of the stairs as Sheriff Stilinski coordinated the search. Some jogger had found half a corpse, and the other half was still missing somewhere in these woods.

How could Scott not want to see that?

Stiles shoved his phone in his pocket and clicked on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating tree trunks and scattered leaves. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear his dad's deputies calling to each other, their voices carrying on the night air.

He just needed to get a little closer. Close enough to see what was happening. Maybe snap a photo or two for proof. Then he'd head back home, show Scott what he'd missed, and they'd spend all of tomorrow's classes talking about it instead of paying attention to whatever boring lecture they were supposed to be learning.

Perfect plan. Totally foolproof.

Stiles started walking, careful to angle away from where he'd heard the deputies. His sneakers crunched on the undergrowth, way louder than he wanted them to be, but there wasn't much he could do about that. He kept the flashlight pointed down, sweeping it back and forth across the ground.

He'd gone maybe fifty yards when he heard the howl.

It wasn't like the howls in movies, all long and mournful and melodramatic. This was shorter, sharper, and so much closer than Stiles wanted it to be. He froze, flashlight jerking up to scan the trees ahead of him.

"Okay," he whispered to himself, because talking to himself had always helped calm his nerves. "That's probably just a dog. A really big dog. That's totally normal. Dogs howl. It's like, their thing."

The howl came again, and this time Stiles could pinpoint the direction. To his right. Maybe thirty feet away. Maybe less.

"Nope," Stiles said, louder now. "Nope, nope, nope. This is how people die in horror movies."

He turned to head back the way he'd come, and that's when he heard it. The sound of something large moving through the brush. Fast. Getting closer.

Stiles ran.

The flashlight bounced wildly in his hand, sending shadows careening across the trees. His backpack slammed against his spine with each step. Branches whipped at his face and arms, stinging, but he didn't slow down. Behind him, he could hear whatever it was gaining ground, crashing through the forest like it didn't care about being quiet anymore.

His foot caught on a root.

Stiles went down hard, hands shooting out to break his fall. The flashlight flew from his grip, bouncing twice before the light went out. His phone stayed in his pocket, but the wind got knocked out of him, and for a second he just lay there in the dirt, gasping.

Then he heard the growl.

It was right behind him. So close he could hear the rumble of it, could almost feel it vibrating in his chest. Slowly, terrified of what he'd see, Stiles rolled onto his back.

The creature standing over him wasn't a dog.

It was huge, easily the size of a black bear, with glowing red eyes that seemed to cut through the darkness. Its lips were pulled back, showing teeth that were way too long, way too sharp. Stiles could smell it, this mixture of wet fur and earth and something else, something wrong that his brain couldn't categorize.

"Please," Stiles heard himself say. His voice came out thin and shaky. "Please, I didn't—I wasn't—"

The creature lunged.

Stiles threw his arms up instinctively, a useless defense, but maybe it would buy him a second or two. He felt claws rake across his left side, felt his jacket and shirt tear like paper. Then there was pain, sharp and immediate, radiating from his right shoulder. Teeth. It had bitten him.

He screamed.

The sound echoed through the forest, louder than he'd ever heard his own voice. Somewhere in the distance, he heard shouting. His dad's deputies. They'd heard him.

The creature's head snapped up. For a moment, those red eyes fixed on Stiles again, and he could swear there was something almost human in them. Intelligence. Recognition.

Then it was gone, crashing back into the trees, leaving Stiles bleeding and shaking on the forest floor.

Stiles pressed his left hand to his shoulder, felt the hot wetness of blood soaking through his shirt. The bite was deep. He could feel it, this throbbing, aching pain that seemed to sink all the way down to the bone.

Footsteps thundered toward him. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.

"Stiles!"

That was his dad's voice. Stiles tried to sit up, tried to say something, but the world tilted sideways and his vision started to tunnel.

The last thing he saw before everything went dark was his father's face, pale and terrified in the beam of someone's flashlight.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The hospital room was too bright.

Stiles squinted against the fluorescent lights, one hand coming up to shield his eyes. Everything felt wrong. Too loud, too bright, too much. The steady beep of the heart monitor beside his bed sounded like it was right inside his skull. He could hear conversations from what had to be three rooms away, words bleeding together into an incomprehensible mess.

"Hey, hey, you're okay."

Stiles turned his head toward the voice and found his dad sitting in the chair beside the bed. Sheriff Stilinski looked like he'd aged ten years overnight. His uniform was wrinkled, there was dirt smudged on his sleeve, and the lines around his eyes seemed deeper than they had been yesterday.

"Dad?" Stiles' own voice sounded weird to him. Hoarse and rough.

"Thank God." His dad leaned forward, one hand gripping Stiles' uninjured arm. "You scared the hell out of me, kid."

Stiles tried to sit up, but his dad gently pushed him back down. Now that he was more awake, he could feel the pull of bandages across his shoulder and down his left side. The pain had dulled to a constant ache, probably thanks to whatever drugs they'd pumped into him.

"What happened?" He knew what happened. He remembered every second of it. But his dad didn't know that Stiles had been there on purpose.

Sheriff Stilinski ran a hand over his face. "I was about to ask you the same thing. We found you in the Preserve. You were—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "You were pretty torn up. The doctors said it looked like an animal attack."

"It was," Stiles said quickly. Maybe too quickly. "I was, uh, I heard you leave. For the call about the body. And I thought maybe I could—I don't know. I wasn't thinking. I went into the woods and something attacked me."

His dad's expression shifted from relief to anger to something that might have been disappointment. "You went into an active crime scene."

"I know."

"You could have been killed."

"I know."

"Stiles—" His dad stopped, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he just looked tired. "We'll talk about this later. When you're feeling better. Right now, I just—I'm glad you're okay."

Stiles nodded. He felt the guilt settle in his stomach like a rock. His dad had enough to worry about without adding 'son who sneaks into crime scenes and gets mauled by mystery animals' to the list.

"What did the doctors say?" Stiles asked, more to change the subject than anything else.

"They stitched you up. The bite on your shoulder was deep, but it didn't hit anything vital. The scratches on your side aren't too bad. You'll be sore for a while, but you'll heal." His dad paused. "They're going to keep you here for observation tonight, make sure there's no infection. We don't know what animal attacked you, so they started you on a round of antibiotics and a rabies vaccine, just in case."

Rabies. Right. That was the thing they should be worried about. Not the glowing red eyes or the fact that the creature had been the size of a small car.

There was a knock on the door, and both Stiles and his dad turned to see a nurse poking her head in. "Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff. There's a young man here asking to see Stiles? Scott McCall?"

Stiles felt a rush of relief so strong it almost made him dizzy. "Yeah, yeah he can come in."

His dad looked between Stiles and the nurse, then sighed. "I need to get back to the station anyway. We're still searching for the other half of the body." He stood, placed a hand on Stiles' head in a rare display of affection. "I'll be back in a few hours to check on you. Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

His dad left, and a moment later Scott came barreling into the room. He looked frantic, his hair sticking up in about fifteen different directions, wearing what were clearly the clothes he'd slept in.

"Dude!" Scott rushed to the bedside, eyes wide as he took in the bandages. "What the hell happened? Your dad called my mom at like three in the morning and she wouldn't tell me anything, just that you were in the hospital, and—" He stopped to breathe. "Are you okay?"

Stiles couldn't help it. He laughed. It came out a little hysterical, and Scott's face immediately morphed into concern.

"I'm fine," Stiles managed. "I'm fine. Just—sit down. I need to tell you something."

Scott pulled the chair closer and dropped into it. "Tell me what?"

"Okay, so, you know how you said you weren't coming to the woods with me last night?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, I went anyway."

"Stiles—"

"I know, I know. Terrible idea. But listen." Stiles shifted in the bed, ignoring the pull of his stitches. "I went into the Preserve, right? And I was looking for where the search party was. But then I heard this howl."

Scott's eyebrows shot up. "A howl?"

"Yeah. And I tried to run, but I tripped, and this—this thing came out of nowhere." Stiles could feel his heart rate picking up just remembering it, could see the monitor beside him starting to beep faster. "Scott, it wasn't a dog. It wasn't anything I've ever seen before. It was massive, and it had these glowing red eyes, and it bit me."

"What kind of animal has glowing red eyes?" Scott asked, but Stiles could see the gears turning in his head. His best friend was skeptical by nature, but he wasn't dismissive. That was one of the things Stiles loved about him.

"I don't know. But I'm telling you, it wasn't normal." Stiles paused. "Do you think—I mean, is there any chance it could have been—"

"Been what?"

Stiles lowered his voice, even though they were the only ones in the room. "A werewolf?"

Scott stared at him. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then, slowly, he asked, "You're serious?"

"I know how it sounds. But you didn't see it, Scott. And there are legends about this stuff, right? I mean, we live in California, we've got every other kind of weird thing. Why not werewolves?"

"Because werewolves aren't real, Stiles." But Scott didn't sound entirely convinced. He chewed on his bottom lip, a nervous habit he'd had since they were kids. "Are they?"

"I don't know," Stiles admitted. "But we should probably find out."

Scott was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming against his knee. "Okay. Okay, so let's say—hypothetically—that werewolves are real. And let's say that's what bit you. What does that mean?"

"It means I'm probably going to turn into one." Stiles tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out shaky anyway. "That's how it works in all the movies and books, right? You get bitten, you become a werewolf."

"Movies aren't real life, dude."

"Yeah, but folklore is based on something. There's usually at least a kernel of truth in legends."

Scott leaned back in the chair, running both hands through his hair until it stuck up even more. "This is insane. This is completely insane."

"I know."

"Your dad's gonna kill you if he finds out you went into the woods on purpose."

"I know."

"And if you're actually turning into a werewolf—" Scott stopped, his eyes going wide. "Oh my God, what if you're turning into a werewolf?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out!" Stiles winced as he shifted again, his shoulder protesting the movement. "Look, we need to research this. Like, actually research it. Not just watch Teen Wolf reruns and call it good."

"Okay." Scott pulled out his phone, already opening up the browser. "Okay, um, what should I search for? 'Signs of werewolf transformation?' 'What to do if your best friend got bitten by a monster?'"

Despite everything, Stiles felt himself smile. This was why Scott was his best friend. Most people would have run screaming or called him crazy, but Scott was already pulling up Google, ready to help figure this out.

"Start with werewolf folklore," Stiles suggested. "European, specifically. Most of the American stuff is based on European legends anyway."

Scott's thumbs flew across his phone screen. "Okay, so according to this very sketchy-looking website, the most common signs of werewolf transformation include increased strength, heightened senses, aggression, and—" He paused. "Oh."

"What?"

"It says the first transformation usually happens during the full moon following the bite."

Stiles felt his stomach drop. "When's the next full moon?"

Scott checked his phone's calendar. "Um. Friday."

"This Friday? As in, four days from now Friday?"

"Yeah."

They stared at each other.

"Okay," Stiles said finally. "Okay, we have four days to figure this out. That's plenty of time. We can work with four days."

"You're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out."

"Your heart rate monitor just went from sixty to ninety."

Stiles glanced at the monitor, which was indeed beeping faster. "Fine. I'm mildly concerned."

"Dude, it's at a hundred now."

"Okay, I'm freaking out a little!" Stiles took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. The beeping slowed slightly. "But we can handle this. We've dealt with weird stuff before."

"We've dealt with weird teachers and cafeteria food. This is actual supernatural creature stuff."

"Details." Stiles waved a hand dismissively, then immediately regretted it when the motion pulled at his stitches. "Ow."

"Don't move, idiot." Scott stood up, moving to adjust Stiles' pillows. "Look, we'll figure this out. I'll do research, you rest and heal, and we'll make a plan."

"A plan. Right. I like plans."

"I know you do." Scott sat back down, but he looked worried. "Stiles, what if this is really happening? What if you really are turning into a werewolf?"

Stiles didn't have an answer for that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They released him from the hospital the next afternoon. The doctors seemed satisfied that there was no infection, gave him a bottle of prescription painkillers and instructions to keep the wounds clean and dry. His dad picked him up, drove him home in silence that felt heavier than it should have.

The house was quiet when they arrived. His dad had taken the day off, which almost never happened, and Stiles felt another wave of guilt wash over him.

"Go upstairs and rest," Sheriff Stilinski said as they walked through the front door. "I'll bring you some food in a bit."

"Dad, I'm fine. I can—"

"Upstairs. Now."

The tone left no room for argument. Stiles trudged up the stairs, his shoulder aching with each step, and collapsed onto his bed. He could hear his dad moving around downstairs, the familiar sounds of cabinets opening and closing, the microwave beeping.

His phone buzzed. Scott.

Scott: found some stuff. coming over in an hour with books
Scott: also your dad called my mom and told her what happened
Scott: she says youre an idiot

Stiles: your mom is not wrong

Scott: she also says she hopes youre ok

Stiles: tell her im fine. just sore

Scott: will do. see you soon

Stiles set his phone aside and stared at the ceiling. The painkillers were starting to wear off, and he could feel the steady throb of his injuries. But underneath that, there was something else. Something that felt almost like energy, buzzing just beneath his skin.

He held up his right hand, studying it in the afternoon light filtering through his window. It looked normal. Completely, totally normal. No claws, no weird fur, no glowing eyes.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it had just been a really big dog, or a bear, or some other perfectly normal animal that happened to have weird reflective eyes. Maybe he was letting his imagination run away with him like always.

His phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

Stiles frowned and opened the message.

Unknown: We need to talk. Come to the old Hale house tomorrow after school. Come alone.

He stared at the text, his heart rate picking up. Who the hell had his number? And why did they want to meet at the creepy burned-out house on the edge of town?

Before he could respond, another message came through.

Unknown: I can help you. But only if you listen.

Stiles' thumb hovered over the reply button. This was stupid. This was horror-movie-level stupid. But if there was even a chance this person actually knew something, he had to try.

Stiles: who is this

The response was immediate.

Unknown: Someone who knows what bit you. Tomorrow, 4pm. Don't be late.

Then nothing. Stiles tried calling the number, but it went straight to a generic voicemail. He tried texting again, but got no response.

"Great," he muttered. "Mysterious messages from unknown numbers. This is totally not sketchy at all."

There was a knock on his door, and his dad came in carrying a plate of grilled cheese and soup. "Eat," he said, setting the food on Stiles' desk. "And then we need to talk."

Stiles' stomach sank. "Talk about what?"

"About what happened last night. The real story."

"I told you the real story. I went into the woods, I got attacked—"

"Stiles." His dad sat down on the edge of the bed, his expression serious. "I've been a cop for twenty years. I know when someone's lying to me. And you're lying."

Stiles opened his mouth to deny it, but his dad held up a hand.

"I'm not saying you're lying about getting attacked. Obviously that happened. But you're leaving something out. And I need to know what it is."

For a moment, Stiles considered telling him everything. About the creature with the red eyes, about the possibility of werewolves, about the mysterious text message. But he could already see how his dad would react. He'd think Stiles had hit his head, or that the pain medication was making him delusional.

"I went into the woods to look for the body," Stiles admitted. "I know I shouldn't have. I know it was stupid. But I wanted to see what was going on, and Scott wouldn't come with me, so I went alone."

His dad's jaw tightened. "You put yourself in danger for what? Curiosity?"

"I just wanted to help—"

"You're sixteen years old, Stiles. You're not a cop. It's not your job to help with investigations." His dad's voice was rising now, frustration and fear bleeding through. "You could have been killed last night. Do you understand that? Whatever attacked you, it could have killed you."

"But it didn't," Stiles said quietly.

"That's not the point!" His dad stood up, started pacing. "The point is that you made a choice—a really stupid, dangerous choice—and you got lucky. What if you hadn't? What if we hadn't found you in time?"

Stiles didn't have an answer for that.

His dad stopped pacing, ran a hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, but there was an exhaustion in it that made Stiles' chest hurt. "You're all I have left, kid. I can't—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "I can't lose you too."

"You won't," Stiles said. "I promise, I won't do anything that stupid again."

His dad looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Eat your food. Scott's coming over later, right?"

"Yeah. We're gonna work on homework."

"Okay. But if you start feeling worse, or if those wounds start bothering you, you tell me immediately. Got it?"

"Got it."

His dad left, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. Stiles waited until he heard footsteps going down the stairs before pulling out his phone again.

He stared at the unknown number, at the message about the Hale house. Every logical part of his brain was screaming that this was a trap. But the other part, the part that had spent the last twelve hours wondering if he was losing his mind, needed answers.

He opened a new message to Scott.

Stiles: change of plans. come over now if you can
Stiles: got a weird text from someone who says they can help
Stiles: wants me to meet them tomorrow

The response came almost immediately.

Scott: what?? who??
Scott: stiles thats definitely a trap

Stiles: i know but what if they actually know something

Scott: or what if theyre a serial killer

Stiles: thats why youre coming with me

Scott: I THOUGHT YOU SAID COME ALONE

Stiles: i lied. obviously youre coming
Stiles: someone needs to call 911 when i inevitably get murdered

Scott: youre insane
Scott: fine. ill go. but if we die its your fault

Stiles: deal

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Scott showed up an hour later with a backpack full of books he'd stolen from his mom's medical collection and printouts from various websites about werewolf folklore. They spread everything out on Stiles' bed, careful to avoid jostling his injured shoulder.

"Okay," Scott said, pulling up the first website on his laptop. "So according to literally every source I found, the transformation usually happens during a full moon. But there's some debate about whether it's just the first full moon, or every full moon after that."

"Great. So I might be turning into a werewolf every month for the rest of my life. That's not terrifying at all."

"There's also stuff about control. Some legends say that werewolves are completely mindless and violent, but others say you can learn to control it." Scott clicked on another tab. "There's this one story from France about a guy who claimed he could transform whenever he wanted, and he stayed in control the whole time."

"How'd that end for him?"

"They burned him at the stake."

"Awesome."

Scott kept scrolling. "Oh, here's something. It says that new werewolves usually have a really hard time with anger management. Even when they're not transformed, they're more aggressive, more emotional. It's like all their feelings get turned up to eleven."

Stiles thought about the energy he'd felt earlier, that buzzing sensation under his skin. "What else?"

"Heightened senses. You'll be able to hear better, smell better, see better. Increased strength and speed. Faster healing." Scott paused. "Actually, that might explain why you're not in more pain right now. The bite on your shoulder was really deep, but you're acting like it's just sore."

Stiles looked down at his bandaged shoulder. He'd assumed it was the pain medication, but now that Scott mentioned it, it really didn't hurt as much as it should. "So I'm healing faster than normal?"

"Maybe. We should check."

"Check how?"

Scott gestured to the bandages. "Take them off. Let's see what the wounds look like."

Stiles hesitated, then slowly started peeling back the medical tape. The bandages came away easier than he expected, and when he pulled them off completely, both he and Scott stared.

The bite mark was still there, the deep puncture wounds clear and obvious. But the edges weren't red and inflamed like they should have been. They were pink and healthy-looking, already starting to knit together. The scratches on his side were even better, barely more than thin lines now.

"Dude," Scott breathed. "That's not normal."

"No," Stiles agreed, his voice coming out strange. "That's definitely not normal."

They looked at each other.

"So it's real," Scott said. "You're actually turning into a werewolf."

Stiles felt his hands start to shake. "I'm turning into a werewolf."

"Okay. Okay, we can work with this." Scott was already pulling up more tabs, typing frantically. "We just need to figure out how to control it. There has to be information somewhere about how to—"

"Scott."

"—because if we can find someone who knows about this stuff, maybe they can help teach you—"

"Scott."

"—and we need to figure out what to tell your dad, because there's no way he's not going to notice when you start—"

"SCOTT!"

Scott stopped, looking up from his laptop. Stiles was gripping the edge of the bed, his knuckles white.

"I can hear your heartbeat," Stiles said quietly.

"What?"

"Your heartbeat. I can hear it. It's really fast right now, like you're nervous or scared or both, and I can hear it clear as day." Stiles looked around the room. "And I can hear my dad downstairs washing dishes. And I can hear someone's TV three houses down. And there's a dog barking that has to be at least a block away but it sounds like it's right outside my window."

Scott's eyes widened. "The heightened senses are already starting."

"Yeah." Stiles took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. "Yeah, I think they are."

"Okay. Okay, this is fine. This is totally fine." Scott was clearly trying to convince himself as much as Stiles. "So the transformation is already beginning. That means we need to work fast. We need to figure out how to help you control this before Friday."

"Three days," Stiles said. "We have three days to figure out how to keep me from going on a murderous rampage."

"You're not going to go on a murderous rampage."

"You don't know that."

"I know you," Scott said firmly. "And I know that even if you do transform, you're still you. We'll figure this out."

Stiles wanted to believe him. He really did. But the buzzing under his skin was getting stronger, and he could feel something else now too. Something that felt almost like anger, simmering just below the surface, even though he had nothing to be angry about.

"The person who texted me," Stiles said. "They said they know what bit me. What if they can help?"

"What if it's a trap?"

"Then you'll be there to rescue me." Stiles tried for a smile. "Come on, you've always wanted to be the hero."

"I really haven't."

"Liar."

Scott sighed, but he was smiling a little too. "Fine. We'll go to the Hale house tomorrow. But we're bringing weapons."

"What kind of weapons?"

"I don't know. Baseball bats? My mom's pepper spray?"

"Your mom's pepper spray is expired."

"How do you know that?"

"I checked last month when we were researching that thing for chemistry class."

Scott shook his head. "You're so weird."

"Yeah, well, now I'm a weird werewolf. So at least I'm consistent."

They spent the next few hours going through more research, making notes, trying to piece together a coherent picture of what was happening and what they should expect. By the time Scott had to leave for dinner, they had three pages of notes and about a million more questions than answers.

"I'll see you tomorrow at school," Scott said as he packed up his stuff. "Try not to do anything werewolf-y before then."

"I'll do my best."

After Scott left, Stiles lay back on his bed and tried to process everything. He was turning into a werewolf. That was his reality now. In three days, on the full moon, he would transform into something else. Something dangerous.

And he had absolutely no idea how to stop it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next day at school was surreal.

Stiles could hear everything. Every whispered conversation, every locker slamming, every squeaking sneaker on the linoleum floor. It was overwhelming, this constant assault of sound, and by second period he had a pounding headache that even the painkillers couldn't touch.

Scott met him at his locker between classes, looking worried. "How are you holding up?"

"Everything's too loud," Stiles said, wincing as someone dropped a textbook three classrooms away. "How do people live like this?"

"Normal people can't hear textbooks being dropped three classrooms away."

"Right. Yeah. That's a good point."

They made it through the rest of the school day, though Stiles spent most of it trying not to freak out. The heightened senses were getting worse, not better. He could smell things he'd never noticed before—the specific brand of deodorant the kid next to him was wearing, the cafeteria food from two floors down, Scott's nervous sweat.

By the time four o'clock rolled around, Stiles was exhausted and on edge. He and Scott drove to the Hale house in Stiles' Jeep, neither of them saying much. The burned-out mansion loomed at the end of the long driveway, dark and imposing even in the afternoon sun.

"This is a terrible idea," Scott said as they got out of the car.

"Noted."

They walked up to the front door together. Or what used to be the front door. Most of it had burned away in the fire, leaving just a charred frame. Stiles could smell ash and something else, something chemical that made his nose wrinkle.

"Hello?" Stiles called out. "Anyone here?"

There was movement in the shadows at the back of the house. Then a figure stepped forward, and Stiles felt his breath catch.

It was a guy, maybe early twenties, with dark hair and darker eyes. He was wearing a leather jacket despite the warm weather, and there was something about the way he moved that set off every alarm bell in Stiles' head. This was someone dangerous.

"You came," the guy said. His voice was low and rough. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Yeah, well, I'm an idiot," Stiles replied. "So who are you, and how do you know what bit me?"

The guy's eyes flicked to Scott, then back to Stiles. "I said to come alone."

"And I said I'm an idiot, not suicidal. Scott stays."

For a moment, the guy looked like he might argue. Then he shrugged. "Fine. My name is Derek Hale. This was my family's house before it burned down six years ago."

"Hale," Stiles repeated. "Like the Hale fire? The one where—"

"Where most of my family died? Yeah. That one." Derek's expression was hard. "I'm one of the only survivors. Me and my uncle."

"Okay, but what does that have to do with me getting attacked in the woods?"

"Everything." Derek moved closer, and Stiles fought the urge to step back. "What attacked you wasn't an animal. It was an Alpha werewolf."

Even though Stiles had already figured that out, hearing someone else say it made it feel more real. "An Alpha?"

"The leader of a werewolf pack. The most powerful type." Derek's eyes were fixed on Stiles with an intensity that was unnerving. "When an Alpha bites someone, it passes on the curse. You're going to become a werewolf."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that part out."

"Then you know you're in danger. The Alpha that bit you didn't do it randomly. He's building a pack, and you're a part of it now whether you want to be or not."

Scott spoke up for the first time. "What do you mean, 'building a pack'?"

"Alphas need Betas—werewolves they've turned—to be stronger. The bigger the pack, the more powerful the Alpha becomes." Derek's jaw tightened. "But there's a problem. The Alpha who bit you is a rogue. He's been killing people all over town. Which means you're connected to a murderer."

Stiles felt his stomach drop. "Connected how?"

"You'll feel a pull toward him. Especially during the full moon. He'll be able to call you, make you do things you don't want to do." Derek paused. "Unless you learn to fight it."

"How?"

"By finding an anchor. Something that ties you to your humanity, that keeps you in control when the wolf tries to take over." Derek looked at Scott. "For some people, it's their family. For others, it's a friend. But it has to be something strong. Strong enough to override the Alpha's call."

Stiles and Scott exchanged glances. "Okay. Let's say I find an anchor. Then what?"

"Then you learn to control the transformation. Control the anger, the aggression, all the things that make new werewolves dangerous." Derek's expression softened, just slightly. "I can help you. But you have to listen to me, and you have to do exactly what I say."

"Why would you help me?"

"Because the Alpha that bit you is the same one who killed my sister." Derek's voice was rough with emotion. "And I'm going to find him. Having you as bait makes that easier."

"Oh, cool, so I'm bait. Great." Stiles ran a hand through his hair. "And what happens when we find this Alpha? What then?"

"Then I kill him."

The words hung in the air between them.

"If you kill him," Scott said slowly, "what happens to Stiles?"

"The connection breaks. He'll still be a werewolf, but he won't be part of the Alpha's pack anymore. He'll be free."

Stiles looked at Scott, trying to read his best friend's expression. Scott looked worried but determined, and Stiles knew without asking that whatever he decided, Scott would back him up.

"Okay," Stiles said finally. "I'll do it. But Scott's involved in this too. Whatever you teach me, he learns. Deal?"

Derek looked between them, then nodded. "Deal. But we start training now. The full moon is in two days, and you're nowhere near ready."

"Define 'training.'"

Derek's smile was sharp. "You'll see."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next forty-eight hours were brutal.

Derek pushed Stiles harder than anyone had ever pushed him in his entire life. They met in the Preserve every afternoon after school, and Derek made him run, fight, and practice controlling his transformation over and over until Stiles thought he might collapse.

"Again," Derek barked as Stiles struggled to his feet for what felt like the hundredth time. "You need to be faster."

"I'm trying!" Stiles gasped, sweat dripping down his face. "In case you haven't noticed, I've been a werewolf for like, three days. I'm still figuring this out!"

"You won't have time to figure it out when the full moon rises. Either you learn to control it now, or you'll kill someone tomorrow night."

That was always Derek's go-to threat. You'll kill someone. You'll hurt someone you love. You'll lose control and become a monster. And as much as Stiles hated hearing it, he knew Derek was right.

Scott was there for every training session, taking notes, offering encouragement, and occasionally yelling at Derek when he thought the older werewolf was pushing too hard. But mostly Scott just watched, his face tight with worry, and Stiles knew his best friend felt helpless.

"I wish I could do more," Scott said on Thursday night as they drove home from another exhausting session. Stiles had new bruises forming on his ribs where Derek had thrown him into a tree. Again.

"You're doing plenty," Stiles said tiredly. "Trust me, having you there keeps me sane."

"But I can't actually help. Derek's the one teaching you. I'm just..."

"Just my best friend. Just the reason I'm doing this in the first place." Stiles glanced over at him. "You're my anchor, Scott. You know that, right?"

Scott's eyes widened. "What?"

"Derek said I needed something to tie me to my humanity. Something strong enough to keep me human even when the wolf takes over. That's you, dude. You're the one person I know will always have my back, no matter how crazy things get."

Scott was quiet for a moment. Then, "Even when you're a murderous werewolf trying to rip my face off?"

"Especially then."

They both laughed, and some of the tension in the car eased.

But Friday morning brought a new kind of anxiety. Stiles woke up feeling different. More on edge, more aware of his body in a way that was deeply unsettling. His hearing was even sharper than before, his sense of smell so acute that he could identify what his dad had for breakfast just by walking past the kitchen.

And underneath it all was that pull Derek had warned him about. A feeling like something was calling to him, urging him to go somewhere, do something. The Alpha's call.

School was a nightmare. Stiles spent most of the day trying not to freak out, his leg bouncing under his desk, his hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking. He could feel the wolf right beneath his skin, pressing against the edges of his control.

At lunch, Scott pulled him aside. "How are you doing?"

"Fantastic. Living the dream. Definitely not about to lose it in the middle of the cafeteria."

"Stiles—"

"I'm fine. It's fine. Everything's fine." But even as he said it, Stiles could feel his control slipping. His vision was starting to sharpen, colors becoming more vivid. His hands felt wrong, like his bones wanted to reshape themselves.

"We need to get you out of here," Scott said urgently. "Like, right now."

They ditched their last two periods and drove straight to the Preserve. Derek was already there, waiting by the old Hale house.

"You look like hell," Derek said by way of greeting.

"Gee, thanks." Stiles got out of the Jeep, his legs feeling shaky. "So what's the plan for tonight? Because I'm feeling very not in control right now."

"The plan is you stay here, chained up, until the moon sets." Derek produced a set of heavy chains from inside the house. "It's not pretty, but it'll keep you from hurting anyone."

Stiles stared at the chains. "You want to chain me up like an animal?"

"You are an animal. At least, you will be in a few hours." Derek's expression was grim. "This is the safest option. For you and everyone else."

"What about you? Are you going to chain yourself up too?"

"I'm not a new werewolf. I can control it." Derek gestured to the chains. "Now are you going to cooperate, or do I have to force you?"

Stiles looked at Scott, who looked miserable but nodded. "It's probably for the best, dude. At least until you learn more control."

Every instinct Stiles had was screaming at him to run, to fight, to not let himself be trapped. But he thought about what Derek had said. About new werewolves hurting people. About losing control. About becoming a monster.

"Fine," Stiles said. "But if I break out of these things and kill you, I'm not apologizing."

"Noted."

Derek secured the chains to one of the support beams in what used to be the Hale house's basement. It was dark and cold down there, and Stiles hated every second of it. But as the sun started to set and he felt that pull getting stronger, he was almost grateful for the restraints.

"I'll stay with him," Scott said.

"No." Derek's tone left no room for argument. "If he breaks free, you won't be able to stop him. You'll just end up hurt or dead."

"I'm not leaving him alone—"

"Scott." Stiles forced himself to sound calm even though his heart was racing. "Derek's right. You need to go. I'll be okay."

"But—"

"Please."

Scott looked between them, clearly torn. Finally, he nodded. "I'll be back first thing in the morning. And if anything happens—"

"Nothing's going to happen," Derek said. "I'll make sure of it."

Scott gave Stiles one last worried look, then headed up the stairs. Stiles heard the Jeep start up a moment later, heard the sound of it driving away, and then he was alone with Derek in the dark basement.

"This is going to hurt," Derek said quietly. "The first transformation always does."

"Great. Something to look forward to."

The moon rose.

Stiles felt it the moment it crested the horizon. It was like someone had flipped a switch inside him, turning everything up to a level he couldn't even comprehend. The pull toward the Alpha became overwhelming, this desperate need to go, to find him, to obey.

And then the pain started.

It felt like every bone in his body was breaking and reforming. His muscles spasmed, his skin felt too tight, and he could feel his teeth elongating in his mouth. He tried to fight it, tried to remember what Derek had taught him about control, but it was too much.

He heard himself scream, but it came out more like a roar.

His vision went red.

When Stiles came back to himself, it was morning. He was still in the basement, still chained to the support beam, but everything hurt. His throat was raw from screaming, his wrists were bloody from straining against the chains, and his head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.

Derek was sitting on the floor a few feet away, watching him with tired eyes.

"Welcome back," Derek said.

Stiles tried to speak, but his voice came out as a croak. Derek handed him a bottle of water, and Stiles drank half of it before he could form words.

"Did I... did I hurt anyone?"

"No. You stayed chained up the whole time." Derek paused. "But you tried like hell to break free."

Stiles looked down at his wrists, at the raw skin and dried blood. "How long?"

"About six hours. The moon set an hour ago."

"And you stayed here the whole time?"

"Someone had to make sure you didn't actually break the chains." Derek stood up, moved to unlock the restraints. "You did better than I expected for your first full moon."

"I don't feel like I did better."

"You didn't kill anyone. That's better."

The chains fell away, and Stiles slumped forward, catching himself on his hands. Every muscle in his body was screaming. Derek hauled him to his feet, and Stiles was embarrassed by how much he needed the help.

They made it upstairs just as Scott's Jeep pulled up. Scott practically fell out of the driver's side, running toward them.

"Is he okay? Did it work? Did anything—"

"He's fine," Derek said. "The chains held."

Scott's relief was palpable. He wrapped an arm around Stiles' shoulders, careful of his injuries, and helped him toward the Jeep. "Come on, let's get you home."

"My dad—"

"Thinks you stayed at my house last night," Scott finished. "I called him this morning and told him you were still asleep. We've got some time before you need to face him."

Stiles nodded, too exhausted to argue. As they drove away from the Hale house, he looked back to see Derek standing in the driveway, watching them go.

"What now?" Stiles asked.

"Now we figure out how to find the Alpha," Scott said. "And we stop him before anyone else gets hurt."

"No pressure or anything."

"Yeah." Scott's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "No pressure."

Stiles leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. He'd survived his first full moon. He hadn't killed anyone, hadn't hurt anyone, hadn't become the monster he'd been terrified of becoming.

But he could still feel that pull, that connection to the Alpha. And he knew that as long as it existed, he'd never be truly free.

Derek was right. They needed to find the Alpha. They needed to stop him.

And Stiles had a sinking feeling that things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

But for now, at least, he had Scott. He had Derek. He had people who would help him through this, who wouldn't let him face it alone.

That had to be enough.