The return to Beacon Hills was taken on with an air of urgency, the psychic scream a lingering reminder of the Darach's unrelenting strength. Sheriff Stilinski, his countenance troubled, drove with resolute intent, the burden of his recent discovery a weighty one. Scott, his tension acute, repeatedly glanced at his phone for messages from Stiles, the static-ridden texts sketching a dire picture of a town held in terror. Damien, riding next to Coralia in her SUV, experienced a pent-up energy churning beneath his skin, the desire to learn to control his Lycan powers now joined with an abject need to save the innocent lives being lost to the Darach.
"The Nemeton," Scott replied, his voice strained with tension as they at last entered the Beacon Hills town boundary. "Stiles told me it's in the Preserve's old growth district. A place that was always… charged."
Coralia nodded, her eyes on the familiar but now sinister landscape. "A power nexus, Scott. An area where the veil is thin between worlds. If the Darach is siphoning power from it, we have to know how."
"Stiles believes the sacrifices are waking it up," Scott reported, reading a panicked text message. "'Like charging a battery of pure evil,' his quote."
Damien couldn't help but feel like he was behind the times, his inability to control his Lycan state a maddening weakness. "If it's a power source, can't we just.interfere with it?"
Coralia's face was serious. "It's not that easy, Damien. Old power, particularly when tainted, is unstable. An attack without knowledge could have unintended effects, even enhance the Darach's power.
Sheriff Stilinski's voice crackled on the radio. "I'm going to the Sheriff's station. I need to touch base with Parrish, review what we have on the recent missing persons. Watch yourself in the Preserve."
"Copy that, Sheriff," Scott answered, a knot of concern twisting in his gut. Having the Sheriff deal with the human aspect of the crisis and they going into the supernatural core of it seemed to be splitting their already slender resources.
As they walked into the Preserve, the familiar forest seemed altered, a repressed undertone of darkness attending the air. The old trees looked as if they had eyes that watched them in guarded judgment, their shadows reaching out long and foreboding in the afternoon light.
This way," Scott instructed, his werewolf senses leading them deeper into the forest, toward the location Stiles had indicated. The air cooled, growing quieter, punctuated only by the sound of leaves rustling and the far-off caw of a crow.
They came to a clearing controlled by the great, rotting stump of a long-dead tree. It was twisted and gnarled, covered in moss and odd, alien symbols etched deep into the bark. A creepy energy seemed to come from it, a tangible force of both strength and putridity.
"This is it," Scott breathed, his eyes wide with a feral fear. "The Nemeton.
Coralia crept up to the stump slowly, her hand extended, her fingers tracing over the chilly, wet wood. Her eyes shut, her forehead creased in effort.
"The energy here… it's poisoned," she breathed, her words barely audible. "Polluted by darkness, by suffering. Stiles is correct. The sacrifices… they're nourishing something here.
Damien felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, a feeling of being watched. He scanned the surrounding woods, his senses on high alert. "We're not alone."
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the clearing. It was Peter Hale, his red eyes glinting with a predatory amusement.
"Well, look what the cat dragged back," Peter whispered, his eyes raking the group, pausing on Damien. "Playing in the woods? Didn't your mother ever tell you not to get too far from home, little wolf?"
Scott's claws came out automatically, a growling rumble building in his chest. "What do you want, Peter?"
Peter chuckled, a chilling sound. "Just observing. Curious about your little… field trip. And rather intrigued by our Lycan friend's sudden burst of power." His red eyes locked onto Damien. "You have a fascinating lineage. One I'd very much like to understand."
"Stay away from him," Coralia warned, stepping protectively in front of Damien.
Peter held up his hands in jest surrender. "Calm down, Coralia. I'm not here to fight. today. Although I must say, the potential for another display of your pet Lycan's talents is. intriguing." His eyes snapped back to the Nemeton. "Nice little. monument you've set up. A source of power, don't you think?
A chill fear swept over Damien. Peter's fascination with the Nemeton was unnerving. What was he after? What did he know?
"What's your interest in the Nemeton?" Damien asked warily.
Peter smiled. "Power, little wolf. Bare, unbridled power. Something this town has plenty of these days. And knowing the sources of it… well, that's just smart tactics, don't you think?" His eyes grew calculating. "The Darach… she's using this site, isn't she? Siphoning energy off of it."
Coralia's eyes grew sharp. "You know about the Darach?
Peter shrugged. "A few whispers here, a few there. An uprising tide of darkness. It's difficult to ignore when it begins to trample over your turf." He paused, his eyes flicking back and forth between Damien and Coralia. "Maybe… we share a common enemy."
The proposal lingered, a volatile one. A partnership with Peter Hale? The idea was abhorrent, yet the danger of the Darach could not be ignored.
"Don't even consider it," Scott snarled, his faith in Peter nonexistent.
"Consider it, little wolf," replied Peter, his red eyes flashing. "The Darach is gaining strength with each murder. Can you really say you can stop her alone?" He turned to Damien. "Your untrained power is formidable, Lycan, but not under control. You need to be taught. And perhaps… I need to learn about your heritage."
The Nemeton clearing seemed to hum, not only with the lingering energy of the druids, but with the volatile tension among uneasy allies and secret agendas. The Darach web of darkness was spreading, and in the presence of a common foe, even the most unlikely of partnerships could be formed. But the rumors of betrayal hung in the air, a reminder that trust, above all else in the supernatural landscape of Beacon Hills, was a delicate and deadly currency.