The days that passed after the tense standoff with Peter Hale drew out long, each one a coiled spring of expectation. The Darach's dark ritual went on, each victim another tortuous twist in the town's tenuous self-control. The Sheriff's department buzzed with an air of desperation now, the map that hung on the wall an awful tapestry of terror and grief.
"Another victim, Dad," Stiles whispered, his voice scraped raw, nodding toward a fresh photograph pinned to the board – a popular local painter, her face drawn pale even in the bright color print. "She created that mural down town. The one with wolves. Irony's a real kick in the teeth, isn't it?"
Sheriff Stilinski massaged his eyes, the creases of fatigue deepening around them. "The M.E. verified it. The same. ritualistic injuries. The same draining. This is not a person, Stiles. This is a monster. And it's growing stronger."
Coralia, her face stern, ran a finger across her open tome of lore. "The Darach devours not only life, but essence. It would corrupt the Nemeton completely, make it a portal for deep darkness. Every sacrifice is towards that final end. The terror of the town. it's a willing sacrifice. It energizes her.
Scott felt the Darach's growing power like a cold knot in his stomach. His **Beta senses** were screaming, constantly on edge. The smell of fear was everywhere, a constant, sickening perfume. Controlling his own burgeoning wolf instincts became harder with each passing day. He found himself lashing out more, snarling at trivial frustrations, barely reigning in the shift when his anger flared. He knew he needed control, desperately. He searched for Damien, and more often than not, he found him in remote areas of the Preserve, meditating, his golden eyes far away, concentrated on something Scott couldn't understand.
"Damien, how do you do this?" Scott said one day, his voice strangled with aggravation. "How do you remain so at peace? I'm always at war with myself. Like the wolf just wants to hijack me."
Damien's gold-colored eyes blinked open. "Control is a result of knowledge, Scott. Not repression. The wolf is inside of you. It is strength. But it has to be at your service, not the reverse." He held out a hand, pointing to a thick, twisted root of an old tree. "Concentrate. Sense the ground. Root yourself.
Scott tried, taking deep breaths, letting his mind connect to the ground beneath him. It helped, a little. But the underlying current of anxiety, the knowledge of the Darach's escalating terror, still gnawed at him.
Peter Hale continued his unsettling dance of aid and manipulation. He'd emerge like a shark in the night, red eyes aglow with mirth as he shared rumors culled from the occult underground of Beacon Hills. "My… new associates… report a significant increase in otherworldly activity. The Darach is brazen. She's not hiding. She's almost… taunting her plans now. Attracting attention. Not just from werewolves." He'd glance at Damien, then Scott, with a smile of cunning. "Those dark ones standing close to the Nemeton? My betas tell me they're impossibly cold, quiet, gliding like death. Their smell… it is not wolf. It's… *ancient*. And they carry with them an icy fear that makes even a fresh-turned Beta whine like a puppy."
Damien heard Peter's reports, a fresh alertness in his golden eyes. **"Cold, ancient, silent."** That epitaph came to him as he sensed Liam's presence, though Liam himself had never projected overt fear. The presence of other beings, perhaps like Liam, attracted by the Darach's intensification, was a perilous factor. It assured him his senses weren't playing tricks on him about the cold, ancient presence.
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Farther across town, Liam Dunbar went on with his careful observation. He glided like a specter, his presence unnoticed by the human inhabitants, his red eyes seeing all. The heightened terror in Beacon Hills was a tangible sensation for him, a buzzing hum that resonated through the town's psychic fabric. Carmilla's fascination, already running high, was now peaking. The Lycan's presence, the Darach's escalating power, and the subtle emergence of other ancient beings drawn by the chaos – it was a unique convergence.
He observed Damien and Scott in the Preserve, the Lycan instructing the young Beta. Liam observed Damien's distinctive aura, the raw, unpolished power that glowed about him. It was a difference from the unpolished strength of the young Beta, a reflection of Damien's bloodline being pure, a thing Carmilla profoundly respected.
Liam took out his phone, a sleek instrument that looked nearly anachronistic in his medieval hand. His text to Carmilla was short, but effective:
*"The ritual of the Darach approaches conclusion. Other kin have come, attracted by the corruption of the Nemeton. The Lycan is still up. Conjunction is important. My surveillance concluded."*
A second later, a response. Briefer, more direct.
*"Set it up. Now.
Liam's lips twisted into a faint, barely perceptible smile. Observation was over. The game was going to move into the next phase.
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That night, as Scott, Stiles, and Damien gathered in the Sheriff's office, poring over the newest Darach victim profiles, something changed in the room. A quiet, unrecognizable odor, like fresh rain blended with something metallic and very old, filtered through the open window. It was so faint, Stiles nearly overlooked it, thinking it a momentary draft. But Scott's Beta instincts quivered, and Damien's gold eyes narrowed, his focus drawn suddenly to the outside.
A second later, a silhouette materialized in the doorway, outlined against the flashing streetlights. He was young, gaunt, with a near-sleeping stillness. His eyes, although human-looking, had a depth that sucked in the light.
"Liam?" Scott asked, remembering him from school, although he couldn't remember why Liam had suddenly appeared here.
Liam Dunbar inclined his head slightly, his gaze falling directly on Damien, then sweeping to Scott, then Stiles. His voice was calm, almost unnervingly so. "My apologies for the intrusion. My… principal… wishes to extend an invitation."
Stiles scoffed, a nervous habit. "Your principal? Like, our principal? Mr. Harris? Because I'm pretty sure his only invitations are to detention."
Liam's crimson eyes held a flicker of amusement, but it was over all too soon. "No. Not Mr. Harris. A different principal. One with far more ancient authority. Her name is **Carmilla**." He paused, letting the name hang in the air, allowing his true nature to subtly manifest in the air around them. A faint, almost imperceptible aura of cold power pulsed, making the hair on Stiles's arms stand on end and Scott's Beta hackles rise instinctively.
He then stared at Damien, eyes narrowed. "She is an ancient of my kind, Lycan. A queen among us. She has been watching the imbalance here, the work of your Darach. And she wants to discuss a shared issue. And maybe… the special history of your bloodline. She proposes a meeting tonight. At her manor. Alone." His eyes flashed briefly toward Scott and Stiles. "Or rather, the Lycan alone. With my accompaniment, of course."
Scott sprang forward at once, his Beta senses crying out in alarm. "Alone? No way! That's a trap, Damien!"
Stiles, even though human, shivered at the cold feeling running down his spine. He recalled Peter's talk of new, cold presences. And the manner in which Liam had said "queen" and "ancient authority". it was too much. "Liam, what are you, exactly? And what kind of 'principal' has an 'estate' and sends people to meet 'Lycan's' alone at midnight?"
Liam's face was kept elegantly impassive. "I am an emissary. And she is my mother, in a manner that mortals would not comprehend. She is a **Vampire**. An ancient one. And she has a stake in what is happening here. A stake that may prove useful to you, or… troublesome, should it be dismissed." He faced Damien again. "Midnight. Her manor. I will escort you. You have sensed her presence previously, Lycan.
Damien's golden eyes were far away, reflective. He felt the truth in Liam's words, the old power thrumming underneath his courteous exterior. Liam hadn't directly admitted being a vampire to Scott or Stiles, but the aura and the subtle cues were adequate for Damien to affirm to himself, and for Scott and Stiles to sense the disturbing reality of it.
"I will go," Damien said, his low rumble of a voice cutting through Scott's objections. "We have to know her motives. And if her brains can help us against the Darach, then it is a risk I have to take. Peter's intel on the Darach is worth something, but this… this might be even more. This might be an alliance, or a dangerous new wild card, from a power player much older than any werewolf."
Scott swallowed hard, the weight of the new information pressing down on him. Vampires. Ancient ones. Another supernatural faction thrown into the boiling pot of Beacon Hills. He looked at Stiles, who just stared back, equally dumbfounded and terrified. The night promised more questions than answers, and perhaps, a deeper dive into a world far older and more dangerous than they had ever imagined.
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