The initial glimmering of dawn was tinting the Beacon Hills sky bruised purples and grays when Damien came back. Scott and Stiles, slouching in the Sheriff's office, had endured the dogged hours since Damien left in a state of raw anxiety, their heads spinning with Liam's unnerving visit. The aroma of fear in the room was dense enough to swallow, a bitter contrast to the lukewarm coffee.
Scott's head whipped up as Damien arrived, his Beta senses tingling with a blend of relief and fresh trepidation. The air surrounding Damien, quietly altered now, bore a faint, elder chill, reminiscent of ozone after lightning.
"Damien! Are you all right?" Scott bolted toward him, his voice strained with worry. "What went on? Who is she? What did she want?
Stiles, who had been half-asleep with his head on a pile of dusty law books, jolted awake, spilling a cold cup of coffee. "Did she try to bite you? Did she sparkle? Tell me she didn't sparkle! Because if she sparkles, I'm pretty sure I'm done with the supernatural forever. That's just… too much."
Damien's golden eyes were unreadable as his met theirs. He strode to the center of the room and pulled out a chair, spinning it around and sitting down straddling it, his forearms crossed over the backrest. The routine act radiated an unseen power that demanded their complete attention.
"Her name is Carmilla," Damien started, his voice a deep, even growl. "She is an old one, a vampire. A queen, Liam referred to her as. And she is very strong. Much stronger than any werewolf you've ever met."
Scott's jaw clenched. "A vampire queen? Seriously? So Liam, the boy from our school, is essentially, what, a princeling of the dead? This is getting silly. Next we'll learn that our math teacher has a secret life as a troll."
"Actually, I'm kind of certain that Mr. Henderson is a troll," Stiles muttered, and then hastily added, "But okay, no, vampires. This is a game-changer. What did she want, Damien? Why'd she invite you alone?
Damien's eyes scanned them, weighing how much to tell them. He opted to concentrate on the here and now. "She wants the Darach halted. Her people have watched this area for centuries. The corruption of the Nemeton by the Darach affects all supernatural creatures, including themselves. She sees the Darach as a 'disruptive' force, something that destabilizes the ancient balance."
"So, she's. on our side?" Scott asked, incredulity fighting with a spark of hope.
Damien's face was unsmiling. "She is on her side. Our interests, at the moment, converge. She proposed an exchange: her knowledge and assets, in exchange for. understanding. Understanding of my heritage. My powers.
Stiles's eyes went wide. "She wants to autopsy you? Like, actually? That is not an 'alliance,' that is a 'we're going to stick you with sharp sticks and most likely suck your blood when you're not paying attention' kind of thing."
"She talked of my 'dominion,'" Damien went on, dismissing Stiles's theatrics. "The mental control. She considers it 'fascinating.' She also assured the Darach's greater purpose: to corrupt the Nemeton with ancient bloodlines. She told the last sacrifice would be of a very particular type of sacrifice. One whose bloodline is irrevocably connected to the Nemeton's beginnings."
Scott scowled. "A particular bloodline? What does that indicate?"
It means the Darach isn't selecting random victims," Coralia interrupted, having sat in silence. "She's building up, targeting specific energies, and now, maybe, a very particular kind of power, a root connection to the Nemeton itself. A guardian bloodline, maybe. One whose old task was to ensure balance, not destroy it.
The implication lingered heavily in the air, a fresh layer of fear. If the Darach was hunting specific bloodlines, then their task of finding the next victim more pressing, but infinitely more complicated. They weren't merely seeking a career; they were searching for a bloodline.
"Alright, so, new mission," Stiles declared, snatching a new pile of legal pads. "Track down the Darach's 'super-special family tree victim.' This is a job for… me. And my dad's archives. You guys do the… you know… supernatural punching."
Scott experienced the familiar frustration. He was a Beta, not an Alpha. He was meant to be taking charge of his pack, but he was perpetually playing catch-up, having to depend on Damien's advice and Stiles's research. His hold on his shifts, as it was, was wearing thin under the constant strain. Just the day before, a trivial disagreement with a lacrosse teammate had nearly caused him to unintentionally extend his claws. He'd just managed to yank it back, the comforting sear of the shift burning his flesh. He needed to get a grip on this, and fast, before he hurt someone, or worse, got caught out.
"We also need to work out what 'Carmilla' is really providing us with," Scott ventured, attempting to get some control back of the conversation. "What sort of 'intelligence' does an ancient vampire queen provide?"
Damien just shrugged. "She promised assistance when our bargain was secured. We will see. For the moment, however, the news of the bloodline is what matters. It provides us with a direction."
Miles away, shrouded by the pre-dawn darkness, a strong smell filled the hot air of Beacon Hills – a combination of terror, blood, and something wild and ancient. Derek Hale stepped out of the dense forest that lined the Preserve, his face set with a grim resolve. He had been pulled back, his instincts howling that his family home was falling apart. He instantly caught the familiar, wild smell of a newly bitten Beta werewolf (Scott, unmistakably), mixed with the psychic reek of the Darach's recent ceremonies.
But what really motivated him was the sheer prevalence of a new, incredibly dominant Alpha signature in the Preserve, a scent he didn't know to associate with the local territory. He'd been following it from afar for days, an Alpha who had obviously staked out this town as theirs, an Alpha he believed was behind Laura's death and Scott's bite.
He also sensed the creepy scents of other dominant, unfamiliar supernatural entities: the wild, animalistic aura of the Lycan (Damien), exuding vast power, and the unthinkably icy, ancient, metallic smell of vampires lingering around the Lycan. Beacon Hills was being transformed into a battleground for forces he hadn't even realized existed beyond infrequent, obscure mythology.
Derek went with silent stealth, his instincts taking him straight to the Sheriff's station. He knew the young Beta he was following, Scott, would be present, drawn as they always were to the eye of any supernatural storm. The Darach was bad enough, but an unknown, powerful Alpha, a Lycan, and vampires? This was a threat of a different order altogether. This was something an Alpha needed to handle personally.
He arrived at the station, the fluorescent lights humming inside. He could hear voices – a young werewolf, a human, and that other potent presence. His eyes narrowed red. Damien's presence was unmistakably powerful, possessing incredible power. The cold smell of the vampires still remained on him.
Derek breathed in deep, bracing himself. He knew this was going to be hard, full of questions that needed answering about the new Alpha, about these mysterious new beasts, and about what this new Beta and his human buddy had gotten themselves mixed up in. He rapped hard on the door, his fist a boom against the wood, proclaiming his arrival.
Within, the soft murmur of talk stopped dead. Scott's head jerked up, his Beta eyes going wide in confused shock. He didn't know the grim, strong man standing in the doorway. Stiles, however, went white.
"Oh, God," Stiles breathed, a horror-stricken gasp escaping his throat. "It's him. It's Derek Hale.
Derek opened the door, crossing into the antiseptic glow of the Sheriff's office. His eyes scanned Scott, then Stiles, before focusing on Damien, his eyes blazing with distrust.
"You," Derek stated, his voice a low growl, directed at Scott. "Your scent is out of control. You're attracting too much attention." He then looked at Stiles, a flicker of distant, tired recognition. "Stilinski. You're too involved for a human." His gaze finally locked onto Damien, his red eyes narrowing, assessing the immense power emanating from the Lycan.
What in the world is going on here?" Derek growled, his voice rising, his eyes blazing with icy rage. "I can smell the stench of Darach. I can smell you," he challenged Damien, a distinct warning in his tone, as if measuring up a competitor. "And there's something else on you. A cold one. An ancient one. Who bit you, McCall? And where is the Alpha whose land this has become now?
Scott took a step back, his confusion quickly turning into fear. This guy recognized his name, knew he was a werewolf, and knew his smell. He didn't have the least notion who he was. He looked around nervously at Damien, then Stiles, attempting to comprehend this new, ominous presence. The idea of disclosing Peter's real identity, particularly to this frightening stranger who appeared to be stalking the Alpha, was like an unthinkable betrayal of their fragile peace with Peter, and a risky complication to the already explosive situation.
Derek's eyes stayed glued to Damien, sizing up the Lycan's strength and potential position as Alpha he was looking for, or at least a strong presence involved in the burgeoning chaos. The stage was being set for an extremely volatile dynamic, where secrets festered just below the surface and fresh allegiances would be forged amid deadly misconceptions.