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The hunters lay sprawled on the asphalt, unconscious, their gear scattered at their feet. Lucas crouched between them, jaw tense.
He knew they wouldn't stay down long. Lightning was effective, but temporary. In less than an hour, they'd wake up with splitting headaches and questions that would only escalate things further.
Lucas's eyes drifted back to the car. The trunk was still open, gear gleaming under the weak midday sun. His gaze landed on a case marked with a red cross. He popped it open and found rows of neatly packed tranquilizers.
He took two, flicked off the safety caps, and without hesitation injected each hunter in the neck. Both men twitched, then went still again, their breathing steady but deep. Lucas pulled the needles free and tossed them back in the case.
"These should keep you two out for at least twelve hours," he muttered under his breath. "Time I can't afford to waste."
He dragged their limp bodies into the backseat of the car, stacking them carefully so no heads would be seen through the windows. Then he closed the door quietly and stepped back. The car was parked in a secluded corner of the lot, shielded from casual traffic by a cluster of trees. With any luck, no one would notice it for hours. Follow current novᴇls on novel{f}ire.net
Lucas stood there a moment longer, staring at the locked car, his reflection ghosted in the tinted glass. This isn't solving the problem. Just delaying it.
He slipped back into the school, blending into the flow of students like he'd never left. By the time he took his seat, the class was already underway, proceeding as usual. The teacher droned on, words lost to the buzzing in his head.
Lucas tapped his pen against the desk, forcing himself to look attentive. But inside, thoughts churned.
This is spiraling. Faster than any of us thought. The Hales. The Argents. Every move, every reaction, is exactly what someone wants—fuel on a fire. And we don't even know who's holding the match.
He clenched his jaw. Derek's name surfaced in his mind.
The hunters said he was at the morgue. Probably digging for clues. But in times , the truth doesn't matter. Perception does. Derek's made it worse just by being seen there. Now, the suspicions against him seem more credible.
Lucas stared at the notes on his desk without reading them. The tip of his pen tapped harder, faster.
I've bought myself some time with those two hunters. But when they wake up, then what?
The teacher called on another student. The classroom buzzed back to life. Lucas forced himself still, quiet, but the storm in his head didn't fade.
This isn't just about the Hales and the Argents anymore. If I don't figure this out, Beacon Hills is going to turn into a battleground.
The faint antiseptic sting of the clinic hit Derek's nose before anything else. His eyelids dragged open, heavy as stone, and blurry shapes swam into focus. A ceiling light hummed above him. Shadows stretched across the walls.
He was lying on a treatment table in a closed-off room, the faint clink of metal tools echoing somewhere nearby.
The vet moved methodically at a counter, sliding vials into testing equipment, notes scrawled beside them. When he glanced back and saw Derek stirring, he crossed the room with his usual calm, quiet steps.
"You're awake," Deaton said evenly, though his eyes tracked Derek closely.
Derek's throat was raw when he spoke. "Feels… better. But it's still there." He closed his eyes, breathed shallow. The burn hadn't left his veins. It was weaker, muted somehow, but still eating at him from the inside.
"You're right." Deaton's tone was clinical, patient. "I slowed the spread of the poison, but I couldn't remove it."
Derek frowned. His mind was foggy, but sharp enough to catch that. "What do you mean?"
Deaton didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gestured at the testing equipment on the counter. Rows of small vials, each glowing faintly under the lab light.
"This isn't ordinary wolfsbane," he said finally. "It's a rare type—more aggressive. Without the exact strain that was used on you, I can't make a cure. Not one that will work."
Deaton's voice grew heavy. "I'm working on it, but it could take days just to narrow down the right strain."
Derek's jaw clenched. Confusion gave way to grim acceptance. "How long do I have?"
Deaton hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Then, in a quiet voice: "At most… forty-eight hours."
The number hit Derek like a physical blow. He swung his legs off the table, forcing himself upright even as his muscles screamed.
Immediately, Deaton was at his side, hands up to steady or restrain him. "What are you doing?"
Derek's eyes burned, stubborn and sharp despite the poison. "I know who stabbed me. Edward something. If I find him, I find the exact strain he used. That's the only way."
Deaton's voice hardened in a rare flash of sternness. "You're in no condition to fight—or even stand for long. I'll tell Laura. She can find the hunter."
Derek shook his head, his whole body trembling with the effort of just staying on his feet. "No. This is my mess. I fix it."
His hand clenched at the edge of the table. He was already thinking of ways to find that hunter—despite the black haze crowding the corners of his vision.
Deaton sighed, the sound weary, almost sorrowful. "You're as stubborn as your sister."
Before Derek could answer, the prick of a needle bit into his neck.
He spun toward Deaton, teeth bared, but already the sedative dragged at his limbs, his strength evaporating. His vision swam again, narrowing to nothing.
The last thing Derek saw was Deaton's steady gaze, calm and unreadable as ever.
Then darkness took him.