Broken Kiss (a Teen Wolf story)

Part 6

            “The heads were gone,” Derek said.

            “All of them?” Peter asked.

            Behind Derek, Scott McCall rolled his eyes. The little punk. A true alpha, he shouldn’t have stood behind Derek. He should have been front and center, presiding over every room he entered. He didn’t understand the power he had, couldn’t wield it yet. He lacked conviction, Peter decided, and one day it was going to get him killed. Him and his loyal pack of friends. They’d follow him into any battle, not because he was a great strategist. He hadn’t even figured out how to calculate the odds. They followed out of blind devotion. It would get them all killed, including Lydia, and that Peter would never forgive him for.

            “Yeah, all the heads,” Scott said, coming around the table beneath Derek’s loft window. “If there really were any. How do we know you didn’t lure Lydia out there and mess with her head?”

            It was Peter’s turn to roll his eyes. He scoffed and dropped onto the battered couch.

            “Derek, did you call me here for something other than the accusations of this amateur Sherlock?”

            “I’d like to know as well,” Derek said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. When Peter gave him a quelling look, Derek only raised an eyebrow. “Are you messing with Lydia?”

            “No.” It came out stronger than he’d intended and Peter frowned. “A creature mesmerized her. Something incorporeal. She’s…susceptible to it. Probably because it's from the realm of the dead. The dog may have been there coincidentally, and even after I sliced it to pieces and broke its neck, it came back to life.”

            “A zombie dog?” Scott asked flatly.

            “You called it a Cerberus,” Derek said, spinning the laptop around on the table. From where he sat, Peter could see the image of a pencil drawing. The dog stalked the shore of a winding river, one snout in the water, the other testing the air. The third mouth was wide open, revealing two rows of jagged teeth. The body was thick and muscular, like a lion’s. The tail was long and barbed. Black, sharp-headed snakes ringed its neck but seemed to be floating around it rather than attached.

            “Or maybe it was a Labradoodle.” Peter shrugged. “It was very dark.”

            “It smelled like brimstone,” Derek said. “And it left a trail of slime.”

            “First you doubted me, now you believe me. Make up your minds.” Peter stretched out on the couch. He’d been vigilant until he’d deposited Lydia on her doorstep after Melissa McCall had interrupted them at the hospital. But now he was tired. The Cerberus had taken a couple of bites out of his side before he’d decapitated it…twice. “I hope you didn’t touch the slime. It’s toxic.”

            “How do you know so much about this thing?” Scott asked, approaching but not getting within striking distance. Maybe he was getting a little smarter.

            “Easy. Because I paid attention in class. You should look into it some day. In Greek mythology, the Cerberus dogs belong to Hades, god of the underworld.”

            “Right,” Scott said. “Son of Zeus.”

        “Brother,” Peter corrected, closing his eyes and folding his hands over his chest. “The underworld isn’t hell in the modern sense but a massive kingdom where the dead roam in various forms. Most are like they were in life except for being under his authority. Others are shades or ghouls or some such. I don’t know what purpose they serve. Maybe they’re decorative, for atmosphere. Beneath the underworld is the prison realm of Tartarus where the monsters that haunt the dreams of monsters are kept when captured through Herculean efforts. Or when imprisoned by Hades and his siblings. My goodness, how gods like their grudges.”

            “What would Hades want with Lydia?” Scott asked, and Peter admired him for his anger. He would protect her, which might very soon become necessary.

            “Think about it,” Derek said. “He rules the land of the dead. Lydia’s a banshee.”

            “She can hear the dead,” Scott said. He shook his head. “But what use is that for someone who is their king?”

             “It’s mythology,” Peter cried, throwing his hand up. “And, yes, yes, we’re werewolves and we’re supposed to be myths, too. But there are rules to our species and there is logic behind it. We don’t leap fully-formed from our father’s brains then turn people into swans with the flick of a wrist. The thing that Lydia attracted was probably a ghost.”

            Derek turned away, busying himself with the laptop, and Peter swung his legs to the ground and faced Scott.

            “Her powers grow, but not her control, right?” Normally lies rolled off of his tongue, but this one tasted sour. She was getting stronger, working to master her gift even though there was no one to guide her, to teach her. He couldn’t even do it, and he’d been her catalyst. He didn’t like the confusion in her eyes, the frustration that grated at her. Feeling useless was its own torment.

            “She attracted something, and a strange creature followed the scent of her power. This town is literally a beacon right now, attracting all kinds of freakish beings. If it hasn’t moved on, we’ll hunt for it later. There’s no reason to think it’s connected to the ghost or after her specifically. If it is drawn to power, we should be more concerned with it coming after you, Scott.”

            “I can take care of myself,” the alpha said, stiffening. “But if you’re wrong and something happens to Lydia…”

            “Nothing will happen to her.” His claws started to emerge and Peter dropped his hands between his knees to hide them.

            “He’s right,” Derek said. “You need to pay attention to your surroundings at all times, Scott. And to do that, you need to be well-rested. It’s almost three a.m. and we’re close to a full moon. Get some sleep. You’ll need your control.”

            He wanted to resist. Noble, ignorant McCall who couldn’t spot a lie told to his face. It would have been admirable if it weren’t so sad.

            “Fine,” Scott said, grabbing his motorcycle helmet. “But I’ll hunt for it again tonight.”

            “I’ll help you. Drive safe.” Derek watched him leave the loft, then turned on Peter. “So, Uncle, what does the lord of the underworld want with the banshee?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “No?” Derek asked, sounding unconvinced. He smirked. “Then I’ve got another question for you. What do you want with her?”

            To keep her safe.

            To claim her.

            To worship her.

            To make her regret forcing him to feel. 

            Peter shook his head. “I have no idea.”