Prologue – grief

Derek paces back in forth in the loft. Braeden stands next to the table, leaning on it. She looks just as fiercely beautiful as usual, but Derek doesn't need to take a whiff of her to know that she's frustrated and angry. Documents and various other papers are spread on the table top, and she's flipping through them restlessly. Dark circles bruise under her eyes and her hair is slightly frizzy, pulled back out of her eyes in a loose ponytail. She snaps her cellphone out and begins to dial a number.

Derek slides down the nearest wall and sits on the floor, elbows on his knees. Even after being back in the loft for the miserable past six months, it still feels strange to be back. He'd been ready to leave Beacon Hills for as long as he could. The large looming windows stare down at him, small snowflakes melting and dripping down slowly. It's late December, exactly five days before Christmas, and the last time Derek had dreaded the holidays this much, it had been the year after his family died. In his head, Derek replays Scott's voice when he told him what happened, reminding him why he was here.

"Hello? . . . Yes, this is her. Do you have the information I asked for? . . . No. Don't say anything. . .I realize this. . .Thank you for your help, please alert me when you lock in on the location. Happy Holidays."

Braeden's sentences are short but polite, and Derek hadn't tried to eavesdrop on the other side of the call, so it surprises him immensely when Braeden slams her phone into the table. The entire pack, even Derek himself, had offered paying for her services. Braeden took one look at them and angrily shook her head. This was something she wanted to do, she didn't need their money. In an instant, he's standing in front of her, hands on her shoulders, his eyebrows hunched in worry.

She gives him a look Derek wishes he didn't recognize. Almost the same look she'd given him as he bled out in Mexico. The hopelessness shone sadly in her eyes. Derek knows how strong the woman in front of him is. She'd been through things that were comparable to the things he himself had had to deal with. And he's had to deal with a lot.

"He's not the first one, Derek. Over a hundred of them have been taken in the last three years."

Her voice is steady, but he sees the way her shoulders slump.

A hundred. A hundred teenagers missing, taken away from friends, families, and their lives.

As Derek begins to form a reply, the snow outside turns into loud and pouring rain. When lightning flashes a couple seconds later, they both look out the window and almost miss the sound of the alarm as thunder strikes.

Almost like the pair had done it a thousand times, Braeden grabs her gun and hides in the shadows next to the wall, Derek sliding into the shadows on the other side. When the door slides open, Derek inhales the scent of human and misery, so strong it almost makes him stumble.

It's a blonde boy. He's wearing dirty white clothing not suited to the weather, water droplets dripping from his tall and lanky frame. His brown eyes search around in panic, and the boy – he looks about seventeen – limps and trips into the room, failing to notice the two people behind him. He mumbles something.

"Braeden. . .Brae—"

The werewolf has the blonde pushed up against the wall in seconds. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The boy's lips are blue and he coughs nastily when his back hits the wall. "Derek," Braeden chastises behind him. He lets his hold on the boy loosen a little. As he breathes in, he senses the boy's pain, but there's also something else, something that Derek knows well. The boy's voice is rough, like it hasn't been used in days, but there's a certain accent to it too, almost British.

"I – I know where he is," the boy gasps. "I know where – where Stiles is."

Letting go of the boy in shock, he almost doesn't notice when the blonde slides down the wall and stops breathing.

Like always, Braeden is there; calling 911 and performing CPR.

Taking another step back, Derek lets out the breath he was holding. Underneath all his pain and misery, the boy was drowning in grief.