Author's Note: Huh. I wonder if anyone remembers this story. It's been way, way too long - so let's get to it, shall we?

ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES

A couple of days later, Scott, Allison, Bridget, and Declan reached Cincinnati. The four agreed to head to a cafe for some lunch before checking in to their hotel. As Scott took their orders to the front, muttering about how Bridget must be crazy to order extra horseradish on anything, Allison took a seat at a long table with two seats on either side. Curiously, Bridget sat next to her, and Declan across from her, as far apart as possible.

Allison glanced between them. They'd only had to spend the first night of the trip in a single hotel room; the next two nights they'd managed to get separate, although side-by-side, rooms. Embarrassing prom debacles notwithstanding, both Scott and Allison had gotten used to hearing Declan and Bridget through the walls; the hunter and nymph were pretty much on par with the Alpha and his mate for how much sex they tended to have. Scott and Allison themselves had wasted little time on getting settled in their own room the night after they'd shared to get out of their clothes.

But in two nights of relative privacy, Allison hadn't heard a single sex noise coming from Bridget and Declan's room. She'd thought of asking Scott to use his super-senses - he could have told exactly what was happening in the room from his sense of hearing, and the next day he'd probably have been able to smell whether they'd had sex - but she knew that he'd think of that as a violation of their privacy, something paramount on everyone's minds right then. So Allison had let it go.

Now, though, it was obvious that the two were sitting as far from each other as possible, on purpose. Allison glanced around the little cafe, hoping to see something that would make a decent and non-awkward conversation starter. It wasn't that small, on reflection - ten tables, most against the walls, and the counter with a blackboard above it, advertising in handwritten chalk the drinks and sandwiches the cafe offered. It was about half full of patrons, most of whom had laptops open on their tables while they sipped beverages.

"So," Allison said. Neither Bridget nor Declan responded, looking in the opposite directions from each other. "I feel a little out of place here without an iMac. Anyone else feeling the same?"

"Yes," Bridget said, dismissively, as though she hadn't heard.

"Sure," Declan said, in the same tone of voice.

Allison looked between her two friends. "Okay, what is going on with you - "

The counter behind them exploded.

Allison's eyes went black for a moment. When she came to, she was no longer sitting at a table, she was laying on the ground, small bits of debris scattered under and on top of her. She opened her eyes; after a half second of being barraged by visual details her brain wasn't ready to sort out, she mashed her eyes shut again, her head suddenly throbbing. Her eyes still shut, she pushed her torso off the ground, trying to keep herself steady. There was a loud ringing sound in her ears.

Allison glanced around. The table they'd been sitting at was flipped over next to her. No one was left standing in the cafe. Smoke and dust hung heavily in the air. The counter had a giant, smoking hole in the middle. Just beyond their table, Declan was also picking himself up off the ground unsteadily, trying to take stock of his surroundings. Bridget was lying next to Allison, a gash in her forehead bleeding freely.

She was not moving.

Allison scurried over to the nymph and felt for a pulse. Come on, Bridget! After a second, during which Allison was afraid her own heart might stop, she found Bridget's pulse - beating faster than an average human's, just like it was supposed to. Allison was about to sit back and breathe a sigh of relief when she realized who she couldn't see.

Scott.

A few details rushed into Allison's brain all at once. He was definitely not in the cafe; a quick visual survey of the people, both moving and unmoving, confirmed that Scott was not amongst them. He had been at the counter, ordering their lunch, just before the bomb went off. In the counter.

Struggling, Allison pushed herself to her feet, but almost crumbled back to the ground in pain; she looked down and saw a sliver of glass from the destroyed pastry display case embedded in her lower right leg. Allison resisted the urge to yank it out; if it had cut an artery, doing so would unplug the wound and make her bleed out.

Gritting her teeth, Allison surveyed the scene again. If Scott had - she choked on the thought - if he'd been blown up by the bomb, there would have been...pieces. There wasn't anything. The guy who'd been manning the counter was crumpled behind what was left of it, a piece of the counter sticking out of his neck, his eyes glazed over. But no sign of Scott.

She was becoming angry when she saw it - a streak of red on the floor, right in front of the destroyed counter. Allison tracked it around the back of the counter, hobbling to follow it. It grew clearer and thicker as she went. Someone bleeding, being dragged, she thought. And bleeding more as they went.

The streak passed under the back door. Allison nearly collapsed when she reached for the door handle, which had the effect of shifting the weight on her bad leg, but she grit her teeth further and grabbed the door handle - her knuckles white on the handle - and pushed it open. Looking up from the ground and into the alley behind the cafe, she saw a small, bald man in sunglasses, a leather jacket, and silver choker, loading an unconscious, bloody Scott into the back of an SUV.

"Stop!" Allison yelled. The man's head jerked around to face her. He finished shoving Scott in and slammed the door, running around to the front of the SUV.

Fumbling, Allison pulled her collapsible bow out of her jacket pocket, clicking the control that would unfurl it. As the bow clicked into place, the string drawing taut, Allison heard the SUV's engine start. Cursing, she drew a telescoping arrow out of her pocket and violently shook it toward the ground, causing it to expand into a full-length metal shaft. The SUV skidded as it peeled out. Allison brought the arrow up to her bow and tried to sight the truck, but between her inability to stay balanced on her bad leg and the blood still in her eyes, she wasn't able to get a good bead on it. She let the arrow fly anyway, hoping.

The arrow struck the bricks of the building next to the cafe and stuck there. The SUV sped away unfettered and turned down another alley, disappearing from view, leaving Allison alone.

***{}***

Bridget had been aware of a loud bang before she blacked out. When she came to, her head was spinning. She opened her eyes, hoping that it'd help, but it only made it worse. The ceiling of the cafe seemed to be swirling around in circles. So was Declan's face.

"Bridget!" he was saying. He sounded far off, despite the fact that she could see that he was standing right above her. And what is this ringing in my ears? Is there a television right next to my head that is not working correctly? "Bridget, get up! We gotta go!"

Bridget felt a bit languorous. What if she didn't want to get up? If Declan had proven nothing else over the past week, it was that he didn't really understand what she wanted. She'd have to make him understand. "I do not feel like moving," she said, her words slurred. "I am quite comfortable here. When did the cafe install a bed? I do not remember this happening."

Declan shook his head. Following the motion made Bridget's head swim. "There's no bed, Bridget. There was a bomb. A bomb went off. The cops, and probably the FBI, are going to be here any second. We gotta go now!"

"A...bomb?" Bridget tried to look around, but the light, pained feeling in her head grew worse. "What bomb?"

"I don't now!" Declan yelled. "But someone took Scott! And we have to get out of here before the cops decide maybe we can explain the whole thing. Come on!"

Despite her slight, confused, mumbled protests, Declan began lifting Bridget off the ground. At first he pulled on an arm, but seeing that she was in no mood - or lacked the ability - to stand on her own, he gave up on her arm and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her fireman-style.

"Mmm, fireman," Bridget muttered, snuggling into Declan's arms. Argument or no argument she felt safe and warm like this. "We shall have to remember that for when we are done fighting."

Declan was ignoring her, carrying her out of the bombed out cafe. Then he was speaking to someone. "Can you ride your bike? We shouldn't leave it. Evidence."

Allison was standing next to her motorcycle. "I can't hit the kick starter with my leg like this. If you can get it started, I can ride it."

Declan, above Bridget, nodded. With one hand he opened the passenger side door of the 442 and deposited her inside. "I'll be right back, hon," he said, giving her a pained look. He darted off; a second later, she heard the roar of Allison's motorcycle starting. Then Declan was sliding into the driver's seat and gunning the engine. As they backed up, she began to hear sirens.

"I wonder if someone will be arrested," Bridget muttered. Something felt off about the whole thing. Why was she feeling like she wasn't reacting right?

"They better hope the cops get to 'em before I do," Declan muttered in response. He looked sideways at Bridget as the car lurched forward onto the Cincinnati street. "You okay, Bridge? You sound kinda funny."

"People often find the way I speak to be "funny." They do not know what they are talking about; I speak English the correct way and they do not." Bridget finished the mini tirade and looked around, still feeling confused. "I am not sure why I just said that." She looked back at Declan, saw that his face was covered in soot and dried blood and his clothes were torn. "Declan? What is going on?"

Declan glanced back at her. She saw relief in his eyes. "Good, you're comin' out of it. I was afraid you might have a concussion. Might still, actually. We'll check you out back at the hotel."

She sat up, but the world spun again and she laid back down, her head against the passenger side door. "Declan, what is happening?" she asked. "I am not sure what I am feeling currently, but it is not pleasant. What is going on?"

Declan looked sideways at her again, then checked the rear view mirror. Satisfied with whatever he saw - or didn't see - there, he looked back at her. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Bridget scanned her memories. They'd arrived in Cincinnati; agreed to stop for lunch before proceeding to their hotel; chosen the little cafe; parked and gone inside; sat down to wait for Scott to bring them their food...

Wait. Scott.

"Where is Scott?" Bridget asked, looking around. "I remember him going up to get our food and then nothing else. Is he with Allison?"

Declan grimaced. "No."

Bridget did sit up at that point, ignoring the pain and nausea which flared as she did so. "Is he...is he...?"

"Dead? No," Declan responded. Bridget let out a sigh of relief. "There was a bomb, but Allison was pretty sure she saw him breathing. Some guy dragged him away, threw him in the back of an SUV, and bolted. She tried to shoot out a tire or somethin', but she's hurt and she missed. Someone - someone's got Scott."

Bridget felt her brow furrow. "Who?"

Declan shook his head, a look of angry determination resolving on it. "That's step one. Step two will be findin' him, then step three will be taking him apart piece by piece until he tells us where Scott is." Declan glanced again at Bridget, but the look on his face didn't change. "We're gettin' him back. Don't worry. Me and Curtis and Dad, we dealt with situations like this all the time."

"Really?" Bridget asked. Not for the first time, a part of her regretted not pushing Declan for more details about his life as a hunter. He'd always gotten so uncomfortable when his past came up.

"Really," Declan responded, looking back at the road. "Curtis even saved me once or twice. Ain't nothin' to it. Here we are."

He was pulling into the parking lot of another motel. "This is where the man took Scott?" Bridget asked, looking around.

"No," Declan said, killing the engine. "We don't know who he is or where he took Scott. This is where we set up a base of operations - gotta have one of those, a place to plan things out, to fall back to if necessary." He went to open his door, then glanced sideways at her. "Can you stand? Need me to help you out of the car?"

Bridget felt her brow furrow. Declan was a gentleman - had been the entire time they'd known each other, almost a year now. He'd made offers like that one before. This time, though, it sounded different; it wasn't a polite young man offering to help her, it was a hunter asking an ally if she was strong enough to pull her own weight. It wasn't mean, exactly, and she didn't feel judged - but she did feel assessed, as though her answer to the question would in part determine how useful she was going to be. "I will be fine on my own, thank you."

Declan didn't even nod or acknowledge her statement, he just pushed his door open and climbed out. Bridget steeled herself for the swimming feeling in her head and pushed herself off of the door. Her head spun, but not nearly as bad as it had a few minutes previous. She fumbled a bit with the handle to the door, but got it open on her second try. By the time she was standing outside the car - wobbling slightly but still standing on her own - Declan was in the motel's office. Bridget looked to her side. Allison was pulling the motorcycle into a parking spot next to the 442. Bridget could hear Allison grunt in pain as she let her legs down to balance herself. Rushing - but not so much that the nausea could well up again - around the 442, Bridget laid a hand on Allison's shoulder. "What can I do?"

Allison shook her head and killed the engine to the bike. She looked down at her right leg. It was covered in blood. Bridget saw a shard of glass, covered entirely in blood, sticking out of her leg. When Bridget reached for it, Allison shook her head. "Gotta leave it in for now. Can't pull it out until we can be sure I won't bleed out from it." Bridget nodded and stopped reaching for it. Allison looked down again. "Uh, if you could hit the kick stand, though. I kinda can't feel most of my right leg right now."

Her expression becoming worried again, Bridget reached down and wrenched the kick stand free. The bike settled down onto it and Allison visibly relaxed slightly, being able to lean on the bike and take the pressure off her damaged leg. A second later, she swung the leg - carefully - over the side of the bike, standing on her one good leg. Taking a deep breath, she put the leg down gingerly on the ground and applied a bit of pressure.

Instantly, with a cry, she toppled forward. Bridget rushed around the bike to try and catch her, but she was already on the ground. Bridget knelt, starting to say something, to ask what she could do, but then Declan was back again, next to both of them, and without any words he was picking up Allison's right arm and holding it across his shoulders and lifting her up, supporting her weight on the side with the injury. Half-carrying Allison, Declan made his way up to one of the motel doors. "Bridget," he said, his voice still hard and hunter-like. "The key's in my left pocket. Can you get the door unlocked?"

Bridget stepped around her boyfriend and friend and retrieved the key to the motel room. As she fit it into the lock, she heard it clink several times in rapid succession. Her hands were shaking. She silently hoped that Declan and Allison couldn't see. She twisted the key and pushed the door open, then stepped back for Declan and Allison to step through first.

Declan helped Allison over to one of the two beds, setting her down gently on the edge. She still cringed as soon as Declan let go, bouncing slightly on the springs of the bed, jarring her leg. "Gotta call my dad," she said. "He'll know who took Scott."

Declan shook his head. "First thing's first," he said, nodding at Allison's leg. "We gotta deal with that."

Allison shook her head. "It's nothing. Get my phone."

"It ain't nothing or you'd have already taken the glass out," Declan said, kneeling on one knee in front of Allison. Kneeling like he's proposing, Bridget thought, but then pushed the thought out of her consciousness. "Let me take a look." Gently and slowly, he lifted Allison's damaged right leg, balancing it on the knee that wasn't on the floor. Allison cringed, then cringed again as he turned the leg over so that he could see the piece of glass stuck in her leg. For a second, Declan's entire focus was on Allison's leg; he was staring so intently at it that Bridget was worried it might burst into flames.

Bridget was about to get up and ask what she could do to help, because the silence was driving her entirely mad, when Declan nodded to himself. "No permanent damage," he said. "No way it hit any arteries at that angle, and if it'd clipped a tendon or somethin' you wouldn't have been able to use it at all. We should be able to take it out." He looked up at her. "Still gonna hurt like a motherfucker when I pull it out. You got somethin' to bite down on?"

Allison groped around for one of the pillows on the bed. Bridget stood and shook her head. "Not the pillows," she said. "We do not know where they have been or how many diseases they have been exposed to. Here." She stripped her thin, frilled white t-shirt off over her head and handed it to Allison. "Best option under the circumstances."

If either Allison or Declan were put off by Bridget's sudden toplessness, neither showed it. Allison nodded a thanks at Bridget and took the shirt, balling it up and biting down on it. Declan looked back up at Allison. "Ready?" She nodded. "On three, then. One - "

Declan pulled on the piece of glass. With a wet slurping sound, it pulled free of Allison's leg. Bridget fought down the urge to be sick. Allison, on the bed, had bit down hard on her shirt when the piece of glass came free and was breathing heavily. Still being gentle, Declan reached into his pocket and produced a small vial. "Ain't over yet. Still gotta disinfect this, then I'll stitch it closed." He glanced at Bridget. "This'll be worse. If she spasms when I do this she could knock my teeth out. Bridge, can you hold her leg? You don't gotta hold it too tight, just enough so that if she starts buckin' around it won't hurt neither of us."

Bridget crossed around her boyfriend and settled onto her knees between him and Allison. Gently, she wrapped her arms around Allison's blood-soaked, outstretched leg. "Like this?" she asked, applying the tiniest pressure.

Declan nodded. "It'll do." He looked back up at Allison. "This time I really will count to three. Make sure your tongue is under the part of the shirt that's in your mouth. If you pass out from the pain we don't want you swallowing your own tongue and choking." Declan tried for a winning smile. "It'd ruin all the fine work I'm doin' down here. Understood?" Allison nodded and bunched more of Bridget's shirt into her mouth. Declan turned his gaze back to his girlfriend. "You ready?" When Bridget nodded, Declan thumbed the cover of the vial off and began counting. "One. Two. Three!"

He poured the clear contents of the vial - alcohol, Bridget could tell, from the acrid scent which filled her nostrils as soon as the vial was uncorked - over the large gash in Allison's leg. As soon as the liquid hit the wound, Allison's leg twitched. Bridget applied more pressure, wrapping her arms tight around Allison's leg. The girl above her groaned, but from her position holding down her legs, Bridget couldn't see the expression on her face.

"Good! That's good, Allison! Just a little more and you'll be done!" Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw Declan sprinkle a little more of the alcoholic solution onto Allison's leg. Allison twitched again, although far less strongly. Declan was muttering encouragement. "That's good...you're doing great...now we just need to mop up the wound and stitch it up." He glanced at the bathroom. "You can let go of her leg, Bridget. The worst's over. Think you can grab us a towel?"

Bridget stood and regarded her friend. Allison was breathing heavily, tears in her eyes. Bridget glanced at the bathroom and then back at her boyfriend. "I do not know if I trust the towels in this establishment."

Declan glanced over too - the room was nearly a carbon copy of the room they'd stayed in with Scott and Allison their first night on the road, down to the amount of wallpaper which had peeled away, showing flaking white drywall behind. "Probably right. Mind if we use your shirt to mop it up? I think it's ruined from cuts from the blast anyway."

Bridget shook her head, aware again for the first time that she was standing there only in her bra. "Go ahead," she said.

In short order, Declan had used Bridget's shirt to clean away the blood from Allison's leg. He withdrew a small leather pouch from his pocket and opened it, revealing a lighter, several needles, and a ball of what looked like string. After heating the needle under the lighter for a moment, he went to work stitching up the cut on Allison's leg.

As he worked, Allison got her breathing under control. "Can we call my Dad now?" she asked, her voice rugged and harsh.

Bridget pulled out her phone and hit the speed dial for Mr. Argent. As it dialed she set the phone down on the bedside table and dragged it closer to Allison and Declan, and hit the button that turned on the speaker phone. Mr. Argent answered on the third ring. "Hello, Bridget," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Dad, you're on speaker phone," Allison started.

Instantly, Chris Argent's tone changed. "Allison? What's wrong?"

Declan jumped in. "Allison, Bridget and me are fine, Mr. Argent. A little banged up, but nothing I ain't fixed on myself or my brother before."

There was a pause. "What about Scott?"

There was a slight, choked sob. Bridget looked around; it'd come from Allison. The tears were back in her eyes, but Bridget suspected that it didn't have anything to do with the needle Declan was deftly poking through her flesh, trailing black thread and sealing the cut in her leg. "Someone took him," she said, keeping herself under control. Barely. "I - I tried to stop him, but I missed, and - "

"Honey, slow down." Argent's voice was commanding but soothing at the same time. "Who took him?"

"I don't know," Allison said, one of the tears betraying her and falling from her eye. Bridget felt an almost overwhelming urge to hug her friend, but she refrained. "I got a look at him, but I didn't recognize him. Short guy, bald, leather jacket, silver necklace. Drove a big black SUV. Really big. Compensating for something big."

Bridget could practically hear Allison's father roll his eyes, but he stayed on topic. "Did the jacket have a pattern on it? Like wings, on the back?"

Allison's face scrunched up as she tried to remember. "Yeah," she said slowly. "I mean, I wasn't really paying attention to his wardrobe, but yeah, I think it did."

There was another short pause before Chris continued. "I'll have to do some checking - Dr. Deaton will probably know more - but it sounds like Scott has been abducted by the Collector."

"Who?" Bridget asked.

"Wait, I heard of this guy," Declan said, looking up from the work he was doing on Allison's leg. "Don't he go around grabbing supernatural creatures and auctioning 'em off?"

"Why would he want Scott?" Allison asked, twinging as Declan pulled the needle clear and began tying off the ends of the stitches. "He blew up a cafe in the middle of Cincinnati to get at him specifically. Why?"

"The Collector goes after unique supernatural creatures," Chris explained. "With the number of people - Bealstock included - who've though Scott was a "bloodless" Alpha, it doesn't take much to figure out why the Collector would have been interested."

"Jesus," Declan muttered.

Allison's face showed equal parts fear and determination. "No, this is good, at least we know who's got him. How do we find this guy? And how do I kill him? What is he?"

Chris cleared his throat. "I don't know where to find him," he said. "And you can't kill him."

"Excuse me?" Allison asked, sitting up, her eyes flashing. "I think I demonstrated with Bealstock that I can kill, thank you very much."

"Not what I meant. He's human, honey. We don't kill humans."

Bridget could see the words forming on Allison's lips - maybe you don't kill humans - but the dark haired hunter seemed to think better of saying it to her father at the last second. "Fine. How do we find him?"

"I'll talk to Dr. Deaton," Chris repeated. "I'm going to see him tonight anyway, about...well, an issue that's arisen. I'd come out to help you find Scott myself, honey, but - well, like I said, we sort of have an issue here in Beacon Hills..."

***{}***

Earlier that same day, Stiles and Lydia had decided to head to the McCall house in an attempt to cheer up Sophie - sans sex. Lydia had been a little surprised when, over the phone, Stiles hadn't objected or even questioned her on the proposition that they do "coupley" things that didn't involve their clothes coming off. I had to fall in love with a giant dweeb, Lydia thought to herself, pulling her car into Scott's driveway, Stiles next to her. At least I fell in love with a sensitive dweeb.

"Are we clear on how today will proceed?" Lydia asked, her tone clipped and precise.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "We've been over it four times." He glanced into the back seat. "We have board games, popcorn, chocolate, and tacky girl movies. We're either ordering pizza or the three of us are cooking something together. We're staying the entire day - no interruptions - and if Sophie tries to come onto us, we gently tell her we're not looking for that kind of good time today." Stiles turned his annoyed expression back to the red-headed werewolf. "Did I leave anything out?"

Lydia felt her nose wrinkle. "I'm not sure which part you're so uptight about. If this is about you not getting laid..."

Stiles rolled his eyes again. "That is so not the problem," he said. "The problem is that you keep nagging me about a list that I helped come up with."

"Oh. Right."

Stiles took stock of Lydia as she put the car into park. "What's under your skin?"

Lydia sighed, looking up at the house. "I'm just worried that we have to tiptoe around Sophie," she said. She took a deep breath. "The fact that we're even having this conversation - and had to have the previous conversation which lead to this one - is evidence of the fact that she's right about this relationship. It's us and her, not the three of us."

Stiles looked at her long and hard. "Yeah," he said, finally. "Yeah, I've thought that too." He reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. "I guess I figured - or hoped, I don't know - that that was enough for her. Guess I hoped wrong."

Lydia felt like giving him an outraged look, but it would have been hypocritical. "Of course it's not enough for her, Stiles," she said. "She's not an accessory."

Stiles looked mildly insulted. "I don't think of her as an accessory."

Lydia looked back at the house. "Neither do I. But that hasn't stopped us from treating her like one."

Lydia pushed her door open with her one hand. Shaking his head in frustration, Stiles followed her. Once they were out of the car, Lydia looked over it at Stiles, who looked back.

After a moment of staring, Lydia looked down at the car emphatically, then back up at her boyfriend. "Well?"

Stiles looked around. "Well what?"

"Are you going to get the stuff out of the backseat?" Lydia asked. She waved her single arm in the air. "It's not like I can open doors and carry stuff at the same time."

Stiles rolled his eyes, but he opened the back door to Lydia's car and started pulling the bags out.

The two of them were heading up the driveway to the front door when Lydia stopped in her tracks. Stiles, who was following behind her, didn't have the reflexes to stop so suddenly, and instead wound up running into her from behind. Lydia had gone so stiff and planted her feet so firmly that Stiles rebounded off her, sprawling backward, popcorn and Monopoly splattering all over the pavement.

"Excuse me..." Stiles started to hiss, but Lydia waved him off with her single arm. Which, a second later, was joined by her second arm, claws extended.

Stiles' whole demeanor changed in an instant. "What is it?" He whipped his head around, scanning the house and the yard for any sign of trouble, aware as he did so that Lydia's far-more acute senses had more than likely detected something that was beyond the range of his own normal human senses.

"I smell a werewolf," she said. "One that isn't Scott."

Stiles scrambled off the pavement, the supplies for their date-day forgotten. "Who?" Stiles asked, still looking wildly around.

Lydia rolled her eyes, which were glowing blue, even as she also looked around the McCall property. "It's not like a person's scent is a greeting card," she said, her words slurring around her sharpening teeth. "You have to get to know someone's scent before you can distinguish them by it. And since Scott is the only other werewolf I've gotten to know since becoming one myself..."

"He's the only one you know by scent, so all you know is that whoever's here isn't him, got it," Stiles finished. "Any idea where our mystery guest is?"

Lydia raised her nose and sniffed, now fully shifted into her beta form. "Out back," she said.

Without another word, Lydia started towards the edge of the house, looking to circle it. She could hear Stiles grunt something about impatient werewolves, then follow her. When she reached the edge of the house, she sniffed at the air again. The scent was getting stronger. Whoever he was - and suddenly she was sure it was a he although she wasn't entirely sure how or why - he was definitely in the backyard.

She looked back to Stiles and twitched her head at the yard, knowing that if she said anything that the werewolf there would be able to hear it. She turned back to the backyard, intent on looking around for the source of the scent, only to find it staring her in the face.

The young man was tall, at least six inches taller than Lydia herself. He wore a pair of wrinkled khaki carpenter's pants with tan boots. He'd had on a simple white t-shirt at some point, but the garment had been torn in several places and was stained red. He had short, spiky brown hair. And his eyes were glowing gold.

Lydia felt her eyes glow blue in response. She had a difficult time averting her eyes from his, even when she felt someone step around her from behind, even when that someone asked a question of the young man standing in front of her, even when that someone asked her a question and then shook her shoulder.

In the end, it was up to their mysterious stranger to break the connection, which luckily he did; if he hadn't he'd have been impaled.

"Two werewolves!" Stiles yelled, as the fog cleared from Lydia's brain and she registered that the brown-haired young man wasn't the only unknown supernatural creature in the backyard. The other werewolf was clearly older; probably mid-thirties, with the beginnings of age lines on his face and a much shorter, more conservative haircut. He was dressed all in black, all the way down to his black leather jacket. His eyes were also yellow - and he was swinging his claws at the other werewolf.

With a snarl, Lydia jumped forward. "Hey!" Stiles yelled from behind her. "Are we taking sides?"

Lydia didn't answer, but swiped at the older werewolf with her claws. Roaring in response to the attack, the werewolf ducked back, avoiding Lydia's swipe, and swiped back again. Lydia wasn't fast enough to avoid the older werewolf's attack, taking it on her left shoulder. Lydia roared from the pain. The older werewolf was about to strike again when the younger one darted back in, low, cutting at the older man's Achilles tendon. Instantly the older wolf dropped to one leg.

Lydia raised her right arm, preparing to land a knockout blow.

"No!"

Lydia's gaze twitched from the older werewolf to the younger, crouching in the grass next to him. No? Lydia thought. Why the hell not?

The moment's hesitation was all the older werewolf needed. Pushing Lydia and the younger werewolf away, he turned and loped into the bushes, stumbling on his damaged leg. Lydia, who'd collapsed against the side of the house, pushed herself off and chased after the older werewolf, but by the time she got by the bushes at the edge of Scott's property, he was gone.

She turned back to the younger werewolf in time to hear Stiles speak. "All right. What the fuck is going on?"

Lydia walked back over to the younger werewolf. The adrenaline of the fight diminishing, she felt her arm recede back into its stump and her claws and teeth return to normal. Curiously, she could still feel the burning behind her eyes that meant the unnatural blue glow was still seeping out. Similarly, the young man on the ground no longer possessed claws or extra facial hair, but his eyes still burned gold.

"Who are you?" Lydia asked, no tone of fear in her voice at all.

"My name is Quinn," the young man said, his voice steady despite the fact that he was clutching at one of his badly-scraped sides. "On behalf of my pack, I seek the bloodless Alpha. I'm looking for Scott McCall."