Teen Wolf: Second Howl

I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

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Lucas's Perspective

The cemetery was hushed beneath a shroud of night, the cold air swirling around me, tugging insistently at the edges of my worn hoodie as I stood rooted among the weathered headstones. My breath steamed in front of me, dissipating into the darkness. All my attention was locked, razor-sharp, on the boy stretched out in front of me on the grass—Isaac.

His body was sprawled awkwardly in the patchy grass, his face pale beneath the weak silver glow of the moon. He lay so still he could have been mistaken for another corpse in this place of the dead, but I knew the truth. I could hear the faintest whisper of his heart, irregular but persistent. I could feel the tenuous thread linking us now—a new and strange weight on my shoulders.

The world had gone quiet again. Only the rustle of leaves and the far-off hoot of an owl stirred the air. I could still smell the fading corruption from the dead chimpanzee's body behind me—foul, acrid, wrong.

I stood very still, my eyes locked on Isaac, counting the seconds.

A minute slithered by, then another, each one heavy with doubt. Was he too far gone?

Then, at last, a sign—almost imperceptible—a twitch of his fingers. An audible, rattling breath tore free from his battered lungs. Under thin skin, where life had seemed extinguished only moments ago, I glimpsed it: a faint, supernatural shimmer rebuilding him from the inside out.

His ribs shifted first, snapping back into place. I heard the dull pop as his broken arm realigned and knitted together. Blood was reabsorbed, skin mended, bruises faded.

Within minutes, he looked like any other unconscious teenager—minus the supernatural transformation now beginning inside him.

I let out a slow breath through my nose. No emotion. Just… processing.

He survived.

Of course he did.

I only gave him the Bite to save him.

But that didn't simplify anything.

Far off, breaking through the silence, came the sharp whine of tires on wet asphalt—a warning that the world hadn't paused with me. Engines, low and approaching fast. Blue and red strobes flickered between the trees. Two sheriff's patrol cruisers, lights spinning but sirens silenced, barreled up the long gravel path, cutting through the gloom.

Someone had called them. Maybe a neighbor roused by the commotion, or a nighttime dog walker with sharp ears. The specifics hardly mattered now; only that help, or what passed for it in Beacon Hills, was nearly upon us.

I backed up without a sound and melted into the tree line behind the cemetery. Found a tall pine with thick cover and climbed silently up into the branches like it was second nature. From there, I watched.

Deputies fanned out first—flashlights sweeping the area. Then the sheriff himself. Stilinski. As sharp-eyed and cautious as ever.

They found the chimpanzee's corpse first—mangled, throat slashed, limbs twisted.

Then they found Isaac's father. One deputy turned and threw up behind a headstone.

Then there was a wave of panic. Radios crackled. More officers arrived. Then—

"Hey! We've got a kid!"

Flashlights converged on Isaac. One hand hung limply at his side, eyes shut, but breathing steady now.

"Still alive!" someone shouted.

Within minutes, an ambulance pulled into the cemetery path.

I watched them load Isaac onto a stretcher. He didn't move. He wouldn't—not yet.

They'd hustle him to the hospital. There, tests would find nothing; maybe he'd be kept overnight, maybe sent home with a diagnosis of shock. None of them could know what truly simmered beneath his skin.

I stayed perched up in that tree until the red and blue lights faded down the hill and into town.

Then I dropped back to the ground, landing without a sound.

The night closed in again.

And I finally exhaled.

I'd saved a life.

And made a new werewolf.

In Hale territory.

Without asking.

Without explaining.

To the Hale pack, I'm a rogue Alpha who just turned a civilian in their backyard. And with the Argents moving into town, this was the worst time to give anyone the impression that something new and dangerous had arrived.

It didn't matter that I didn't want to turn him. That I did it to save him. Context doesn't travel as fast as gossip.

This wasn't just complicated.

It was also political.

Pack lines, Hunter optics, supernatural diplomacy—all about to get stirred up over one dead abusive father and one unconscious teenager.

I shook my head and took a deep breath.

Tomorrow.

I'd deal with it tomorrow.

Right now, I just wanted to sleep.

I sprinted through the woods, scaled the outer wall of the Lockwood estate, crept across the estate like a shadow, and slipped through the open window of my bedroom. My boots didn't even scuff the floor.

I shut the window behind me. Pulled off my hoodie. Tossed it aside.

Laid down on the bed.

The ceiling was dark and still.

But the truth was finally clear:

Beacon Hills wasn't like the show.

It was messier.

And I was already far deeper in it than I ever planned to be.

Still, despite it all—despite what tomorrow would bring—sleep found me quickly.