Chapter 8: The Alpha's Retaliation and the Prank of Misdirection
Peter Hale was not a man to be trifled with. He was a creature of immense power, a predator at the top of the food chain, and I had just made him my personal jester. The prank was a success, but it had a price. He was now hunting me, and he was hunting me with a vengeance.
He wasn't hunting Scott anymore. He was hunting the guy who had sent him a singing telegram and a whoopee cushion. He was hunting the guy who had left him a note about a rubber chicken. The audacity of it was what really got to him.
Okay, so I have a very angry Alpha on my hands. This is a problem. But it's also a challenge. A beautiful, ridiculous, and absurd challenge. This is where my foreknowledge comes in handy. I know Peter's tricks. I know his mind. And I know how to outsmart him. He's a creature of instinct. I'm a creature of intellect. He's a blunt instrument. I'm a scalpel. It's a fair fight. A ridiculously unfair one, but in my favor.
I was walking home from school, a normal, boring day of homework and terrible cafeteria food, when I felt it. A presence behind me, a low growl in the back of my mind. It was Peter. He had found my scent, the scent of a mimicked werewolf, and he was getting closer. The air felt heavy, electric with his rage.
I didn't panic. I just smiled, a small, knowing smile. "Showtime," I muttered to myself.
The prank of misdirection was a masterpiece of convoluted logic and a subtle use of my powers. I wasn't going to fight Peter. I was going to make him chase his own tail, a beautiful, hilarious, and ultimately frustrating wild goose chase.
The first part of the prank was the scent. I had a small vial of synthetic wolfsbane I had concocted in my home lab—a perk of being a rich kid with a science degree and a love for chemistry. I poured a small amount of it into a bottle of cologne and sprayed it on a trail of my clothes. The wolfsbane wouldn't kill Peter, but it would confuse him. It would mask my scent, making it impossible for him to track me. I then threw the trail of clothes down a different path, leading him away from me and towards a very, very stupid trap.
The trap was a series of illusions. I had used my mimicked powers to create a fake trail of glowing red eyes in the distance, a phantom snarl on the wind. The power was a quiet, humming presence in the back of my mind, a ghost of a ghost. It wasn't enough to hurt him, but it was enough to annoy him. Each one was a new and infuriating distraction, a new thread in a web of lies that I was weaving around the Alpha.
I watched from a distance as Peter Hale, a blur of muscle and rage, tore through the woods. The trees, which had been silent and still, now seemed to vibrate with his fury. He was sniffing the air, his eyes glowing a furious, electric red, a guttural snarl rumbling in his chest. He was a monster, a predator, but he was also a victim of a very, very stupid prank.
He ran from one illusion to the next, his rage growing with each failed attempt to find the source. He found nothing. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He was chasing a ghost, a phantom, a lie. The only scent he could find was the confusing, pungent scent of synthetic wolfsbane.
Then, he came to the final trap. It was a single, solitary note, taped to a tree. It was the same ridiculous font, the same ridiculous message. It said, "I know you're here. And I'm not afraid. Now go find your rubber chicken."
Peter's scream was a guttural, inhuman sound that echoed through the woods. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated rage and frustration. He tore the note off the tree, his claws digging into the wood, and he roared. It was the sound of a predator being outsmarted by its prey, a sound of impotent rage.
I watched from a distance, a ghost in the night, and I smiled. The prank of misdirection was a success. I had outsmarted a powerful Alpha, and I had done it with a series of rubber chickens and a very, very good lie.
Then, I saw him. Derek Hale. He was standing in the shadows, a silent, brooding presence. He wasn't glaring at me, wasn't threatening me. He was just watching. He had been following Peter, and he had seen the whole thing. He had seen his rage, his frustration, his madness.
He looked at me, a flicker of something in his eyes. It was a mix of confusion, respect, and maybe, just maybe, a touch of admiration. He gave me a single, intense nod, a silent acknowledgment of a job well done. Then, he melted back into the shadows, a ghost in the night.
Two Hale wolves, two very different reactions. I'm making friends with one, and an enemy of the other. This is going to be so much fun. It's like a terrible sitcom, but with werewolves and a lot more yelling. And I get the feeling I'm the star of the show.
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