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Chapter 122: Silence
The Lahey house was silent. Too silent.
It wasn't the kind of silence that came at night when everyone had gone to bed, nor the quiet of a house that had simply emptied for the day. This was a suffocating silence, heavy and unnatural, like the stillness of a graveyard just before a storm breaks. The walls seemed to hold their breath. The air itself felt stagnant, thick with memories and ghosts.
Isaac moved through the living room like a specter pacing his own tomb. His footsteps were unsteady, almost hesitant, as though he wasn't sure if the floor would hold beneath him. His hands trembled in rhythm with the thunder in his chest. His shirt hung off him in ragged strips, torn at the seams, and the faint metallic smell of blood clung to him like smoke from a fire—except it wasn't his blood this time.
He raked both hands through his hair, fingers knotting in it, pulling just enough to ground himself, but it didn't help. His breathing came too fast, shallow and uneven.
"What do I do?" he whispered to the empty room. His voice cracked on the last word. "What the hell do I do now?"
No answer came. Not even an echo. Only the relentless ticking of the old wall clock, each second a tiny hammer against his skull.
He stumbled down the hallway, bumping into the doorframe on his way to the bathroom. The flick of the light switch felt jarring in the gloom. Cold water gushed from the tap, splashing hard against porcelain before spilling over his cupped hands. He threw it against his face, again and again, until it dripped down his neck, soaking into the collar of his torn shirt.
For a moment, he didn't move. His eyes locked on the mirror above the sink.
The reflection staring back at him looked wrong.
The face was his—same jawline, same eyes, same freckles across the bridge of his nose—but something behind the eyes had shifted. Something sharp and dark and unrecognizable stared back.
He gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles blanched, trying to steady his breathing, but the effort only made his hands shake harder. When that failed, he dug into his pocket for his phone. His fingers were clumsy, slipping against the screen as he scrolled to one name.
Lucas.
He pressed "Call."
The line clicked after two rings. Isaac didn't waste time. The words tumbled out of him in a broken rush: the fight, the car, the crash, the blood. All of it. His voice faltered halfway through, cracking under the weight of what he was saying, but he forced himself to finish.
On the other end, Lucas was silent for several long, punishing seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, like an anchor in a storm. "Stay calm and wait there. I'm on my way."
Isaac managed a quiet, almost childlike "Okay" before ending the call.
He drifted back into the living room, sat heavily on the couch, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His hands hung between them, shaking. He tried not to think about the hunters—dead now, lying somewhere at the side of the road. Tried not to picture the way it had all happened. But the images clawed at the back of his mind anyway.
Ten minutes crawled by. The house seemed to grow colder with each one. Then came a knock at the door. Sharp. Certain.
Isaac opened it to find Lucas standing there, steady as ever. Beside him stood Malia, her arms crossed, expression hard but her eyes soft with something like concern.
Lucas spoke first. "I called her after your call."
Isaac just nodded and stepped aside to let them in.
The three of them settled into the living room, but the room felt smaller now, crowded not with bodies but with tension. Malia leaned against the wall, arms still folded; Lucas positioned himself near the window, gaze unreadable; Isaac sat hunched on the couch, restless and hollow-eyed. The silence between them pressed like a weight.
Lucas broke it. "Are you okay?"
Isaac nodded automatically. "I'm fine."
Malia's frown deepened. "Clearly you're not." She gestured at him—his torn clothes, his trembling hands. "But we have more important things to worry about, like the fact that two Argent hunters are dead."
Her words sliced the air cleanly.
Isaac winced, the guilt like a fresh bruise. Lucas raised a hand. "I know the situation's bad," he said, his tone calm but firm, "but there's no point in tearing into each other."
Malia's glare softened. She dipped her head, saying nothing.
Lucas turned back to Isaac. "What I need to know is—how did the Argents even find out about you? How did they know you're a werewolf?"
Isaac stared at the floor for a long moment before answering. His voice came out quiet but hard. "When they attacked me outside my house… I saw him. That bastard. The same one who's been manipulating everyone. He was watching from the treeline. Like he knew it was going to happen."
Lucas's jaw tightened. "Then it's him. He knows about you—and me. And he must've told the Argents. They know it was a werewolf that killed Andrew."
Malia pushed off the wall, her voice sharper now. "That bastard is running around out there, trying to destroy our lives—and now, counting Andrew, three of the Argent hunters are dead."
Lucas nodded grimly. "Which means the Argents won't hold back anymore when they find out."
The room fell silent again.
Outside, the wind howled softly through the trees, a low, restless sound.
Lucas stared out the window into the darkness, his reflection pale in the glass. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. "And we still have to deal with him."
The words lingered in the air, cold and certain.
No one said anything else.