The warm California breeze swept through the tall pines that bordered the edges of Beacon Hills. Early autumn clung to the town with that strange, quiet tension that only a place haunted by secrets could foster. The streets were darker now, older than she remembered—but maybe that was just time playing its usual tricks.
Or maybe it was her.
Katherine Pierce—leather jacket, heels clicking on the sidewalk like punctuation marks in a story already written—returned to Beacon Hills without ceremony. No one knew she was back. That was just how she liked it.
The brunette beauty walked along the side of the road, the full moon hanging above her like an unblinking eye. Her dark curls bounced lightly with every step, though her posture betrayed nothing but ease. Her gaze drifted lazily across the trees lining the woods—silent, watchful, as if they remembered her.
This town always remembered.
Katherine slowed, her eyes narrowing at a familiar ridge in the distance. The Hale house—what was left of it. She didn't need to see it to feel the ghosts still clinging to the ashes. Talia's laugh. The echo of young Derek racing through the halls. Her own voice, teasing the Alpha matriarch about her obsession with pack hierarchy.
Talia Hale.
A name that still made Katherine's chest twist.
Her best friend. Her sister in all but blood. Gone in flames and smoke, reduced to memory and grief. Katherine had felt it when it happened—that night years ago. She was halfway across the world, and still, the Mark burned like a branding iron on her forearm. Her scream had shaken the walls of an ancient fortress in Greece.
The Mark of Cain… it never let her forget.
Now, it pulsed again—just faintly, like a whisper brushing against her skin.
Katherine stopped walking.
Her brows furrowed, lips parting slightly as the heat rippled through her veins. Her hand brushed against her forearm, where the invisible Mark shimmered beneath flawless skin. Not pain, exactly. More like a warning. An echo of blood and danger.
Then—
A low, guttural growl.
She turned her head toward the woods, her expression sharpening instantly.
More growling.
A predator.
A fight.
Without hesitation, Katherine vanished from the road. One moment she was standing in the moonlight; the next, she was nothing but shadow and silence, darting through trees like a ghost with purpose.
She emerged in a clearing surrounded by twisted bark and shattered leaves. The scent of blood hit her first—metallic, thick. Then came the scene.
A massive creature, easily nine feet tall, was pinning someone to the forest floor with monstrous, clawed hands. Its snarl shook the branches overhead. A werewolf, feral and grotesque in form. Not the kind that maintained human features—no, this one had lost control. Fully shifted. Consumed by rage and something darker.
But Katherine's eyes were already on the girl beneath him.
Red eyes gleamed defiantly up at the beast. Not gold—red. The color of authority. The color of blood.
"Peter, it's me!" the girl shouted, her voice thick with emotion. "It's Laura! What are you doing?!"
Katherine's expression barely flickered, but inside her mind, a thread of clarity sparked.
Laura Hale.
Talia's daughter.
Alpha.
The girl shoved against the creature with all her might, and it staggered back, unbalanced for just a moment. Her strength was impressive. Talia's strength. But she wasn't ready for this fight. The creature—Peter, apparently—lunged forward and slashed across Laura's thigh, sending her crashing through the trunk of a nearby tree.
She groaned, struggling to heal, but weakened from the attack.
The beast advanced, its breath steaming in the cool night air. Its claws gleamed as they hovered inches from Laura's face. Close. Too close.
And then…
It stopped.
Frozen mid-motion.
Its claws trembled, stuck in place, as if the very air around it had turned to solid stone.
Laura gasped, eyes widening as she looked past the beast.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the woods.
"Now, I know I've been gone a while," a voice drawled silkily, "but when did Beacon Hills start hosting werewolf snuff films in the woods? No invitation? Rude."
The creature snarled in confusion, but its limbs refused to obey.
Katherine Pierce stepped from behind a tree like a scene from a painting come to life—effortlessly graceful, eyes gleaming with amusement, danger laced in every inch of her body. The moon caught the curve of her smirk as she looked from the beast to the battered Alpha on the ground.
"Still using trees as crash pads, huh, Laura?" she teased.
The girl's red eyes widened further.
"…Aunt Kat?"
Katherine raised a brow and offered her a dazzling smile. "In the flesh. Glorious, ageless, and apparently just in time."
With a lazy flick of her hand, she flung the monstrous werewolf off Laura like it was nothing more than a sack of flour. It sailed through the air, crashing through the forest with a distant, echoing boom.
The Mark on her forearm glowed faintly beneath the sleeve of her jacket before fading again.
Katherine turned her attention back to Laura and stepped closer, crouching beside her.
"You really should learn to finish your fights faster," she said, running a cool hand over the gash on Laura's leg. "You have your mother's strength, but none of her timing."
Laura stared at her, still panting. "You're… back."
Katherine tilted her head, her smile softening just slightly.
"I told your mother once. If the Hales ever needed me, I'd return."
She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her jacket.
"Well," she added with a devilish glint in her eye, "looks like they need me."
The sun had barely risen, casting golden rays through the windows of a small but elegant home nestled just outside the Beacon Hills preserve. Inside, everything was pristine—modern furniture, soft fabrics, and curated artifacts that looked like they belonged in a museum. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by time.
Which was fitting, really.
Katherine Pierce stood in front of a mirror, adjusting the cuffs of her white silk blouse with effortless grace. A black pencil skirt hugged her curves, paired with heels sharp enough to kill if aimed correctly. Her waves cascaded over one shoulder like ink poured from a bottle, and her smirk was already in place like it had been sculpted there.
Behind her, sitting on the edge of the couch with her leg still partially bandaged, Laura Hale watched with barely restrained confusion.
"You're seriously going to teach history?" she asked, blinking like she was trying to reset the image in front of her. "At Beacon Hills High?"
Katherine didn't even glance back as she applied a swipe of blood-red lipstick.
"Why not?" she replied breezily, "I lived it. I caused some of it. Who better to teach it than me?"
Laura frowned, unimpressed. "You're immortal, sarcastic, and allergic to authority. You're not exactly textbook teacher material."
Katherine capped her lipstick and finally turned, resting a hand on her hip. "Exactly. And teenagers are allergic to authority too. I speak their language."
Laura sighed and rubbed her temples. "God help them."
But Katherine's gaze shifted suddenly, her amusement dimming slightly.
Her eyes dropped to Laura's and narrowed.
There it was—a flicker of red, bright and bold like the ember of a dying fire.
"Good," Katherine said softly.
Laura looked up, confused. "What?"
"You still have your Alpha spark," Katherine noted, almost to herself. "Lucky."
Then her tone darkened, her voice colder, lower.
"If Peter had taken it—absorbed it—he would've been much more of a problem."
Laura's throat tightened. "He didn't recognize me… or didn't care."
"Oh, he recognized you," Katherine said without hesitation, slipping her jacket over her shoulders. "He just didn't care."
She turned, heels clicking again. "Now get some rest. You'll need it when we track him down again."
The campus buzzed with early morning energy—half-asleep students dragging their feet through the parking lot, earbuds in, coffee cups in hand. Backpacks sagged. Locker doors slammed. The same routine. The same people.
Until she walked in.
The front doors swung open and, like a spell cast over the entire school, time seemed to pause.
Students turned. Some froze mid-sentence. Others stopped walking altogether.
The sound of heels echoed through the hallway like gunshots.
She moved like she owned the world—hips swaying, eyes scanning the crowd with a quiet, amused curiosity. Her hair shimmered under the fluorescents, and her smirk was more dangerous than anything anyone had seen in a textbook.
Teachers stared.
Students gawked.
Even the jocks straightened their posture like their instincts were trying to impress something their minds hadn't yet processed.
"Woah," Stiles Stilinski muttered from his locker, eyes going wide as he nudged Scott with the back of his hand. "Who is that?"
Scott, mid-bite of a granola bar, looked up—and choked slightly.
The woman passed them, offering a casual smile that landed somewhere between flirtation and mischief. Her perfume lingered in the air like something expensive and ancient. She didn't stop walking, didn't slow. She didn't have to.
Her presence demanded attention. And everyone obeyed.
Heads turned in waves. Murmurs followed her like whispers in a cathedral.
As she rounded the corner and disappeared down the hallway toward the faculty office, Stiles turned to Scott again, dazed.
"That—was not a teacher," he said. "That was a Bond villain in heels."
Scott frowned, unsettled but intrigued. "She's new."
"No kidding," Stiles said. "You think she's human?"
Scott didn't answer. But something about her aura—her energy—was like standing next to lightning.