Teen Wolf: Second Howl

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Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Monster in the Stone

Lucas's Perspective

Richard stepped forward without hesitation, moving through the barrier as if it weren't there at all—like it was nothing more than smoke drifting through the air. His body passed cleanly, effortlessly, as though the ward didn't even notice him. I followed instinctively, my feet propelling me forward before I had time to think. But the moment I touched the threshold, everything changed. I slammed hard against something invisible—an unyielding wall of supernatural force that threw me back like I was no more than paper against the wind.

Right. Of course. Hunters weren't affected by supernatural wards like these. Not the way the rest of us were.

So I waited. Heart pounding. Muscles tight. Watching the barrier shimmer faintly in the dim light. Then, almost imperceptibly, there was a sound—a soft, cracking noise, like ice beginning to fracture—and then a brief flicker of dull silver shimmered across the entrance. The ward broke, shattered from the inside.

I stepped in.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the air changed. It wasn't just cooler or denser—it felt ancient. Like something older than language lingered here, pressed into the very stones. The dampness wasn't just moisture—it was memory. Power. The air clung to my skin like strands of spider silk, whispering silent promises of pain and violence. Of death.

Richard moved ahead of me, silent and steady, down a narrow corridor of chiseled stone. The tunnel spiraled deeper and deeper into the mountain's core, and every step felt like a descent not just into the earth—but into something darker. Something forgotten.

And then we saw him.

He lay atop a massive slab of stone, positioned like a king on a ruined throne—or a corpse in a tomb. Arms folded casually behind his head, as if he were just napping, not imprisoned. But he wasn't asleep. Not really. His body looked mostly human, but only at first glance. The illusion broke quickly.

He was partially shifted. Claws tipped each finger, sharp and unmoving. His lips were curled slightly, revealing long, gleaming canines. Dark fur shadowed his jawline, tracing up his cheekbones like smoke. He looked young—no more than thirty, if you only saw his face.

But his presence told a different story.

His presence screamed of time. Of blood. Of power buried so long, it had warped under pressure.

"Ah," the figure murmured without opening his eyes. His voice was gravel soaked in disdain. "The coward returns. Come to finish what you should've finished years ago?"

Richard didn't so much as twitch. "Yes, Henry."

The name cut through the silence like a blade.

And it worked.

Henry opened his eyes.

They weren't golden, like mine. Nor did they burn red, like an Alpha. His eyes were blue—an unholy, glowing, frostbitten blue. Cold as death. And just as final.

The color of murder. Of blood shed without reason. Of innocence lost.

He sat up slowly, stretching as though rising from a nap, his grin spreading wider with each second. His teeth were too sharp. Too clean. Too ready.

"All that talk about aging gracefully," he said, almost amused. "And look at you now. You smell like rot, Richard. Like rusted steel and old regret. Are you even half the man you once were?"

Richard's response came quietly, almost peacefully. "Time is cruel to us all."

"Not to me," Henry sneered. "I thought killing you would be a challenge. I spent years imagining it—thinking of how sweet the fight would be. But now? You wouldn't even make it interesting."

Richard didn't rise to the bait. He simply stepped to the side and pointed.

"You won't be fighting me."

His hand moved toward me, steady and certain.

"It's him you should be worried about."

Henry turned his gaze to me for the first time. And when he saw me, something changed. His grin curved upward, twisted and cruel.

"A kid?" He let out a bark of laughter. "This is your plan? The great and mighty Richard, reduced to throwing children at his problems. What's next? A troop of Girl Scouts?"

Still, Richard didn't flinch. "You'd be wise not to underestimate him. He'll be the one to put you down."

Henry's smile widened. But it didn't reach his eyes.

"Seventeen years," he said softly, voice dropping like the air before a storm. "That's how long I've been rotting in this hole. You know how I kept track? I counted. Day in, day out. Every hour, every breath. And the only thing that kept me from going insane was imagining what I'd do when I finally walked out of here. What I'd do to you."

Then his gaze snapped back to me. Sharper now. Hungrier.

"This is your one chance, kid. Run. Leave while you still have the legs to carry you. This is between me and him."

I stepped forward.

There was no hesitation.

Power surged through me as my bones began to shift, reshape. Claws tore their way from my fingertips. Fangs pushed past my gums. My ears sharpened, senses sharpening with them. Muscles coiled and pulled taut like a bow drawn to its limit.

The wolf in me didn't ask. It came roaring to the surface.

"No," I growled. "You gave up your humanity a long time ago. You don't get to pretend you're the victim now."

Henry stood, uncoiling from the slab with a grace that belied his size. He rose like a thunderstorm on the horizon—ominous, slow, full of violence just waiting for an excuse.

And he looked pleased.

"Good," he said simply. "I was going to kill you anyway."

He stepped forward, and the cave itself seemed to shudder at the weight of him. Not his body. His power.

The fight hadn't started yet.

But it was coming.

And when it did—I would be the one to finish it.