REAPING INNOCENCE ◦ STILINSKI [3]

PROLOGUE

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PART TWO
❝PROLOGUE❞

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THE SOUND OF AN INCESSANT ringing had echoed throughout the bedroom, bouncing off walls and landing directly into the ears of the brunette that was lying in his bed. Over the course of the past few months, it seemed like a phone call was a declaration of something horrible having happened. Now, Scott McCall believed that him and his friends were finished with fighting their good fight—that they had completed the course that had been lied out before them. That was until he received a phone call from his mother at three thirty in the morning.

    In his gut, he'd known, of course, that something terrible more than likely had happened. Even though they had rid Beacon Hills of the hunters and psychos; destroyed the deadpool and he had defeated a power hungry Peter Hale—he still knew something was wrong. When he grabbed the phone from the bedside table and saw his mother's name on the caller ID, everything inside of him tightened. She was just crying on the other end of the line, she told him how sorry she was, and that he needed to come to the hospital right away.

    All he could do was assume the worst.

    But, what he hadn't expected was to hear that Carter's car had driven off Dead Man's Bridge during the horrendous storm—nose diving right into Beacon Hills' biggest and deepest quarry. And that by the time law-enforcement had gotten there, her car was completely submerged.

    A wave of pure panic flashed through the boy, enough for him to believe for a moment that he was going to throw up as his mind had trouble wiring all of the bad scenarios together in his head. Just the idea of something being wrong with Carter had him pushing himself off the bed, eyes wide open as he quickly maneuvered himself around the corner of the bed, managing to catch his foot on the end of his lacrosse stick. His actions were frantic, from trying to find a pair of jeans to pulling on a shirt.

    His breath came in deep rasps. The heat was suddenly stifling, unbearable. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything. All he knew was that he couldn't stand being in his room for one second longer. Without a backward glance, he rushed out of the house, taking the steps three at a time, and raced for the road. There were so many thoughts swirling in his head as he rushed to the hospital. The word around him started to appear surreal and dreamlike. He was so scared. His heart was pounding, mouth was dry, and his hands were shaking. He had faced so much and survived: werewolves, Kanimas, Werejaguars, hunters. Things he never imagined were real. And it wasn't until now that he was truly terrified.

    He was running. Leaving his motorbike in the driveway, not even bothering to think of possibly using it when he knew he was faster on foot. He couldn't say how long he ran. The night was surprisingly clear—the earlier storm had been long since over—and cold, and his heart felt as though it were pounding in his neck, in his brain, in his feet. He occasionally pressed his hand to his left temple, which was throbbing with his raging thoughts. The area was warm to the touch, and he felt dizzy.

    With each footstep, a new image of Carter appeared in his head: the inhumanly beautiful brunette standing at the front of Mr. Harris' class; holding her in his arms as the fire in her chest almost consumed her; black blood pouring out of her mouth as Deucalion sunk his fangs into the side of her neck; her smiling face...memories blurred. He shivered uncontrollably and lost his footing, tripping over a felled branch. He landed on the dirt, on his hands and knees, and retched repeatedly, until the iron-like taste in his mouth disappeared.

    He had no idea what was happening at the hospital. His mother hadn't told him much, only that he needed to get there as soon as possible. Carter was either dead or dying, and he didn't know what he should be doing. The entire world was turned upside down, and he felt dizzy and weak, sure that no matter what he did, he would cause destruction. This was all my fault, he thought. All of it. If he hadn't let her leave his house during the storm...