Becoming A True Alpha (Teen Wolf)

Chapter 13: Nothing More Than A Ghost Story

Chapter 13:

I had experienced more in one year then most people would experience in one lifetime. But there was still a sound I never got use to hearing. A noise that could mean the difference between life and death. The deafening ring of a gun going off.

It was such a pure sound, bounding off the walls moments after the bullet had already left the barrel. And here I am, laying perfectly comfortable in bed as I listen. I should be on my feet, scowering the motel grounds for the culprit. That would be what a hero would do.

But I was no hero.

It was no surprise to myself of how cowardly I could be. I had left my friends for family. Family that would stab me in the back the moment they had the chance to. I convinced myself of being confused, uncertain at the time. But I wasn't blinded by anything but anger. Anger I had reflected at myself for killing Brandon. Now I was contemplating not even getting out of bed when a gunman could be on the loose. I know had done low things since joining the alpha pack, but had I finally hit rock bottom and not even noticed?

So I crawl out of bed, following the thick scent of gunpowder residue that would be untraceable to the human senses. It leads me not out of my motel room, but into the bathroom. Nothing seems out of place to the untrained eye. The white tiles still have the odd scuff here and there, while two rings holding the shower curtain up have slipped off the metal rod. But no signs of life can be accounted for.

The stench of powder still lingers, mocking my sanity as I look around at the empty room. I had heard a gun shot, I know I had.

"Looking for this?"

I turn my head so quickly, a sharp pain jolts down my neck. There in the entrance of the washroom stands a young boy. His unfamiliar features don't register in my befuddled mind. He is barely twenty, the youth showing in his gleaming blue eyes and shaggy mop of blonde hair. But his surprisingly charming looks are useless to think about when I spot the gun in his hands.

The metal weapon gleams under the florescent lighting of the room. The boy's pale hand shakes as he holds onto the handle. Seeing him so nervous to hold the weapon sparks worry in my mind. Panic could be a dangerous thing when pressure was applied.

I say the first sentence that forms in my mind, "How did you get in here?" A silly question to ask a kid that looked willing to shoot this gun at any moment.

He shakes his head back and forth, ignoring my question. "I didn't want to do it, but they made me! They might as well have pulled the god-damn trigger!" His voices rises to a shout.

That was good. Maybe if he continued to scream someone would hear and come running. Then I picture Stiles barging through the door to take the brunt of the fire. This guy was a ticking time bomb I would have to disable myself. If not someone else was going to get hurt. Someone who wouldn't heal as fast as I would.

Maybe if I could keep him talking, it would distract him enough to take the gun. "Who made you do this?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"My mother and the son of a bitch she married." He no longer yells as a sadness creeps into his voice.

I take the opportunity to step closer, "And this man? He's your- I'm sorry what's your name?"

"Tate- Tate Langdon."

Another step across the room, "Okay Tate. This man, who is he?" I am now inches away from him.

The boy gulps in a large breath as he speaks, "He was my step father."

"What do you mean, was?" I glance down at the gun, which is now within arms reach and I understand the reason for his use of past-tense. "You killed him, didn't you?"