"She didn't regret it..."

The wind rushed past her ears as Hope sprinted through the maze of towering crates. She skidded to a stop when she found the hiding place she'd chosen prior. Then waited, with bated breath. Her lungs began to burn with the building pressure, but she kept still. Stretching her senses, focusing them. The slow creak of the door opening, a shuffle of footsteps, and the unmistakable sizzling sound of a trap being unset.

A release of air followed by the wet sound of tearing flesh. Hope smirked as a scream rang out, followed by a string of curses. Pressurized, steel arrows. Not everything had to be accomplished through magic.

"Find it!" shouted their leader.

Knowing moments from now, she'd be face to face with the man with the tattooed knuckles. While this should have filled her with dread, it didn't. It exhilarated her. Footsteps sounded around the corner from where she was. It seemed the group had split to search the maze.

Oh, what a mistake that was.

Hope remained in her position as a woman with very little clothing and a long blonde braid down her back raced past. She skidded into the center of the path behind her, focusing on the center of her back.

"Vados," she murmured in a hushed voice, eyes trained on the hunter. The wooden planks of the two crates on either side of her broke free from their nails. Wood and metal rushed the woman on both sides. The death was quick, slicing into her left ribs and the right of her neck. A spray of blood washed out in all directions, scarcely missing Hope.

Hope disapproved of a suffered death, most of the time. No matter how deserved.

She jogged past the limp body, where it crashed to the ground in a sticky pool. She took a sharp right at the t-intersection of a wall of wood. There, she sat on her heels, nestled in the shadows of the little nook that led to nowhere. She could see straight down one path of the maze's center unobstructed. A man raced by, not noticing her.

Truth be told, she wasn't sure how many hunters were roaming the maze. To assume there were only as many as she'd initially seen that night at the motel would be foolish. So she'd play it smart and safe, picking them off one by one until none remained.

Another set of footsteps coming around the corner pulled her from her thoughts. No, two sets. Perfect. The more that fell into this trap, the better.

An almost translucent paint coated the cement not too far ahead of the hiding place. It was in a perfect circle in the center of the junction and nearly invisible unless you searched for it.

The two men she remembered vividly hopping out of the green truck wielding weapons tripped over the invisible line and into the circle where it engulfed them in a thick, gray fog. It filled them through their mouth and nose.

Soaking through their skin.

Their screams were cut off as their skin hardened and disintegrated into dusty, crumbly ash. Leaving nothing behind but a pile that one might assume was the contents of a fireplace.

Hope wrinkled her nose and cringed, trying to ignore the acidic fumes that pierced her nose. She didn't have time to think she may have gone a little far in setting these traps. She turned to her left, where she'd moved a crate previously, giving her a quick escape to a dark passage behind the row of boxes. It was only just wide enough for her body to slip through soundlessly.

Coming to a thin stream of light penetrating the darkness, she crouched and gazed through the crack between two of the crates. She couldn't see much, but she could see anyone running by. She reached her hand through, readying herself with steady feelings, and waited. Steeling herself for the sound of crunching bones she'd soon be inflicting on the next passerby.

Those who remained argued loudly, their voices carrying from somewhere in the lot. She didn't catch all they said, but she had a feeling they were close to giving up the hunt. The majority, anyway. Three or more voices rose.

She had been right. There were more hunters than she originally had planned.

Four were dead, and at least four remained. Hope was sure they'd realized they'd bitten off more than they could chew.

"It's one!" he yelled. Hope knew his voice now. Though she wished she didn't.

"It is one monster!" he continued, screaming now, "We've killed far more dangerous creatures than her. She is a girl! Nothing but a scared little girl running around performing parlor tricks!"

"A girl who has already killed off four of our members without being seen in less than ten minutes. She is not like the others, and if you can't see that by now, you are more stupid than all the others." Another man retorted. He held an accent she didn't quite recognize. Scottish? The man continued, "You know he would want her...alive."

Hope's brow raised. He? Who was he?

The muffled cursing seemed to end that discussion, and she could hear...retreating footsteps. They were...leaving? Hope narrowed her eyes and shook her head, mouth beginning to gape.

No! They weren't supposed to give up. They were supposed to continue until they were no longer threatening her. Until they were no longer a problem.

Instinct told her to leave her hiding place, and common sense told her instincts to shut up. Maybe it was a trick. A trap. To draw her out and take her down. It would make sense; it's something she would do. She heard the truck startup. The sound of the engine had to be the black truck...then the second truck started.

A second truck?

She envisioned the green truck, remembering the cough in its muffler shared by the one outside right now. The man with the tattooed knuckles had driven the green truck, which had confused her on the street. So...then, if the green truck belonged to him...who did the black truck belong to? A sinking feeling weighed down her stomach like she'd been filled with jagged rocks.

Hope waited. She waited a long time until the sound of both engines drifted away and nonexistent in the night air. When it was clear, she slipped back through her hiding place and out of the nook, walking toward the intersection where the two hunters had been turned to ash. She stepped over the pile, a cold sweat beading the back of her neck.

Retracing her way through the maze, she slowly rounded each corner, keeping her senses acutely aware. She passed the woman torn apart by the wooden slabs and continued until she reached the front where the first trap had been set. The man who set it off upon entering was pinned to the right wall- opposite where the arrows had been released. The final kill seemed to have come from the arrow pierced through his mouth and plunged at least a good inch into the wall. She couldn't suppress her shudder.

It all happened so fast.

A burst of pain shot through her skull like a frozen fragment, followed by a horde of dancing colors behind her vision. She veered to the side and fell back, looking up to see a bloodied and dented baseball bat coming for her face.

Ducking fast, too fast, the back of her head slammed against the concrete beneath. Above her, a face sneered. His tattooed knuckles gripped the bat's handle, ready for another swing.

Her head swam with throbbing pain, but that didn't leave her helpless. She swung her leg out, knocking him to his hip, hearing something snap. He let out an unearthly roar.

Hope slowly lifted herself to her feet, gaze not leaving him. Now, she could see that it seemed he'd landed on the bat itself. He likely fractured his femur.

Good.

She looked him over, eyes shifting into a deep, haunting amber. His stare widened as he was likely putting the puzzle pieces together.

"You're..." he began, but she quickly cut him off.

"I'm the tribrid," veins crawled beneath her eyes, "And you have royally pissed me off." She grabbed the handle and yanked it free from underneath him, causing him to howl in pain.

She snapped the thing in half, holding the handle, observing the jagged, splintered top before kneeling in front of him. He didn't speak, but his dark eyes told her everything she needed to know. He was terrified but not apologetic.

Hope knew she'd have to end him, or he'd be a constant threat to herself...and Derek. First, however, she needed an answer.

"Who...is he?" she asked in a low, steady voice.

A laugh ripped up his throat. A jarring sound that caused a shiver to shimmy down her spine. She didn't let it show, expression remaining placid.

"Oh..." he finally spoke, licking his upper lip as he watched her, "That I can't tell you, sweetheart."

Hope rammed the handle into his stomach and gave it a twist. He writhed in agony against her not-so-gentle touch.

"I don't think my question was clear enough. Who..." Hope pushed deeper, "is he." She demanded.

Another laugh, this time wet with blood that spilled from the corners of his mouth.

"He's going to kill you. He's going to kill that werewolf lover of yours. And he's going to that annoying little neighbor of yours. It's only a matter of time-"

His voice was cut off by a gargle as she withdrew the handle and thrust it right through his chest, piercing his heart. He coughed out the blood, spitting at her in a spray across the face before falling back wide-eyed dead.

Hope sat back on her heels, dropping the handle as she watched the last bit of light leave his cold, dark eyes.

She didn't regret it.

Hope moved in a numbed blur, much like that morning. She piled the bodies, well, the ones that weren't turned to ash, into the center of the lot. She looked around, spotting one of the crates she'd marked, and smashed her hand through the side, ignoring the splinters that dug into her arm, and pulled out a black bag.

Other crates of traps had been left untouched, and while she was glad she'd overprepared, she couldn't help but have this strange...unsatisfied feeling.

Removing two bottles of lighter fluid, she sprayed the bodies. The liquid mixed with their pooled blood, presenting an atrocious stench. She coughed and put her arm over her mouth and nose as she removed a candle and set it in the liquid. No evidence would be left behind. Hope made her way outside, sending a rush of air through the dirt to get rid of her tire tracks and footprints before returning to the warehouse. Focusing her energy.

"Fumée chaleur vicieux enfermé les vitres la bas." The warehouse was engulfed by wicked, merciless flames in under five minutes. There would be nothing to stop it until it had consumed every last speck on the lot. She'd hear the sirens soon and knew she needed to leave. The fire was like a beacon for miles. Still, she watched a moment longer. Taking in the view with pure satisfaction.

The man with the tattooed-covered knuckles was dead.

Hope had been sure to cover her tracks as she escaped down a different, less traveled dirt road toward town. It was bumpier and less predictable, but she kept her headlights off and relied only on her heightened vision. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as the warehouse grew smaller in the distance. She watched three police cars and a fire truck drive adjacent to her. Her vehicle was still unseen, and she breathed relief, seeing they were heading right for the blaze she knew wouldn't be put out by water. It wouldn't destroy the surrounding nature, and that's what mattered.

Her fingers didn't loosen from the steering wheel until she was parked in her garage. She pulled her hands off and flexed her fingers, looking down at them. Stained with blood and grime, deep dirt wedged under her fingernails.

She staggered a little when she stepped out of the car. Her vision blurred as she grabbed the side mirror to steady herself, just for a moment. Just long enough for her throbbing skull to settle so she could move again. She touched the back of her head as she stepped inside the mudroom from the garage and winced, pulling her fingers back to see the fresh blood.

Damn. He hit hard.

She stepped further into the kitchen, a set of brown eyes meeting hers and slowly widening to the size of saucers.

Stiles, who stood in her kitchen with a muffin in his mouth, stood still as a statue. His jaw dropped, followed by the thud of the muffin hitting the floor.

"What the...hell happened to you..." he trailed off, eyes looking her over. "Whose...whose blood is that?" He looked like he might gag.

Hope let out a long sigh, and a glare settled on her features. "Why do I keep finding you in my kitchen!?"

A figure stepped into the kitchen now, right in front of her. Dark brows raised above Derek's intense gaze.

"You've...been busy...." Derek spoke in a slow voice, clearly trying to keep his composure.

Hope's glare softened only a little, her brain slamming against the inside of her skull like a constant knocking on a door. "You were supposed to be out of town."

"I came back." He nodded, walking toward her slowly, his eyes holding her in place. He was treading carefully. "I had a feeling you were going to do something...reckless. I got worried. It looks like I was right." He offered a hesitant hand to her. "You don't have to talk to me. I'm not going to ask questions right now, but you're hurt, and I want to help you."

This was a side of Derek she'd yet to see. Soft. Possibly...afraid? If not scared, he was undoubtedly uncertain. How could she blame him? She just stepped into her house looking like she'd just returned from a Carrie reenactment. It was possible he even thought she was deranged.

Maybe I am.

Derek held to his word. He didn't ask questions, even as he helped her upstairs and to her bathroom. He filled the tub with hot water, sparing only a few silent glances at her. Finally, he turned to her, "I'll..be right outside, alright?"

That was the end of the conversation for the time being. Derek stepped outside, closing the door behind him, and Hope slowly, carefully stripped herself down. Avoiding the gash on the back of her head. She heard her bed creak a little and knew he'd sat down on it, probably listening in on her. She knew if she fell, he'd catch her well before she could hit the ground.

Hope sank into the hot water and winced, her aching muscles slowly unwinding. She sat there, soaking, watching the ripples in the water intently. Her mind wandered, glazing over the night's events.

She'd killed five hunters.

No, she'd killed five supposedly skilled hunters.

Her mind flitted over the conversation she'd heard. Mainly what the man with the Scottish accent had said. "You know he would want her alive."

But who was he?