Teen Wolf: Second Howl

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Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Hidden Room

Lucas's Perspective

The door creaked open with a subtle, reluctant click, as if even it hesitated to let us in. Richard's apartment greeted us in familiar silence. It looked almost exactly as I remembered, unchanged by time, untouched by chaos—neat, sterile, purposeful. The walls were bare, blank canvases broken only by the occasional nail or hook. The furniture was minimal and carefully arranged. Nothing looked worn out, but nothing looked lived-in either.

The kitchen was spotless. No dishes in the sink. No lingering scent of food or coffee. Just an empty counter and an unopened bottle of water sitting on the table like it had been placed there in case someone visited but never was. The couch was plain, low-backed, and rigid—practical, functional, the opposite of inviting.

Everything about the place spoke of a man who had shaped his life around efficiency. No clutter. No frills. And yet, oddly enough, it wasn't entirely cold. There was a strange, quiet warmth woven into the stillness. The kind of warmth that didn't come from material things, but from memories that still lingered in the air, refusing to fade.

But there was one thing—just one—that stood out. One detail that felt utterly out of place in the otherwise utilitarian space.

The photographs.

They were everywhere.

Lining the walls, arranged with exacting symmetry on shelves, standing upright in carefully chosen frames—each one clean, dust-free, as if they'd been tended to with care even after Richard was gone. There were no fingerprints, no smudges on the glass. Just frozen moments, captured in ink and memory.

There was a photo of Richard's wife, bathed in sunlight, laughing as if she had no idea how rare that kind of joy would become. Another of Emily and Richard, their arms wrapped around each other, mid-laugh—genuine, unposed, real. I spotted one of myself, much younger, still awkward and too small for the training dagger I held with both hands like it was something sacred. Another showed me again, older this time, with a bloodied face and a broken grin after my first solo hunt. I remember that day—how proud he'd been, even though he hadn't said it.

And then the one I couldn't stop staring at.

The three of us. Standing in front of the cabin. Years ago. Before everything changed.

I stood in front of those memories longer than I meant to. Longer than I should have. The air around me felt heavier the more I looked. Every frame held a story. Every image carried a kind of invisible weight, pressing down on my chest with something between longing and guilt.

Eventually, I forced myself to move. Swallowed hard against the ache building behind my ribs and started doing what I'd come here to do.

I began packing the photos, slowly and carefully. Each one I wrapped in cloth, folding it like it might break from too much pressure. One by one, I slid them into the box. These weren't just tokens of a life well lived. They were proof—undeniable evidence—that Richard had been more than the a hunter. That he had been a father, a husband, a mentor. A man who had loved and been loved in return.

Emily watched quietly from behind me. She didn't say a word, but I could feel the tension between us—the unspoken truth that we hadn't come here just to mourn. This wasn't about grieving. This was about gathering what was left of him. What remained of his legacy.

We moved toward the bedroom next.

Like the rest of the apartment, it was bare to the point of feeling almost temporary. A single bed with a tightly drawn sheet. A nightstand with no drawer pulls. No pictures on the walls here. No books beside the bed. Not even a coat or a scarf hung on the wall hook.

Except for the wall.

To anyone else, it would have seemed perfectly ordinary. A solid expanse of painted plaster. But to my eyes—my sharpened, werewolf eyes—it shimmered ever so faintly. A shimmer not visible to humans. A veil, a spell, almost undetectable unless you knew to look for it. It was subtle, cleverly crafted, hidden in plain sight.

I stepped closer and spoke the password.

"Aster."

The word left my lips like an exhale, and almost instantly, the illusion began to melt away. There was a rush of warm air, like the breath of an unseen presence. And then, clear as daylight, a door appeared—metal-lined, solid, and very real—where there had been only a blank wall a second ago.

I reached out, placed my hand on the handle, and pulled it open.

Inside was the real Richard, the one I had known as a father figure. The man who taught me how to fight or how to survive. This was the Richard who had lived a life in the shadows. The hunter. The strategist. The protector of a world that had no idea it needed protecting.

The hidden room was filled from wall to wall with the tools of a life spent battling darkness.

Silver-edged weapons gleamed faintly beneath layers of protective magic. Enchanted knives rested in display cases etched with runes. Bundles of arrows and bolts sat neatly in rows, each fletched with colored threads and laced with sigils. I spotted vials filled with mountain ash, bottled wolfsbane, herbs that reeked of old magic and danger—some of which I couldn't even identify by scent.

There were scrolls. Maps. Handwritten notes detailing rituals and runes. Files stacked neatly, filled with observations on supernatural patterns, creature behavior, and ancient lore. And in the center of it all, like the beating heart of his secret world, sat his old laptop—worn, dented, familiar.

I opened the bag I had brought with me. Inside were the bow and dagger I'd taken right after Richard passed—his signature weapons, the ones I couldn't bear to leave behind. I began carefully packing the rest, item by item.

It wasn't fast work.

Not because I was being slow, but because every piece I touched carried a memory. A story. An echo of him. I wasn't just packing gear. I was packing his life. His mission.

Each time I slid something into the case, I felt the weight of what it meant.

By the time I reached the final vial, I noticed Emily still standing at the entrance of the hidden room. She hadn't moved. Her arms were crossed, and her eyes were narrowed, thoughtful, focused—not on me, but on something else.

"What is it?" I asked quietly.

She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze drifted around the edges of the doorway, then down to the floor. Her nose twitched slightly, just enough to notice if you knew her well.

Finally, she spoke.

"You do realize this room is sealed by a mountain ash barrier, right?"

I froze.

I inhaled slowly. There it was. Faint, almost imperceptible—but unmistakable. The scent of mountain ash. A bitter, burned wood note buried beneath the scent of herbs and metal. I hadn't noticed it before. I'd walked straight through it. No pain. No resistance. Nothing.

And that shouldn't have been possible.

I turned slowly, processing what she'd just said. Mountain ash is supposed to repel supernatural creatures. It's one of the oldest defenses against our kind. Hunters use it and rely on it. It works.

But it hadn't stopped me.

"I shouldn't have been able to walk through that," I murmured.

Emily stepped closer, her expression unreadable. "It seems," she said, her voice low and careful, "that becoming a True Alpha hasn't just made you stronger. It's… changed you."

I looked down at my hand.

At the ring Richard had left me.

It glinted in the dim light of the hidden room, catching a flash of something ancient, something deeper than magic. Then I looked back at the open doorway, at the enchantment I had passed through like it wasn't even there.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

Emily shook her head. "We don't know yet," she said. "But if mountain ash can't stop you anymore… we'll need to find out what else has changed. And how much."

I nodded, saying nothing.

Something inside me had shifted since the ruins. It wasn't just grief—something deeper had taken root.

I didn't know what it meant to be a True Alpha, but I would find out soon enough.