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Peter Hale had never believed in justice. Justice was a word people used when they wanted to pretend the universe kept score.
Good people suffered. Monsters walked free. Children died in fires while the people responsible went home to their families. Hunters slaughtered werewolves and called themselves righteous. Werewolves tore people apart and called it instinct.
There was no cosmic scale. No divine hand balancing one life against another. There was only consequence.
And Peter Hale had always been very, very good at consequences. Which was why he wasn't particularly surprised to find himself standing in Hell.
He was, however, offended by the décor. Peter slowly turned in a circle, taking in the enormous cavern surrounding him. Black stone stretched upward into darkness, broken occasionally by veins of molten orange that pulsed beneath the rock like blood beneath skin. The air smelled faintly of sulfur, smoke, and something metallic.
"Really?" Peter muttered. "Lava?"
His voice echoed. "Lava is so painfully cliché."
A distant scream answered him. Peter tilted his head. "At least someone's enjoying themselves."
The last thing he remembered was Beacon Hills. The burned shell of the Hale house. Derek. His nephew's claws buried in his throat. Then... Nothing.
Peter lifted a hand to his neck. There was no wound. No blood. His skin was perfectly intact. Dead, then. Wonderful.
He looked down at himself. Jeans. Boots. Dark shirt. Leather jacket. Apparently the afterlife had decided to let him keep his wardrobe.
"Small mercies."
Peter started walking. He didn't know where he was going, but standing around waiting for some horned bureaucrat to explain eternal damnation wasn't his style.
The cavern eventually narrowed into a corridor. Strange markings had been carved into the walls, some ancient enough that even Peter couldn't recognize them. Others he knew.
Latin. Greek. Old Norse. Symbols belonging to druids, witches, and cultures that had vanished thousands of years before Peter had been born.
This wasn't Hell. Not exactly. Peter ran his fingertips across one symbol.
"Underworld," he murmured.
"Very good."
Peter spun around. A man stood behind him. Or something wearing the shape of one. Tall. Black suit. Pale skin. Eyes so dark there seemed to be no distinction between iris and pupil.
Peter stared. The creature smiled. Peter sighed. "If you're going to torture me, I'd appreciate some originality."
The smile disappeared. "You don't seem frightened."
"I've met Gerard Argent."
The creature blinked. Peter shrugged. "My standards for horrifying old men are unusually high."
"You are Peter Hale."
"I've been accused of it."
"Born werewolf. Hale bloodline. Former Alpha."
Peter's expression tightened slightly.
"Currently deceased."
"Apparently."
The creature began walking. Peter didn't move. After several steps, it stopped and looked over its shoulder. "You are expected."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "By whom?"
"You'll see."
"I hate cryptic supernatural bullshit."
"Your entire existence is cryptic supernatural bullshit."
Peter considered that. "Fair."
He followed. The corridor opened into something Peter hadn't expected. A courtroom. Not the modern kind. There were no fluorescent lights or uncomfortable wooden benches. Instead, the room resembled some ancient amphitheater carved directly into black stone. Hundreds of shadowed figures filled the rising seats.
At the center stood a single chair. Peter stopped. "Oh, absolutely not."
"Sit."
"I've spent enough time being judged by people who know considerably less than I do."
"Sit."
Peter's eyes flashed blue. The shadows around the room shifted. Something ancient pressed against him.
Power. Not Alpha power. Not mountain ash. Not magic as Peter understood it. Something older. Peter's knees nearly buckled. He snarled. The pressure disappeared. Peter straightened his jacket. "I was going to sit."
A few of the shadows laughed. Peter glared toward them. He sat.
A figure emerged from the darkness. This one appeared female, although Peter suspected the form was merely for his benefit. She wore a long black gown that seemed to dissolve into smoke around her feet.
In her hands was a book. A very large book.
Peter stared at it. "You've got to be kidding."
"Peter Hale."
"Yes."
"You stand before the Court of the Dead."
"Sit."
Silence. Peter smiled faintly. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."
The woman's expression didn't change. Peter's smile faded. Tough crowd.
She opened the book. "You have killed."
"Yes."
"You have manipulated."
"Frequently."
"You have betrayed."
Peter leaned back. "Occasionally."
"You have sought power through violence."
"That feels somewhat repetitive."
"You murdered Laura Hale."
Peter went still. There it was. Not the fire. Not the hunters. Laura. His niece.
The woman continued. "You killed her for the Alpha spark."
Peter stared at the floor. "Yes." No sarcasm this time.
"You murdered innocent people."
Peter's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"You terrorized those who trusted you."
"Yes."
"You manipulated Scott McCall."
"He was remarkably easy to manipulate."
A murmur moved through the chamber. Peter glanced around. "What? We're dead. Surely we're beyond pretending."
The woman closed the book. "Do you regret it?"
Peter laughed. It came out colder than he'd intended. "What an extraordinarily human question."
"Answer."
Peter looked at her. "Which part?"
"All of it."
Peter leaned back. "No."
The chamber erupted. Whispers. Growls. Angry voices. The woman simply watched him. Peter waited until the noise faded. "I regret Laura."
Silence.
"I regret things I did when I wasn't entirely sane. I regret that Derek had to kill me. I regret that my family died believing they were safe in their own home."
His fingers curled around the arms of the chair. "But everything?"
Peter shook his head. "No."
"You don't regret killing those responsible for your family's deaths?"
"No."
"You don't regret pursuing revenge?"
"No."
"You don't regret becoming the monster others accused you of being?"
Peter smiled without humor. "They created the monster."
The woman studied him. "And therefore you bear no responsibility?"
Peter's eyes narrowed. "I didn't say that."
Something changed. Barely. But Peter felt it. Interest. The woman stepped closer. "Explain."
Peter stood. The shadows stirred again, but she raised one hand. They settled. Peter looked around the chamber. "You want confession? Fine."
His voice echoed against the stone. "I was angry. I was insane. I was burned alive and trapped inside my own body while everyone I loved was buried."
His eyes flashed. "I heard nurses whispering outside my room. I smelled their pity. I listened while people discussed whether I would ever walk again. Whether I'd ever speak again. Whether it might have been kinder if I'd died with the others."
Peter swallowed. The chamber had become completely silent.
"I spent six years inside that body."
His claws emerged. "Six fucking years."
The woman watched him. "And when I finally healed enough to move, what exactly was I supposed to do? Forgive?"
Peter laughed bitterly. "Justice had already failed."
The woman tilted her head. "How?"
"The people responsible were alive."
Peter's voice dropped. "My family wasn't."
He looked around at the watching dead. "So I handled it."
"You became judge."
"Yes."
"Jury."
"Yes."
"Executioner."
Peter smiled. "That was always my favorite part."
A few shadows murmured. The woman didn't react. "And Laura?"
Peter's smile vanished. There was no clever answer for that. No justification Peter could twist into something prettier. "Laura was innocent."
"Yet you killed her."
"Yes."
"For power."
Peter's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"Why?"
Peter didn't answer. The woman waited. Finally, he said quietly, "Because I thought power would fix what weakness had allowed."
There. The ugly truth. Peter stared into the darkness. "The Hales were powerful. Everyone knew it. Hunters respected us. Other packs respected us. Humans unknowingly lived beside us for generations."
His claws slowly retracted. "And then one human woman burned us alive."
Kate.
Even dead, Peter hated the taste of her name. "So yes. I wanted power. Because somewhere inside my damaged, psychotic brain, I'd decided that if I became powerful enough, no one could ever do that to us again."
The woman watched him for a long moment. "And did it work?"
Peter laughed. "No."
The answer echoed through the chamber. "No. It destroyed what was left."
Derek's face flashed through his mind. Laura. Cora. His family. Peter looked down. "I know what I am."
The woman approached until she stood directly before him. "Do you?"
Peter raised his eyes. "I'm not a good man."
"No."
"I'm not particularly sorry about that."
"Oh?"
"I've done terrible things."
"Yes."
"I would do some of them again."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Okay."
Peter frowned. That hadn't been the reaction he'd expected. She turned away. "Justice is not innocence, Peter Hale."
Peter stared at her back.
"Justice is balance."
The enormous book opened by itself. Pages began turning. Peter watched images flicker across them. Laura. The nurse. The video store clerk. Derek. Scott. Stiles. His family. His victims. His enemies.
Every choice. Every consequence.
"Humans often believe justice means good people are rewarded and bad people punished."
The pages continued turning.
"They are wrong."
Peter watched himself saving Derek. Helping Beacon Hills. Fighting beside people he'd once manipulated. Protecting what remained of his family. "You have caused suffering."
Another page.
"You have prevented suffering."
Another.
"You have taken lives."
Another.
"You have saved lives."
Peter's brow furrowed. "That doesn't erase anything."
"No." The woman faced him. "Nothing erases anything."
Peter stared at her. That, strangely, made more sense than forgiveness ever had.
Laura's murder wasn't erased because Peter later helped Derek. His vengeance wasn't justified because he'd suffered first. The fire didn't absolve him. His crimes didn't erase the fact that he had also loved. Nothing canceled anything else.
It all simply existed. Peter Hale. Every terrible, complicated piece.
"So what's the verdict?"
The woman smiled. "There isn't one."
Peter blinked. "What?"
"This is not your judgment."
Peter looked around. "Then what the fuck have we been doing?"
"Determining whether you're capable of understanding justice."
Peter stared at her. "Why?"
The shadows surrounding the chamber suddenly moved. Hundreds of faces appeared. Some human. Some supernatural. Some monstrous. Some ancient. All dead.
"Because the Underworld requires judges."
Peter laughed. Then stopped. Nobody else was laughing. "You cannot possibly be serious."
The woman's smile widened. "Who better?"
Peter looked around again. "You want me to judge the dead?"
"Not their goodness."
"Then what?"
"Their truth."
Peter stared at the book. Every action. Every motivation. Every consequence. No excuses. No convenient absolution. No pretending monsters were heroes simply because they believed themselves righteous. No pretending heroes had never done monstrous things.
Peter slowly smiled. Oh. Oh, he liked that. "Can I send people to eternal torment?"
The woman sighed. "We'll discuss your authority."
"Can I send Gerard Argent to eternal torment?"
"Hale."
"Hypothetically."
"Peter Hale."
"He deserves it."
"You haven't even started."
"I've known him for years."
The woman pinched the bridge of her nose. Somewhere in the chamber, someone laughed. Peter's smile grew. For the first time since Derek's claws had torn through his throat, Peter felt something resembling purpose.
Not redemption. He didn't want redemption. Redemption implied becoming something else. Peter had spent enough of his existence being told what he should have been.
A better uncle. A better wolf. A better man. Perhaps the dead didn't need better. Perhaps they simply needed someone willing to look at everything they'd done and refuse to look away. Peter walked toward the enormous book. The woman regarded him suspiciously.
"One condition."
"You are in no position to make conditions."
"I'm a Hale. We make conditions."
"You are dead."
"Hasn't stopped me before."
Another ripple of laughter moved through the chamber. Peter rested his palm against the book. "When my family and pack eventually arrives here, they don't stand before me."
The woman's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "No?"
Peter shook his head. "I couldn't judge them fairly."
"Because you would favor them?"
Peter looked at the pages. Derek. Cora. Laura. His sister. His family. Scott. Lydia. Technically his pack. "No."
His voice became quiet. "Because I'd judge them more harshly than anyone else."
The woman studied him. Then nodded. "Granted."
Peter inhaled. "Fine."
He turned toward the endless rows of dead. His eyes flashed supernatural blue. "Who's first?"
The darkness shifted. A man stepped forward. Peter smiled. The expression was sharp, dangerous, and unmistakably Peter Hale.
Maybe there was no justice in life. Maybe justice had never lived among the living at all. Maybe it belonged down here, where excuses died alongside everyone else.
Peter sat behind the great black table and opened the book. The first soul approached. Peter looked down at the list of sins. Then up at the trembling man.
"Oh." His smile widened.
"This is going to be fun."