The only reason he was here in London was to check in on Jackson Whittemore. Granted his only encounters with Jackson had been when the boy had had a peculiar set of claw marks on the back of his neck. Not enough to turn him but enough to give him a nasty case of aconite poisoning. The second encounter had been shortly after he had come back from the dead to learn that Jackson had become a kanima.
After his and Derek’s intervention, Jackson had become a werewolf. Something about forgiving himself and a lot of stuff that Peter had glossed over.
So he had near jumped at the chance to get away from Beacon Hills for awhile. The place that seemed determined to eradicate all traces of the name Hale from its borders. His family home had been burned and then demolished. There was no graves for the family burned in the fire. Derek had fled. Cora was in hiding in South America.
And now Peter had temporarily relocated to London. The suggestion from Scott was to get Jackson to come back but his priority was to make sure that Jackson was thriving. And he wondered why it had been Jackson and not Isaac in France. London just seemed so…cliche.
Jackson already had enough time on the European continent to adapt him self and forget his homeland, clearly that everything would be easier if it were not for the fact that everything seemed inadequate. He did not have a pack, nor was like packs in London were to accept a blue-eyed wolf. They always assumed the worst of it. Nobody wanted a murderer in his pack, they believed he would kill them or would kill the Alpha. He always believed that human stupidity was infinite, but realized that the wolves went beyond, of course.
For a while it was tough, yes. But after months of solitude and adapt to involuntary changes in light of the full moon, Jackson began to get used to his new life… or so he thought until finally a familiar scent made him rejoice with joy, or at least his wolf.
He did not know exactly where it came from that wonderful aroma, but followed him like a hungry puppy into a bloodbath. Jackson ended up burying his nose involuntarily against the shoulder of a man who had no time to recognize as it was so wrapped up in the feeling of home that looked less. Of course after a few seconds had to throw back because apparently his brain knew who owned the aroma. A grimace distorted his perfect face as he looked up, his eyes flashed possibly an electric blue of his wolf when he growled. “Peter.”