Instinct

8. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

At around noon the next day, Brennan woke to his muscles stiff and aching, no doubt from the trek and lack of rest the day before. His stomach felt empty in a way it hadn't for a long time, and he realized belatedly that the TV was on. Rebecca was seated in a chair in the corner of the room, eyes absently tracing the screen.

He glanced over at the other bed, the afternoon light spearing through the thin curtains to bathe the werewolf survivor in a halo of golden light. Brennan scrubbed a hand over his face to rid it of the cobwebs of sleep still hanging over him and blinked as he sat up.

Fever still flushed her cheeks, but the hue was more natural than it had been the night before, and sweat didn't soak her clothes as it had then. Between his aching muscles and residual exhaustion, the prospect of getting up wasn't very enticing. It was the first Monday in a long time that he'd slept in, as if he had the luxury of doing so.

"Oh crap," he muttered.

He lunged for his jacket, left in a discarded heap on the floor beside the bed and rooted in the pockets for his cell phone. Fortunately, the little cell still had a bit of battery left in it, allowing it to light up with-

Oh, he'd made a mistake. 7 missed calls. He knew just whom they'd be from, and so didn't bother putting himself through listening to them, but instead dialed the number off by heart and waited for it to connect.

On the first ring, she picked up.

"Brennan?" She answered, her own special brand of worried.

Equal parts suspicion, stress and vulnerability.

"Yeah, Lydia, it's me- listen..."

"No," she interrupted. "You listen to me, little brother. What in the hell possessed you that made you unable to call me to tell me you'd made it to Vermont in one piece at the very least?"

"I'm sorry," he said wholly to appease her, partly because he really was. "But I can actually explain, if you'll let me."

"And what? You just decide to have a holiday in Vermont? I had your boss calling me, asking where the hell you were. You hadn't called in to say you'd be gone, so you'd better be at this front door right about- oh, yesterday night."

"Lydia," he tried again with a sigh.

"Brennan James Hartley, do you understand what a scare you gave me? I don't hear from you for a day and a half-"

Brennan pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head at the look Rebecca was giving him from the other side of the room.

"Look," he snapped. "I'm not dead, or even dying. Give it a rest would you?"

Immediately, the sound of his sister's voice over the line died, leaving the static-ridden silence to occupy the space between them. She sniffed uncomfortably, and he could almost see how her shoulders would tense up in his mind's eye. He had said it to spite her, for constantly worrying over him, for treating him like the child he hadn't been for a long time. But he realized his mistake too late.

"You're an asshole," she hissed. "You shouldn't joke about that. So if you're not dead or dying then why aren't you back yet?"

It was then that Stephanie began to stir, the first voluntary movement he'd seen from her since he'd had the misfortune of laying his eyes on her body lain to waste.

"Hold on a second," he said in reaction to his sister, resting the phone down on the side table.

The girl's eyes fluttered, as he got closer, but she did no more than shift into a more comfortable position, it seemed, before she was deeply under again. Even so, with that small milestone, Brennan felt his heart soar. It was possible that this wouldn't end up a tragedy as so many things had.