[ nope, not an empath — just a werewolf. but that also means he can smell her distress, his nostrils flaring as it wafts over him. panic, nervousness, and feathers, like he's just ripped open a feather down comforter and buried his face in the contents. ]

No, Beacon Hills.

[ his confusion flares into anger as she declares this is going to suck, hackles raised, fingers digging into the table as if about to give way to claws that he manages to keep retracted. but then that ire melts into a quiet sort of calm as he listens and absorbs. an angel. she's an angel of the non-biblical sense.

huh.

derek eases back, settling into his chair again, crossing his arms over his chest. ] Okay. An angel — I can buy that, and I considering that God and I were never quite on speaking terms, I can appreciate you not being one of his messengers. Doesn't explain what happened just now. Maybe it should, but like you said, I'm not from Chicago and my knowledge of ethereal beings is a little sketchy.