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Peter Hale had learned several things in the year since Sheriff Noah Stilinski had made the questionable decision to leave his seven-year-old daughter at the Hale house for a mandatory work thing.
First, Isabelle Stilinski could talk for an astonishingly long time without apparently needing oxygen.
Second, she considered any food on someone else's plate inherently superior to the exact same food on her own.
Third, allowing her to stay for one month had somehow resulted in her becoming a permanent fixture.
No one had formally agreed to this. Certainly not Peter.
And yet there was now a purple plastic cup in his kitchen cupboard because Isabelle didn't like the green ones. A tiny pair of rain boots occasionally appeared beside Derek's sneakers. Cora kept crayons in the drawer beneath the telephone. There was a blanket with cartoon wolves folded over the back of Peter's couch.
And Isabelle called him Uncle Peter. Again, no one had formally agreed to that either. Peter had merely stopped correcting her.
Tonight, however, Isabelle Stilinski was nowhere to be found. Peter stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring toward the second floor. "Isabelle."
Silence.
His eyes narrowed. "Isabelle Ludivine Stilinski."
Nothing.
From the living room, Derek glanced away from the television. At sixteen, his nephew had mastered the particular expression teenagers used whenever adults inconvenienced them by existing. "Maybe she went home."
Peter slowly turned his head.
Derek shrugged. "What?"
"Her shoes are by the door."
"So?"
"Her coat is on the hook."
Derek stared at him. Peter gestured toward the window, where rain battered the glass beneath a black night sky. "Do you believe the seven-year-old walked three miles barefoot through a thunderstorm?"
Derek considered it. "She is a Stilinski and she doesn't like shoes."
Peter's mouth tightened. Unfortunately, that was a reasonable argument. Another rumble of thunder rolled overhead. Cora appeared in the doorway with a bowl of popcorn hugged against her chest. At eleven, she was still young enough to be openly nosy instead of pretending she wasn't interested like Derek. "Maybe she's hiding."
"Why would she be hiding?" Peter asked.
Cora stuffed popcorn into her mouth. Peter's eyes narrowed further. "Cora."
"Don't know."
"Cora."
She chewed very slowly. Derek looked between them. "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything!"
Thunder cracked loudly enough to rattle the windows. Upstairs, something thumped.
Every Hale looked toward the ceiling. Peter sighed. "Found her."
He climbed the stairs. The hallway was dark except for the faint glow spilling from Cora's bedroom and the lamp Peter had left on downstairs. Isabelle wasn't in the bathroom. She wasn't in Derek's room, which was fortunate for everyone involved because Derek treated seven-year-olds entering his room with approximately the same level of alarm as a home invasion.
Peter reached his bedroom. The door was cracked open. He pushed it wider. "Isabelle?"
No answer.
Peter stepped inside. He could hear breathing. Small, quick breaths. His expression changed. He followed the sound toward the bed. "Pequeña belleza?"
The breathing stopped. Peter crouched and lifted the edge of the comforter hanging almost to the floor. Two mismatched eyes stared back at him from beneath his bed.
Peter blinked. Isabelle was curled into a tiny ball, clutching her stuffed wolf against her chest.
"Hello."
She sniffled. "Hi."
Peter sat back on his heels. "Would you care to explain why you're under my bed?"
"No."
"Excellent conversation."
Another rumble rolled through the house. Isabelle squeezed her stuffed wolf tighter.
Ah.
Peter's sarcasm faded. "Come out."
She shook her head.
"Isabelle."
"No."
"You realize I can simply pull you out."
Her eyes widened. "Don't!"
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Then come out voluntarily."
"No."
Peter sighed and lowered himself onto the floor. There were indignities one expected to suffer throughout life. Lying on his stomach beside his own bed while negotiating with a seven-year-old had not been among Peter's expectations.
He rested his chin against his folded arms. "Comfortable?"
"No."
"Then perhaps underneath a bed wasn't your finest strategic decision."
"I was hiding."
"I gathered."
"From the thunder."
Peter nodded solemnly. "Naturally. Thunder is well known for checking beneath furniture."
Isabelle frowned at him. "That's not funny."
"A little funny."
"No."
"Fine."
Lightning flashed through the curtains. Isabelle flinched. A few seconds later, thunder boomed. Her little face crumpled. Peter's amusement disappeared completely. "Come here."
She hesitated. Peter reached one hand beneath the bed. Isabelle stared at it.
"Come on."
Slowly, she put her tiny hand into his. Peter pulled her toward him until her blonde head appeared, followed by her shoulders and the stuffed wolf she refused to release. He helped her crawl the rest of the way out before sitting against the side of the bed.
Isabelle immediately climbed into his lap. Peter grunted. Apparently they had bypassed asking permission. Again. She curled against his chest and buried her face beneath his chin. Peter wrapped one arm around her automatically. "Better?"
"No."
"Wonderful."
"I'm scared."
"I noticed."
She pulled back enough to look at him. "You're supposed to say don't be scared."
Peter brushed strands of blonde hair away from her damp cheeks. "No."
Isabelle blinked. "No?"
"No."
"But grown-ups say that."
"Grown-ups say a lot of stupid things."
Her eyebrows scrunched together. Peter continued, "Being afraid isn't something you're doing wrong."
"But I'm supposed to be brave."
"Who told you that?"
"Cora."
Peter looked toward the doorway. There was an immediate scrambling sound. "Cora Hale."
Silence.
"Cora."
A head slowly appeared around the doorway. "I didn't say she couldn't be scared!"
Peter stared at her. Cora entered reluctantly, popcorn bowl still in her hands. "I just said thunder isn't scary and she should be brave."
Isabelle's little chin wobbled. "You said only babies are scared of storms."
Cora winced. Peter looked at his niece. "Cora."
"I didn't mean her!"
"You said it to me!"
"I was teasing!"
"Well, it wasn't funny!"
Derek appeared behind Cora. "What's happening?"
"Family meeting in my bedroom, apparently."
Derek looked down at Peter sitting on the floor with Isabelle in his lap. His lips twitched. Peter pointed at him. "Whatever thought is currently forming in your adolescent brain, kill it."
Derek leaned against the doorway. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"Good."
And then Derek with a smirk, "Uncle Peter's scared of thunder too."
Peter stared at him.
Derek smiled.
Isabelle's head snapped up. "You are?"
"No."
"Derek said—"
"Derek lies."
Derek snorted. Peter looked back down at Isabelle. "But that isn't the point."
She picked at one of the buttons on his shirt. "What's the point?"
"The point is that being brave doesn't mean you're not afraid."
Isabelle frowned. "Yes it does."
"No, it doesn't."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
Peter narrowed his eyes. She narrowed hers back. Derek murmured, "She's winning."
"Leave."
Derek didn't move. Peter sighed and looked at Isabelle again. "If you're not afraid of something, you don't need courage to face it."
Her little fingers stopped fiddling with his button. "What?"
Peter considered how to explain it without turning the conversation into something a seven-year-old couldn't understand.
"All right. Suppose there's a spider."
Isabelle made a face. "Ew."
"Precisely. Suppose you're afraid of spiders."
"I am."
"I know. You screamed loud enough to wake the dead when one was in the bathtub last month."
"It was huge!"
"It was approximately the size of my thumbnail."
"It had eight legs!"
"Most spiders do."
"That's too many."
Peter conceded that with a slight tilt of his head. "Fair enough. Now, if Derek picks up the spider and puts it outside, is he brave?"
"No. Derek likes spiders."
Derek shrugged. "They're fine."
Peter nodded. "Exactly. He's not afraid, so it doesn't require courage."
Isabelle thought about that.
"But if you're scared of the spider and you still walk past it instead of running away—"
"I don't run."
Peter raised an eyebrow.
"I walk fast."
"Of course. If you walk very fast past it even though you're scared, that's brave."
Isabelle looked toward the window when lightning flashed again. Her shoulders tensed. "So I can be scared and brave?"
"At exactly the same time."
Another thunderclap came. Isabelle jumped and grabbed Peter's shirt. He didn't comment on it. Instead, his hand moved slowly over her back. Cora shifted beside the doorway. "I'm sorry, Izzy."
Isabelle peeked at her. Cora walked closer. "I shouldn't have called you a baby."
"I'm seven."
"I know."
"That's not a baby."
"No."
"I'm almost eight."
"You're seven and eight months," Derek said.
Isabelle glared at him. "Almost eight."
Derek wisely nodded. "Almost eight."
Peter smirked. Isabelle settled against him again. "But I don't like nighttime storms."
"You don't have to."
"They're worse."
"Why?"
"Because you can't see."
Peter glanced toward the window. That made considerably more sense. "Ah."
"In daytime you can see everything. At night it's just..." Isabelle waved one hand vaguely. "Black. And then the lightning makes everything there for one second, and then it's gone again."
Peter listened.
"And what if something is outside?"
"Something is outside."
Isabelle froze. Peter continued, "Trees. Grass. Probably several annoyed squirrels."
Derek snorted.
"Maybe a raccoon," Cora added.
Isabelle looked alarmed. Peter shot Cora a look.
"What? Raccoons aren't scary."
"They have human hands!" Isabelle whispered.
Peter closed his eyes. Apparently raccoons had now joined spiders and thunderstorms on the list.
"Fine. No raccoons."
"You can't tell them not to come."
"No, but I can promise none are getting into this house."
"How?"
"I'm terrifying."
That earned him the tiniest giggle. Peter smiled. There it was. He poked her side. Another giggle escaped. "Stop."
He did it again.
"Uncle Peter!"
"What?"
"You're tickling me!"
"Am I?"
"Yes!"
"Strange."
She squirmed, laughing now as Peter tickled her until she nearly dropped her stuffed wolf.
"Stop! Stop!"
Peter relented. Isabelle collapsed against him, breathless. The thunder rolled again. She tensed. But she didn't hide. Peter felt her tiny fingers clutch his shirt.
"Still scared?" he asked quietly.
She nodded.
"That's all right."
Isabelle looked up at him. "I'm being brave?"
"Very."
Her expression brightened. Then she looked toward the window. "Can we look?"
Peter blinked. "At what?"
"The storm."
Cora smiled. Derek pushed away from the doorway. Peter studied Isabelle's face. She was still nervous. He could hear her heartbeat hammering away inside her little chest. But she wanted to try.
"All right."
He stood with her in his arms.
"I can walk."
"I'm aware."
"I'm seven."
"I've been informed."
"I'm almost eight."
"So I've heard."
He carried her anyway. Cora followed them downstairs, and Derek trailed behind despite pretending he wasn't interested.
Peter opened the back door. Rain hammered against the covered porch roof. Isabelle immediately tightened her arms around his neck. "We're not going outside-outside, right?"
"No."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Peter stepped onto the porch. The night stretched across the Hale property, black and wet and alive. Trees swayed beneath the wind. Rain glittered whenever lightning flashed across the sky. Peter sat on the porch swing with Isabelle beside him. She immediately scooted against his side. Cora sat on the steps. Derek leaned against one of the posts.
For several minutes, nobody spoke. Lightning streaked across the clouds. Isabelle gasped.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Thunder rolled. She grabbed Peter's hand. He squeezed hers.
"That one was loud."
"It was."
"But I didn't hide."
"No."
"I wanted to."
"I know."
She looked at him. "How?"
Peter tapped his ear. "Werewolf."
"Oh."
Another flash. Isabelle counted aloud this time. "One... two... three... four... five... six..."
The thunder followed, quieter now.
"It's going away!" she said.
"Seems so."
Isabelle smiled. Peter watched her stare into the darkness. Twenty minutes ago, she'd been crying beneath his bed.
Now she sat wrapped in one of his sweaters, her little legs dangling above the porch floor, watching lightning paint the night silver.
Still scared and still holding his hand. But watching anyway. Peter smiled faintly. Isabelle looked at him. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You smiled."
"I do that occasionally."
"Not a lot."
Cora laughed. Derek coughed suspiciously into his fist. Peter glared at both of them. Isabelle leaned against his arm. "Uncle Peter?"
"Hm?"
"Can I sleep here tonight?"
"You sleep here approximately three nights a week."
"But Daddy's working late."
"Then I assume you're already sleeping here."
"Can I sleep in your room?"
Peter looked down at her. She gave him enormous mismatched blue and green eyes. He sighed. "Fine."
"On the bed?"
"Where else would you sleep?"
She pointed toward the floor. Peter stared. "After this entire ordeal, you want to sleep under the bed?"
"No! I was making sure!"
"You can sleep in the bed."
"With my wolf?"
"Yes."
"And the hallway light on?"
"Yes."
"And—"
"Isabelle."
She giggled. "Okay."
Another flash illuminated the sky. Isabelle jumped. But this time, instead of hiding her face, she stared upward. "Whoa."
Peter looked at her. "Pretty, isn't it?"
She nodded slowly. "Still scary."
"Things can be more than one thing."
"Like scary and pretty?"
"Exactly."
"Like you?"
Derek choked. Cora burst out laughing. Peter turned very slowly toward Isabelle. She stared innocently up at him.
"Excuse me?"
"You're scary and pretty."
Derek doubled over. Cora nearly dropped the popcorn bowl. Peter stared at the seven-year-old who had somehow managed to insult and compliment him simultaneously.
Then he sighed. "You're definitely a Stilinski."
Another thunderclap rolled through the night. She squeezed Peter's hand. Peter squeezed back. And Isabelle stayed right where she was. Watching. Scared. Safe... And brave.