Warren was nervous. What he remembered was clear, as if he'd left her yesterday, but such was the way his people held on to memories. Such was the way their minds worked. Sometimes it was hellish and other times, like now, Warren found himself smiling at the images and sounds, smells and events that passed before his mind's eyes. Of all the years he'd lived, the five that he'd spent in constant contact with Cleo had been the best. From eleven to sixteen she'd taught him how to open up again, that to trust was not an automatic death sentence. He'd been loathe to leave her, but had been given little choice. Warren had seen her, a few times. Three Christmas' in the last nine years. The death of her brother, he'd stayed three months, but she'd hardly noticed him, not while he was there, not when he had gone. But the same had been true of everyone at that point in Cleo's life. Still, he'd kept tabs on her and had been relieved when report came that she was stabilizing. He knew it had changed her, though, just as time had. The werewolf knew that coming back, after such a long time, she was not going to be the person he'd left behind. Not entirely. What he remembered was a tomboyish girl, a young teen who loved to do anything and everything he did, though, that hadn't been much on his end. A quiet child, withdrawn and having an extreme aversion to touch, Warren had rarely ventured into the true world of an adolescent, too serious for his own good. Cleo had changed that, if even for just five years. She'd liked a challenge, but had never been a bully and she'd taken him under her wing, had pulled him off to the most hilarious of pranks, to fairs and movies, parades and parks. She'd saved his life, though, the werewolf had never told her such. He remembered her a child full of light and love, laughter and mischief. He remembered her a woman with many friends, always flitting about between them during the holidays. He remembered her a broken shell of the friend he'd known the last time they'd seen each other, after Jethan's death. Warren remembered Cleo as many things, but that did not tell him who she was now and he knew it. Hence the reason he was nervous. The werewolf stopped outside the museum, knowing she was here. Intel had let him know and now his nose confirmed it. He could smell her, among the hundreds, nay thousands, of scents swirling about him, he could detect hers without even trying. Apple cider and cinnamon spice. She'd always smelled that way, even as a child and it made Warren smile just a little now, his eyes on the handle he held, the carrier of the scent that was now curling around his nose. He sighed and brought a hand back through his dirty-blond hair, shaking his head in silent reprimand to himself before he opened the door and went in. The air-conditioning was a welcome relief after the Los Angeles heat and Warren enjoyed it for a moment before he refocused his gray eyes to finding their target. His senses all sharpened toward the one goal in his mind and it wasn't long before Warren caught Cleo's scent again. Like a true wolf, he started to track it.