The teen hadn't answered Derek's (admittedly paranoid) question, although he did offer a direct line to his Master, which could prove worthwhile. A phone call would only communicate the Master's words. A werewolf's hearing was good, but he couldn't make out a heartbeat over a phone line. Still, it was growing dark, and the angel's Master would no doubt be worried.
He took the offered phone, nodding tightly, and thumbed to the contacts, of which there was only one--a John Mitchell--which was the name Derek remembered from the address accompanying the delivered artwork. He pressed the call button and waited as it rang.
A few moments went by before a breathless, accented voice answered, sounding harried.
"Sam? Are you alright? I thought you were going to be home before dark," Mitchell said, concern bleeding through the connection.
"...this is Derek Hale," Derek replied, gruff. "Sam is fine, although he's barefoot and hungry," he added, a slight rebuke. "If you'd like, I can send him home."
There was a silence on the other end, and then an awkward laugh. "Um, alright, then," he said, clearly confused by the turn of events. "Can I talk to Sam?" the question was said politely enough, though cautious and slightly suspicious.
Ironically, the suspicion reassured Derek.
He held out the phone for Samandriel and jerked his chin. "He wants to talk to you."