There were two reasons hunters travelled. Either they were tracking something, or they were running from something. For me it was the latter, though I cleverly disguised it as the former. What was I running from?

The same thing everyone tries to run from.

Death.

I started out in England. My mother was a witch, and my father was a skin walker. Wherever their match was made, it certainly wasn't Heaven. Regardless of the blood in their veins, they shared a common profession. They were hunters. And I was destined to be one too. Now, therein lay the problem.

Despite the fact many would call them monsters, they were well respected among their fellow hunters. Hell, they even had the privilege of calling some of them friends. Their talents often came in handy. After all, a man who could conceal himself as a German Shepard to gather intelligence, and a woman who could naturally channel magic were great additions to any team. Even after I was born, they continued to roam the world offering their assistance to any hunter or human who needed it.

That was how they met the Winchesters, Bobby Singer, and Ellen Harvelle.

I only had vague memories of the Winchester boys. While my parents worked jobs in America with their friends, I was under the care of uncle Bobby. I was too little for weapons training, and frankly I thought he might have been put off trying while I was wearing cute little pink dungarees and had pigtails in my dark hair. I watched him work on cars, take calls, read books, and offer advice to the people still out in the field. Even if he wasn't wielding a gun in the face of some vampire in a dark alley, he was still a hunter, and he was contributing more than I could at such a time.

Then the inevitable happened for my father.

Death caught up.

It could have been so many things, a bullet, a knife, a demon or a werewolf. As it happened, it was a car. He ran across the street as a dog and was hit by a car. Some might have called it a shameful death, to be mowed down by a stupid human rather than taken honourably in a fight. I thought it was better, in my own way. I wasn't happy to lose my father. I was devastated. But there was no chance for vengeance, no misguided, self-serving quest to track the creature down. It was an accident, plain and simple.

My mother retired, remarried several years later, and tried to raise me like a normal kid. From aged twelve to sixteen I went to school regularly and got normal friends. I worried about my hair, my clothes, and watched television on Saturday mornings. But there were things I did that other kids didn't. I learnt how to fight.

No one ever really retires from hunting.

After the death of my mother and step-father I found myself lost. With only a journal, a motorbike, and a bag full of weapons and an off shore bank account I could draw my inheritance from (for as long as that managed to last), I tried to make my way in the world. Not a lot of people took a young hunter seriously, particularly not a female one, but I was going to prove them wrong.

And I never stopped trying.

Now here I was, twenty-four years old and riding across America. The stretches of barren desert with tiny settlements which rolled out toward cities, forests, coasts and mountains, it was a truly diverse country. If I hadn't been so busy moving from one job to the next I might have slowed down to appreciate it a little more. But there was work here. A lot of it. I wouldn't gain anything save a feeling that my life had a little value. Another person saved was another success, another reason for me to carry on saving more people until my good fortune ran out and I went the way of my parents.

It was a visit to Sioux Falls to handle a routine haunting which threw me back into the path of my long forgotten extended family.

Okay, so maybe a haunting wasn't something you could call routine. It wasn't like the dead played by a particular set of rules, they were all a little different. But I had seen enough of them to be confident enough to take it on alone. Working in a group was my parent's thing, not mine. I didn't want to have someone slowing me down, or someone I would have to keep an eye on while I was working. People and friends were distractions. Or at least that's the thought that stopped me from being lonely. Hunting was dangerous anyway. I couldn't afford the luxury of friends.

"Oh, you're FBI?" the young woman who opened the door asked me, her toddler supported against her hip and a dish towel over her shoulder. She examined my badge carefully before handing it back and I tucked it neatly into the inside pocket of my blazer.

"I'm on loan," I lied rather than trying to find some in depth excuse for my English accent, "I am truly sorry for the death of your husband, Mrs. Harrison. I don't want to take up too much of your time, I just have to go through a few routine questions and examine the scene. Is that alright?"

"Well, yes I suppose – I just – the other agents are," she motioned toward the inside of the house, "I didn't think they'd send so many."

"So many..?" she allowed me to pass and I put my hand on the gun at my hip. There was a chance some real federal agents had turned up to the scene, but they didn't usually bother with backwater little towns like this, not when the death could be passed off as a freak accident or an act of God. It was hard to miss the pair of suits who were stood in the kitchen examining the knife block which was still overturned on the counter, and notably empty. Possibly because the knives had taken up residence in the face of Mr. Harrison.

A floorboard creaked beneath my boot and the pair stood sharply, their own hands shifting to where I assumed they also carried concealed weapons. I slowly took my fingers away from my gun and held up my palms to show I had no intention of harming them. Mrs. Harrison wasn't far behind me and I made a point of saying, "There must have been a miscommunication at the bureau, I thought I was going to be handling the questioning alone."

The men fixed false smiles to their faces and in a reassuring tone the tallest of the pair said, "We were in the area and got a call. How about we finish you up here and we'll bring you up to speed back at the office?"

Yeah right.

"No, please," I felt my smile strain, "I'll wait for you to finish. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"How considerate," the shorter man replied tersely.

From the way his short hair was lightly spiked and he'd allowed a smattering of stubble to grow through on his strong jaw I guessed he was a hunter. No FBI agent was going to go out on a job looking like they were going to a photo shoot when they wrapped it up. The other, I thought, was too young to be in the FBI. He was older than me, but not by much. His stature and build lent him a few years, but his long hair would not meet official uniform regulations.

Mrs. Harrison was clearly traumatised. Had I been a genuine agent I would have offered her the number of a good psychiatrist. She sobbed her way through the questions the two young men posed, the youngest of the pair taking on a far more caring demeanour than the other, who kept his questions blunt and to the point. I made notes in my untidy scrawl, mentally scratching out various species and sub-species, and noting persons of interest who might have a connection to the house or family. By all accounts the man seemed like a normal guy, it was odd that whatever it was had targeted him and left wife and son unscathed. Not that I was complaining, I didn't like to see children getting hurt.

"Thank you for your time," I said when we were done and shook Mrs. Harrison's hand gently, "We'll be in touch."

"Yeah, what she said," the shorter man pitched in.

Once the door was closed the masks fell away.

"FBI? Really?" the tall man asked, "Show me your badge."

"Why, do you think your act was so much more convincing?" I snorted derisively, "Get over yourselves, Bonnie and Clyde, you're amateurs."

"Bonnie and – we are not amateurs!" the short man snapped, "And – which one is Bonnie?"

"You're Bonnie," I smirked.

"Dean, can we focus here?" he let out a breath through his nose, "This is our job, okay? We were here first."

"Yeah, Queen Victoria," Dean elbowed his companion, "Sammy and I have got this, so how about you get your royal pain in the ass back home for some tea?"

"Sam and Dean? As in – Winchester?"

"Yeah, not amateurs!" Dean snapped.

Maybe leaving wasn't such a bad idea. I didn't know that I was ready for a blast from the past. At least now I knew why this place was so familiar. Bobby probably still lived nearby. A part of me wanted to go and visit him. The saner, and more rational part of me, reminded me all I'd get for my trouble was a clip around the ear and a bottle of holy water to the face.

My silence must have aroused some suspicion in the pair. I could tell from the way they cast a furtive glance between themselves, and how they shifted their weight between their feet uneasily, that they were deciding whether or not I posed some kind of a threat. It was a joke to think that physically I might be a danger to them. They were large men, muscled, although they looked like this job had worn on them. There was no hiding the shadows beneath their eyes. They weren't so pronounced that they drew away any of the handsomeness in their faces, but it was obvious they were in desperate need of a decent night's sleep. I was fairly slight in stature. My muscles were toned, defined, but I was built for speed and grace rather than brute force. If either of these boys wanted to, they could knock me to the ground with a single punch. I'm glad that they didn't seem thus far inclined to do any such thing.

Determined to ease their concerns, if only to ensure I could escape without risk of them following me, I said, "It looks like you kids have this in hand. I'll bet Bobby will be happy to help if you need it."

"How do you know Bobby?" Sam asked.

Well. Shit.

The man had been lurking at the forefront of my mind since I had come to America. Now I knew who they were, it had just kind of slipped out. In my head I raced through all the stock excuses I had created to get myself out of awkward situations. The list was as long as the Bible and yet I couldn't mentally grasp at a single one that might fly. When I opened my mouth the only thing that came out was a nervous laugh, followed by an equally nervous, "I should really go..."

As I backed up a few steps they approached. For a pair of scruffy yanks, they did a good job of pulling off the menacing smoulder look. The motorbike I'd rented was a few streets over, it didn't look professional for a phony FBI agent to arrive on something with two wheels, and I wasn't sure I fancied my chances if I took off on foot.

"Look," I held up my hands in a show of peace and surrender, "I just came for the job. If you can handle it, then I won't step on your toes. All I want to do is get the hell out of Sioux Falls. That should suit everyone, right?"

"Wrong," Dean lunged for me and I darted out of the way. I wasn't going to linger and see if I could talk my way out of this, I was going to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. My feet pounded the pavement, the short heels of my polished black boots clicking away madly, making it impossible for me to employ any stealth in my escape. I thought I'd made a fairly good job of it, hell I thought for one fleeting moment that I was safe. That was when an arm looped around my waist from behind. My feet left the ground and I flailed my legs pathetically in the air.

"Settle down, we don't want to hurt you!" Sam insisted.

"Speak for yourself," Dean said before I felt a dull impact against the back of my head. My body fell limp and heavy in Sam's grip as the lights went out, hopefully not permanently.