Ways to Nowhere, Part One - More Important Than Fear

by purpledragon42

Veronica's friends are dying one by one. Although the police can find no evidence of foul play, she knows it's something more sinister. Her suspicions are confirmed when two Hunters appear on the scene. Ronnie wants to help them, but she has secrets - ones that could easily get her killed. Can she set aside her fear of discovery to help stop the thing murdering her friends?

Arc: Ways to Nowhere, Part One

Title: More Important Than Fear

Author: purpledragon42 (on ); Aposiopesis (on )

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Um...PG, I guess? (There's some talk about death; some knife-wielded violence, but nothing too graphic; and brief full-frontal nudity, but not graphically described or sexual in any way.)

Pairing(s): OCxOC mentioned, but nothing else.

Genre: Um...I guess, mystery...and supernatural, of course. ;P

Warning(s): Original Character; First Person; Possible OOC-ness (but I try REALLY hard not to do that.)

Prompt(s): None really, except for my desire to do some writing involving this particular OC.

Disclaimer: If I owned these guys, I would have MUCH BETTER THINGS TO DO than write fan fiction about them. *evil grin*

Summary: The people Veronica cares about are dying one by one. Although the police can find no evidence of foul play, she knows something more sinister must be going on. Her suspicions are confirmed when two Hunters appear asking more questions than she can answer. Ronnie wants to help them, but she has secrets of her own - secrets that could get her killed. She decides to set aside her fear of discovery to help track down the thing murdering her friends. But will her efforts be enough to keep anyone else from dying? And can she do it while preventing the Hunters from discovering what she really is?

---

A/N: My first full-length Supernatural fan fic is finally finished! Yay! Wow...I'm not really sure what to say about it, except that I would really appreciate any and all feedback anyone feels like giving. I'm especially interested in any comments on character development, anything about the canon characters that seems 'out of character', and also anything dealing with the plot flow. In fact, I'll willingly admit that I had no official beta reader for this fic, so if anyone wants the job, please message me. I take constructive criticism very well (in my opinion) and promise not to bite your head off about things I don't agree with - I believe in calm discussions, instead. ^_^ So...I think that's it...I hope y'all enjoy reading my story.

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Ways to Nowhere, Story One:

More Important Than Fear

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear. ~Ambrose Redmoon

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Pasadena, CA - February, 1999

Three funerals in three weeks - surely that's got to be some sort of record. Subconsciously pushing my tinted glasses up on the bridge of my nose, I watch with a numb sort of detachment as Jackson's coffin is lowered into the ground, already wishing I was anywhere else but here. First Rory, then Laura, and now...this. I want to cry, scream, anything...but I've done so much of that already - it's like I just don't have anything left. His mother, Janice, insists I ride with the family. "He would've wanted it that way," she tells me tearfully, hooking my arm with hers and pulling me into the back of their beige SUV. If she knew the truth she'd probably never speak to me again...but I stay silent...because I know that's what Jackson would've really wanted. I don't remember the drive, or being led up the walkway and into their house...but I nod and smile softly as people begin to arrive and express their condolences. Janice keeps me close, like I'm her lifeline...and maybe I am. Jackson was her only child, after all...and as far as she's concerned it was just a matter of time before I became an official part of their happy family.

As I stand there by her side, I try to focus...on the quiet chatter around me, the heavy scent of floral arrangements, the clank of utensils in casserole dishes - anything so that I don't have to think about the events of the past few weeks. It doesn't work, of course - over and over my mind replays the deaths of my college friends - all suicides, according to the police...but I have my doubts, especially now. Jackson was a lot of things...but suicidal definitely wasn't one of them. His friends all knew that...but what other explanation could there be? The door was locked from the inside, the windows hadn't been jimmied, and the only prints on the knife were his own.

Shaking my head slightly, I force myself back to the present, watching as Richard, Jackson's father, mingles among the guests. It's somewhat fascinating, examining how others react to him as he approaches. I guess some of my Psychology classes are actually starting to pay off because the longer I watch, the easier it gets to tell which people are here because they want to be...and which ones are here because Jackson's family is a huge patron of CalTech's Computer Science department. That's when I realize Richard seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time talking to two men I don't recognize. They're both dressed as if they attended the funeral...but I don't remember seeing them there. One is older - probably mid to late 40's - with sad, weary eyes. The other is much younger, possibly around my own age of 21, and he keeps tapping his hand lightly against his leg, as if listening more to some inner song than the conversation at hand. They're both good-looking in that rugged, scruffy sort of way...but something about their stances tells me they aren't as comfortable in their suits as they want everyone to think.

Suddenly, I see anger cloud Richard's features. His voice is too low for me to hear, but I can tell by his gestures and posture that he's not happy with whatever it is they're talking about. He exchanges a few more brief words with the two men...and then they leave abruptly. I confess I'm more than a little curious about what's just happened...but there's no way I can ask Jackson's father...and I can't escape from Janice long enough to go searching for the obviously uninvited guests. So I reign in my curiosity, and continue to play the role of grieving girlfriend. Of course, it's not that I'm NOT grieving - Jackson was my best friend...irreplaceable...but we weren't as close as everyone believed, and trying to fake that connection now is really taking its toll. But I have to hang in there. Just an hour or so more and this will all be over.

---

As things wind down and the guests begin to leave Janice invites me to stay the night...and I'm actually tempted to say yes. But a quick glance into the living room reminds me that there's someone else who's going to need my shoulder to cry on tonight. Archie sits on the couch, his face gaunt and shadowed, and I wonder if he's eaten yet today. Giving Jackson's mom a sad smile, I thank her and decline, telling a small white lie about promising to walk a friend home. She gives me a tight hug and tells me to call her if I need anything. With a slight nod, I head for the living room where my roommate Sara is talking quietly with Archie. She falls silent as I approach, giving me a look that's almost wary, but it's gone so fast, that I begin to think I imagined it. Then she murmurs a quick excuse, and leaves. I take Sara's place on the couch, making a mental note to ask about her strange behavior later.

Archie gives me a trembling smile. "Hey, Ronnie."

"Hey..." I say softly, returning the smile. "You wanna get out of here?"

One of his eyebrows rises slightly. "You mean Janice is actually letting you leave?"

I chuckle at the mild sarcasm in his voice, glad to hear him making a joke. "Yeah, well...I may have told her I promised to get you home."

My friend looks surprised. "You don't have to..."

Interrupting him with a wave of my hand, I reply, "You're not allowed to argue. I know your roommate's in L.A. for the week and there's no way I'm leaving you by yourself tonight."

His eyes grow sad and distant. "Thanks..."

I shrug, trying to make light of the offer. "Well, it's not like I want to be by myself either, and Sara's been staying with family ever since Rory died, so..."

Archie meets my eyes with a knowing gaze. "Okay, let's go."

After the warmth of the house, the chill February breeze causes me to shiver slightly as we step out onto the porch, and I find myself grateful that there's still some daylight left.

Archie quirks an eyebrow at me. "So...if I came with Sara and you came with...his parents...how are you going to drive me home?"

I chuckle, headed for the street. "I didn't say anything about driving; your apartment's really not that far. Why don't we just walk?"

"Yeah...or we could call a cab," he replies, not sounding thrilled about the idea of strolling through the cold...and approaching darkness.

Rolling my eyes, I hook my arm through his and pull my friend further down the sidewalk. "C'mon, Archie, we haven't really had a chance to talk since..." I pause, suddenly unable to say it.

"Saying his name aloud still hurts." It's a statement, not a question, but I nod anyway.

"It's all so surreal; I still can't believe..."

"He didn't kill himself!" There's anger in Archie's voice, but conviction, too. "I don't care what the police say!"

"You don't have to tell me," I reply as we continue to walk in the general direction of his apartment. "We both know he wasn't the type."

My friend gives me a small, grateful grin. "I think you may be the only one who agrees with me."

I shrug, and decide to speak what's been on my mind for nearly a week now. "Well, it's weird, isn't it? First Rory, then Laura, now...this? They can't all just be coincidence; there has to be something else going on...right?"

For a second, Archie's face takes on a cautious, uncertain look, but it's gone so quickly that I can't be sure...just like Sara earlier. What aren't they telling me?! I want to ask, but before I can broach the subject, a soft shuffle of footsteps alerts us to approaching company. We both turn, and I'm surprised to see the two men from earlier moving expectantly towards us. I'm not sure why, but instinctively I pull away from Archie and take a step forward, putting myself ever so slightly between him and them. The older man notices my defensive stance and stops, motioning for the other one to do the same.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out what looks like a badge, calling out, "Veronica Brennan? Archie Blake? I'm Agent Carter and this is my partner, Agent Lee. Could we speak with you for a moment?"

FBI?! What are they doing here? I glance back at Archie, but he just shrugs his shoulders, apparently as clueless as I am. Looking back to the two men, I reply, "Richard didn't seem so keen on what you had to say earlier. Why would we be any different?"

"Because," the younger man interrupts, earning a mild glare from his partner, "We don't think your friends committed suicide."

"We're just trying to figure out what really happened," the man who identified himself as Agent Carter continues. "The two of you might be able to help us do that."

"How?" Archie asks, interest obviously piqued.

The agents finally step closer as Lee replies, "We need access to Jackson's room - the place where he died."

"Which is why Richard was so pissed at you," I respond with a knowing look. The agents glance at each other briefly then simply nod. "But, if he said no, why not just go get a warrant? If you've got proof they weren't suicides then the police should be more than happy to..."

"Because there's no time!" the younger man interrupts, rolling his eyes in obvious frustration.

His lack of professionalism surprises me...but then again, he does look pretty young...a rookie maybe, or a trainee? Or something else...a niggling sense of doubt begins to form, but I can't quite grasp why.

"What my partner means," Agent Carter continues, glaring at Lee, "Is that these attacks have been on a fairly regular basis. Which means there could be another killing any day now. Our evidence is circumstantial at best and we'd rather be solving this thing than wasting our time with police precinct paperwork."

"I'll help!" Archie replies quickly, before I can say anything .

"What? Archie, no! Let's think about this for a minute..."

His eyes meet mine, almost desperately. "Ronnie, please - our friends are DYING! What if it's Sara next, or me? The police aren't doing anything - so, if the FBI's willing to help, why not let them?"

I want to argue with his logic...but I can't...they were my friends, too, and I can't lose anyone else - I won't. "Alright, fine...but I'm NOT helping you guys break into the main house...just the guest house, got it?"

He nods and then explains to the agents, "Jackson, he...he had a room in the main house, but he spent most of his time in the guest house. That's where he..." Archie trails off as tears begin to glisten in his eyes. As one of them escapes and trickles down his cheek my grief and guilt override my sense of unease and I say softly, "Hey, why don't you just call a cab and go home. I've got all the pass codes to get in...and we both know you don't really want to be in there."

Giving me a grateful smile, Archie looks hesitantly over at the two agents. "Would that be okay? Ronnie's right - I don't think I can..." His voice catches as Agent Carter nods.

"Get some rest, son; we can talk again in the morning."

My friend nods and pulls out his phone as I step closer to the agents and motion them towards the side of the house. "Let me go in first. If, by some bizarre chance, someone happens to see me, they'll be less likely to question it."

"Perks of being the girlfriend, huh?" Lee asks with a slight smirk.

I narrow my eyes at him, liking his attitude less and less. "Yeah...I guess you could say that." Then mumbling under my breath, "If you're a douchebag."

His eyebrows shoots up, "Sorry...I didn't catch that."

I give him a false smile and reply, "I said, you two need to go around back. That door's less visible from the main house, and once I'm in I can unlock it for you."

Carter nods briefly as I glance back at Archie, who's just closing up his cell phone. Noticing my gaze, he gives me a small smile and a thumbs-up. I wave back to let him know I understand, then head for the guest house, quickly making my way inside. The air is stale and stinks of both cleaning fluid and blood. For reasons I'd rather not dwell on, it brings back unwanted memories and I have to repress the urge to gag. Just the idea of blood makes me a bit queasy, and the smell is making my stomach start to roil. The sooner I get these two in and out of here the better.

Letting them in goes smoothly...although I have to admit I'm not sure what they expect to find that the police couldn't. I try to answer their questions as they examine the room where Jackson's body was found, doing my best to ignore the bloodstains still visible on the floor...and my rising nausea. While they poke around, I settle myself against the far wall, fiddling with the pendant around my neck. It's an intricately carved silver bullet encased in a small glass vial...a reminder...to keep myself in check; something I actively work towards every day. Of course, I can't really say that any of what's going on right now has helped me keep a low profile. But since I honestly don't know what's going on, it's not like I can stop myself from being involved. Besides, these are my friends...

Suddenly there's a tap on my shoulder and Agent Lee is standing just a hair too close for comfort, I jerk back with a muffled curse and a glare. He takes a step back, as well, raising his hands in a slightly defensive position.

"Woah, easy there, sweetheart. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Yeah, well, you could've fooled me," I grumble, not happy about being snuck up on.

He gives me a somewhat smarmy grin. "My partner asked you a question...but you just kept staring off into space."

I glance over at Agent Carter, who seems to be watching us carefully. "I...I'm sorry...it's just been a long...month. What was your question?"

He gives me a small smile. "Actually, I was just commenting on your necklace. I used to know a man who made bullets like that one."

His words send a slight chill down my spine - the round was handmade...one-of-a-kind...so, if this guy recognizes it... Could they be...? Is it possible? I mentally begin going back through all the questions they'd asked. Did Jackson feel like he was being followed? Had he been acting strangely before his death? Had I noticed anything unusual in the guest house - odd smells, sounds, etc.? As realization hits it's all I can do to keep from bolting. These guys aren't FBI...they're Hunters! And they're not going to care if I had anything to do with my friends' deaths...no...if they find out what I am they'll shoot first - forget about asking any more questions. What's worse, I've always been a crappy liar, but maybe...just maybe...I can get away with a handful of half-truths. At this point, it's my best shot.

Meeting the older agent's gaze behind my slightly shaded lenses, I reply, "It was a gift; I didn't catch the name of the man who gave it to me."

Agent Lee raises his eyebrows. "So, some guy gives you a bullet made of solid silver...and you don't catch his name? Well, that makes perfect sense."

Carter is once again glaring at his partner, and this time I join him. "He wouldn't tell me, okay? Said it wasn't important - something about names being mere sounds..."

"Beneath the dust of habit?" the older agent offers with a slight chuckle. From behind my glasses, my eyes meet his, wary about what I'll find there. But all I see is mild curiosity. He continues, "I've never known Tony to just give those bullets away...yours must've been one very special case."

"You...know his name?" Seeing my opportunity to confirm their true professions, I ask, "Guess that means you aren't really with the FBI, huh?"

The two men look briefly at each other before Carter says, "The name's John Winchester; this is my son, Dean. These Fed get-ups, well, they were actually my other son, Sam's, idea."

Unintentionally, my eyes dart around the room, even though I know there's not three of them.

John notices, and says with a chuckle, "He's not here; another case up in Washington state."

I nod softly. "So...you're all Hunters? Your whole family?" A shadow of grief passes quickly across John's features as he nods, and I almost regret asking. "So, you're here because you think some...monster...has been killing my friends?"

"Ghost, actually." Dean interrupts, obviously wanting to seem knowledgeable. "It's the only explanation we've got."

Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. If they're looking for ghosts, then my chances of surviving this just increased tenfold. After all, ghosts and shifters are two entirely different things. As long as I'm helpful and keep my abilities in check, I should make it through this okay.

"Alright," I reply, looking between the two men. "So why is a ghost murdering my friends?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," John responds. "Maybe help us find a link that we're missing."

I shrug slightly. "Well...we're all friends...and Computer Science majors - there's a project that we've been working on together for the past couple of months."

Dean arches an eyebrow at me incredulously. "Computer Science? For real?"

"Is there a problem with that?" I ask, not entirely surprised by his reaction.

He gives me a slight half-grin, like he's expecting me to share in some joke. "Naw, you just don't look the type...that's all."

I allow myself a small smirk. "Why, because I'm not wearing suspenders and a pocket protector?"

His grin gets bigger. "Yeah, something like that."

John suddenly clears his throat. "Let's stay on task here, Dean." I watch in surprise as his son's entire demeanor changes, immediately sobering up. "So, Ms. Brennan, can you tell us a bit more about this project."

"Well...I could...but, it's kind of...complex."

John chuckles. "Just stick with the basics."

"Okay, well, each year the five Computer Science majors with the highest GPAs are assigned a special project outside of their normal class work. It's designed to be something impressive - that they can put on their resumes after graduation. This was my first year to make the cut, and it's been a lot of extra work...but I think the fact that we already knew each other helped keep the tension to a minimum. Honestly, I'm not sure what else to tell you...everything was going smoothly..."

"So, how did you all know each other?" Dean asks, apparently done with the whole "I'm a badass" act for the moment.

I shrug and reply, "We've all had classes together, but I guess we became friends about a year ago...through Film Club. Rory was the president when I joined. I think Laura was already a member, and then I convinced Jackson to get involved...and Jackson convinced Archie. There are other members, too, of course, but..." I pause, breathing in sharply as a fierce wave of nausea suddenly rolls over me. So much for trying to ignore it.

Dean puts a careful hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"

Briefly, I consider trying to brush off my illness, but another, stronger wave hits and I opt for honesty over discretion. "I...don't really do so well around blood...I think I need to step outside."

John nods to Dean. "Take her for some fresh air, I'll finish up here."

We make our way out of the house to the back porch, and although the air is colder now and the sunlight almost gone, I'm grateful to be outside, where the only scent reaching my nostrils comes from the nearby lenten roses. With a relieved sigh, I lean up against the brick wall as my nausea begins to settle.

Dean joins me, slouching with his hands in his pockets, looking even less like the agent he's supposed to be portraying. "So...not a big fan of blood, huh?" I answer his question with a quick shake of my head, but remain quiet. After a significant pause, he asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

I shudder almost visibly at the idea of telling this Hunter any more about my past than absolutely necessary, and remind myself to stay calm. "Not particularly."

He clears his throat. "Right...so, can I ask what's up with you...just in general?"

Glancing over at him, slightly confused...and slightly nervous, I reply, "What do you mean?"

"Well, that guy...Archie, he was practically crying buckets...but all this death doesn't seem to have bothered you at all. Not to mention the two of you seemed awful friendly."

My eyes narrow...and my heart rate speeds up. I don't have anything to hide...technically speaking...but the more questions he asks the more dangerous things could get for me. Not to mention I don't particularly like what he's insinuating. Standing away from the wall, I turn to face the Hunter. "Look...I'm not sure what you're suggesting, but I'll tell you right now that Jackson Harker was the best friend I ever had, and if you think for one second..." My voice catches unintentionally, and I pause, trying to regain my composure.

Dean uses the silence to ask, "So was he or wasn't he your boyfriend?"

I give a small sigh, pushing my glasses up to rub at the bridge of my nose. "It's..complicated."

He shrugs and makes a non-committed gesture. "Well, it's not like I'm going anywhere."

"That's not..." I hesitate, trying to decide how much to say. "Okay, look, I can explain, it's just...you can't tell anyone."

The Hunter's brow creases. "I don't keep secrets from my dad."

I roll my eyes at him. "It's not your dad I'm worried about...it's everyone else."

"I'm not following..."

"My relationship with Jackson was...a sham...an act for his family and friends."

Dean looks at me, completely confused. "Why would you agree to something like that?"

"Because he was my friend...and so is Archie..." I take a deep breath before deciding to continue. "And even in California...being openly gay isn't exactly a good career move...not unless you're already rich and famous."

A light finally dawns in the Hunter's eyes. "So you've been...covering for them?"

I shrug. "That's what friends do."

He gives me a small, confused chuckle. "Yeah, but...what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Don't you want a life of your own?" He clears his throat, and continues with a grin. "I mean, for a computer nerd you're pretty easy on the eyes. You can't tell me you haven't had...interest."

"Interest?" I quirk an eyebrow at him and let out a sarcastic snort. "Yeah - I'm over-protective, severely anal, and have serious trust issues when it comes to relationships - that must be why the guys are just breaking down my door."

Dean chuckles. "I'm serious..."

I allow a small smirk to cross my lips. "So am I."

He's about to respond, when the door suddenly opens and John steps outside. Looking to his son, he says, "There's nothing more we can do here right now." Then, turning to me, he continues, "I appreciate you letting us in; feeling any better?"

Nodding, I reply, "Yeah, thanks." Then, with honest curiosity, I ask, "Did you find anything useful?"

The older Hunter shakes his head with a grimace. "There's some residual EMF, but it just confirms what we already knew - a ghost is behind it. Unfortunately, we're still no closer to finding out why. Are you sure there's nothing else you can tell us?"

"As it relates to my friends? I don't think so...but if you want an earful of campus ghost stories, I've got a few I can share."

John's interest is obviously piqued. "Any truth behind them?"

I give a small nod. "A bit...although I haven't heard any recent reports of actual ghosts before now. But I suppose the stories have to come from somewhere, right?"

Dean replies, "Yeah, that's usually how it works."

"Would you be willing to sit and talk with us awhile longer?" the older Hunter asks. "I think I saw a diner just around the corner and we're happy to give you a lift."

For a second, I contemplate saying no. While these guys seem amiable enough, I know only too well what would happen if they found out what I truly am, and every moment I spend with them the chances of that increase. But...if there's anything I can tell them that might solve the mystery behind my friends' deaths...that would certainly be worth the risk - I have to help if I can.

So, with more confidence than I actually feel, I reply, "Sure...let me just call Archie and let him know what's going on."

John nods as I pull out my phone and dial my friend's number. He picks up on the first ring. "Hey, Ronnie...are you headed this way?"

Something in Archie's tone makes me pause; he sounds...nervous. "Why? Is everything alright?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, no...everything's fine...I just...umm, it's nothing...you don't even have to come over if you don't want..."

"No, Archie, I'm not going to bail on you tonight...the FBI guys just have a few more questions they want to ask. I'll be over right after, okay?"

There's obvious relief in my friend's voice as he replies, "Great, thanks Ronnie. So, I'll see you soon?"

"You bet - one hour and I'm there." We hang up and I feel a twinge of guilt over not telling Archie the truth. But FBI or not, there's no way he'd EVER believe John and Dean's ghost theory, so it doesn't make any sense to get him involved. Putting my phone back into my purse, I suddenly find myself contemplating my sombre attire. After spending the whole day with everyone walking on eggshells around me, the last thing I want is to spend another hour in a diner being ogled by strangers, too. Looking over at the Hunters, I ask a bit sheepishly, "Would you mind if we stopped by my place first? I think I could use a change of clothes."

I'm grateful when John agrees to my request without argument. We arrive at my apartment a few minutes later, and I move quickly, not wanting to keep the men waiting. With practiced ease, I pull on a pair of worn denim jeans and my most comfy combat boots. For a brief moment I hesitate before grabbing a shirt...I need something comforting...something...safe. Finally I settle on the Bowie shirt my ex bought for me during the "Earthling" tour a couple of years ago. Not the best time for me...all things considered, but for some reason it feels...right...to wear it now. Finally, pulling my hair back into a quick ponytail, I grab a hoodie emblazoned with one of my favorite Hendrix quotes - Music is my Religion - and pull it on over all the rest. With the sun now fully set, I'll need it to keep the chilly night air at bay.

Transformation complete, I hop back into the Hunters' car and we head for a local diner. During the drive John quizzes me a bit on where my ghost information is coming from, and I explain about the article I wrote six months back. It was a fluff piece for The California Tech's "Halloween" issue, and covered the college's history of ghostly encounters...some with more truth behind them than others.

After arriving at the diner, we pick a fairly secluded booth, and the guys immediately order what sounds like enough food to feed a small army. Still feeling a bit queasy, I settle for just a coffee, and then begin walking the Hunters through the stories I know. Our waitress, a girl I recognize from several of my classes - Jenny, I think - pops in every once in awhile for refills, but otherwise we're left to ourselves.

"This campus actually has quite a few ghost stories associated with it," I begin, wanting to give the guys a bit of background. "But it makes sense, I guess - the school's been around since the late 1800's, after all. The only real difference is the large number of them that are associated with suicides."

Dean arches his eyebrows, mouth half-full of cheeseburger, and asks, "Why's that?"

I give a small shrug. "Classes at CalTech aren't easy...especially in the departments where competition is high. People break...and it doesn't help that this kind of university typically attracts the anal and high strung."

The young hunter gives me a cocky grin. "Speaking from experience?"

"Dean..." his father says, a hint of warning in his voice.

With a small chuckle, I reply, "I am, actually...and according to my Psychology advisor, acceptance is the first step towards recovery." I give the two men a wink. "Unfortunately, that's as far as I've gotten."

The younger Hunter sniggers as John tries to get us back on topic. "Suicides can lead to some really nasty spooks."

I nod in agreement. "I don't know a lot about ghosts...not the real deal, anyway, but what you're saying isn't too surprising. It takes a lot of strong, pent-up emotions to create the need to do something like that - makes sense that they wouldn't just fade away after death."

"Exactly," Dean interjects. "So maybe you could start with those hauntings and then we'll just go from there?"

I give him a small nod. "During my research I was able to track down three suicide-related ghost stories where I could confirm the deaths actually took place. The first happened back in the late 30's. A stagehand was rejected by one of the girls in the theater school. On the opening night of her first stage appearance he put a noose around his neck and jumped from the catwalk; he was killed instantly. Rumor has it that everytime she tried to perform after that, strange things would start to happen in the theater. Even now, years after her death, actors report seeing an unknown man on the catwalk and hearing the sounds of footsteps walking above them while they're performing on stage."

Finishing off his burger and starting in on his fries, Dean says, "Well, that has some potential, you said all of your friends were in a theater club together, right?"

With a roll of my eyes, I answer, "No...it's a film club, as in movies only. We basically just get together and watch stuff - classic, foreign, whatever the members can scrounge up. Last month Rory actually got ahold of some silent horror flick from the early 20's..."

Dean raises his eyebrows skeptically. "Was it any good?"

"Ah...I...didn't stay to watch that night. It's my thing with blood...real, fake, or...otherwise...it's just better if I avoid the stuff."

The younger hunter smirks. "How bad could a movie from back then really be?"

"I'm happy to say I don't know and never will," I reply indignantly, not appreciating his slightly condescending tone.

John clears his throat. "Why don't we get back to the ghosts?"

Blushing slightly about getting off topic so easily, I continue, "Yeah...sorry. Anyway, the next story I came across happened in the mid 50's. An artist working on her graduate portfolio lost her entire body of work in a massive studio fire. Less than 48 hours later the police found her dead in a campus parking lot - she'd OD'd on aspirin. It's not a parking lot anymore; they did some reconstruction in the early 60's and the computer science building was eventually built there."

John's eyebrows arch in interest as he finishes off his food and orders a coffee of his own. "What kind of activity is typically reported?"

"Well...the only known activity generally tends to occur on the anniversary of her death...but, honestly, the story is so well known that...well, I think a lot of the students just use it as an excuse for a 'skip day'."

Dean chuckles. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Giving him a sardonic smile, I explain. "On the anniversary of her death, multiple people throughout the building supposedly experience the same kinds of symptoms you typically would if you had aspirin poisoning. No one's ever died or been seriously affected, though."

"But what you're saying is that most of the reports are probably fake - made up by students who want a day off?" the older Hunter queries, looking a bit frustrated.

"Yeah, that's basically it. However, I did interview several students and even a professor who claimed to have really been struck down with...something...on that particular day. So, I think the story still has merit."

John nods, and I can tell he's trying hard to make the connections necessary to keep someone else from dying, but the frustrated scowl that's forming tells me he's not satisfied with how the information is correlating. Finally, with an almost inaudible sigh, he says, "Tell us the last story."

I nod, wishing there was more I could do to help them figure things out. "This one's the most recent; it happened a little over a decade ago, in the late 80's. A computer science major was being harassed by a group of upperclassmen. According to his suicide note, the last straw was when they hacked into the school computers and ruined a really important project he was working on. The labs are 24/7, so he waited until late evening, after everyone else had left, and then jumped out of a 5th story window."

John's interested again. "Are you sure about the time frame?"

"Yeah," I reply with a small nod. "It's all in the police report."

"And what about the activity?"

"Not much that a skeptic would believe," I say with a shrug. "But the lab up on the 5th floor has an abnormal amount of...issues."

"Issues?" Dean asks, raising his eyebrows in the same way his father had earlier.

"Yeah, from the mundane to the really weird - computers turning on and off randomly, hot and cold spots, power surges - stuff like that."

"None of that sounds really weird to me," the younger Hunter says dismissively.

"Oh, it gets better - students will step away from their projects only to come back and discover words or images on the screen that they didn't put there. But, of course, the lab tech always swears they didn't see anyone else around. There have also been cases of people being pushed - I had one guy swear to me that as he was walking past one of the windows he felt a hand shove him towards it; needless to say, he hasn't set foot up there since."

Suddenly a voice pipes up behind me. "Ooh, you guys are talking about that creepy lab on the 5th floor of the Comp-Sci building, right?" It's our waitress, returning to fill up our coffee cups.

John gives her a nod and a smile. "We are; do you have any stories to share?"

The blonde glances at me, looking unsure, and then says, "Well...not a story, really...in fact, you've probably already heard it from Ronnie...I mean, she's on the Comp Sci team this year, so..."

Confused, I interrupt. "What does that have to do with the ghost on the 5th floor?"

Jenny gets a surprised, wide-eyed look. "You mean you don't know? No one told you?!"

Unsure of what she means, I give the girl a perplexed shake of my head. "Told me what?"

She leans in, as if sharing a secret. "Everyone's been talking about it, especially since people started dying." Then she gives me a slightly guilty glance. "Sorry...I know they were your friends..."

I give her a small reassuring smile. "It's...okay - please tell us what you've heard."

Jenny smiles back and continues, "Well...according to my older sister, who graduated the year after that suicide happened, the project you guys have been working on is almost the exact same one that guy was working on back then."

John glances at me sharply, as my mouth drops open in shock. "Is that true?" he demands of me.

"I...I don't know...it's true that the projects are cyclical, to a degree, anyway...but, I don't remember any of that from my research..."

The older Hunter looks back to our waitress, who shrugs. "I just know what my sis told me, but other people have been talking about it, too..."

She's about to say more when a voice from the kitchen shouts at her to "Quit gabbing and get back to work!"

Rolling her eyes, apparently used to her boss' second sight, the girl shrugs her shoulders apologetically and moves on to her other tables.

Dean and John are both staring at me. "How could you not have heard people talking about this?" Dean asks, almost accusingly.

His tone immediately raises my defenses. "Hey, don't go getting hostile on me! I've been in a solid bubble of funerals, and wakes, and gatherings for the past three weeks. Do you honestly think ANYONE is going to be talking to ME about GHOSTS or curses or whatever the hell this is?!"

"No one's accusing you of anything," John replies, frowning at his son. "What's important right now is to get you and Archie somewhere safe. We should go...now." The elder Winchester stands, pulling bills from his pocket that should more than cover our food and tosses them on the table. We move quickly and quietly through the parking lot, back to their car, and within less than 10 minutes we're pulling up outside Archie's apartment.

John immediately begins giving his son orders. "Dean, stay here, keep them safe. I'll work as fast as I can to find the kid's body."

The younger Hunter is all business again. "Yes, sir," he affirms, getting out of the car and helping me out behind him. He immediately goes to the trunk, pops it open, and begins collecting an assortment of supplies, but it's difficult to make out what they are in the dark.

As soon as the trunk is closed, John peels off and I cautiously ask, "Do I wanna know why your dad wants to find the guy's body?"

Dean gives me a dark chuckle. "Probably not." He hefts the items in his arms, carefully tucking a sawed-off shotgun beneath his suit jacket. "Let's get inside."

We make our way to Archie's door, but I stop the Hunter as he begins to knock, glancing at where I know the shotgun's concealed. "Actually...could you hold off for a bit? Give me a chance to try and explain what's going on. He's been though a lot. The last thing I want is to give him a panic attack."

Dean glances around grimly and then gives a small nod. "Alright, but make it quick."

I give him a reassuring smile and reach down to pry out the brick where the spare key is stashed. "Thanks." While I know I could just knock, a part of me hopes my friend is actually getting some desperately needed sleep, and if that's the case, I don't want to disturb him. With key in hand, I unlock the door and step inside. The living room is dark, but I can hear music blaring from Archie's room. Sighing, I close the door behind me and make my way through the semi-darkness. Knocking softly on his door, I call out, "Archie? It's Ronnie; I'm coming in, okay?" When I don't get a response, I quietly make my way into the small room...and everything that happens after that seems to go in slow motion.

The first thing I see is Archie, laying on his bed, eyes closed, nodding softly to the song...one of Jackson's favorites. Then I see the girl standing beside the bed...she flickers...like an old movie reel...and suddenly there's a knife in her hands. I shout my friend's name and he looks up at me...and then at the girl. A bizarre mixture of recognition and fear floods his face as her weapon flashes through the air, plunging forcefully into his abdomen - once, twice, three times. Calling desperately for Dean, I leap forward, intent on protecting Archie. The knife arcs again and I grab for it, clamping my hand around the blade. With unexpected strength the ghost yanks the weapon from my grip, slicing cleanly through my palm. Before I can even process the pain, she rushes forward, and I catch a glimpse of angry, accusatory eyes before she slams into...and through...me, vanishing in a blast of icy air. Gasping at the severe cold suddenly encompassing my body, I fall to my knees just as Dean appears in the doorway. Part of me wonders what took him so long, while my logic simultaneously reminds me it's been mere seconds since I called out for him.

The young Hunter glances quickly around the room. "Where'd it go?! Are you okay?"

I nod, unable to find my voice, and turn towards Archie, who's laying motionless on the bed. As soon as I see the blood pooling around him, the edges of my vision begin to go dark and hazy. Then its sharp, metallic smell - like heated iron - invades my nostrils, and I'm dragged back to those nights...so long ago...nights filled with nothing but blood...and desperation...and the frantic memories of strangers. Dean must recognize the look on my face because I can see him reaching out, moving towards me as my body collapses. I black out completely to the sound of him shouting my name.

---

Somewhere nearby there's a bird singing merrily...and I want nothing more than to wring its happy little neck. Anything to keep that damn tweeting from pulsating through my already pounding head. With a small groan, I drag my eyes open...and immediately force myself not to freak out as I realize I'm not in my own room! What happened?! Where am I?! Taking a breath and letting it out slowly, I try to get my bearings. The room is stark...sterile...definitely a hospital...and I can hear the murmur of voices coming from the closed door off to my right. Oh...now I remember...the ghost...and Archie...Oh, God! Archie! I shoot up out of the bed and instantly regret the action. Everything starts to spin. Planting my hands to brace myself, I cry out in surprised pain as my right arm begins to throb. Oh, yeah...I forgot about that, too...Suddenly Dean and John are both in the room, closely followed by a concerned-looking nurse. The guys are glancing around anxiously as the nurse hurries to my side, pushing me gently back into the mattress. She murmurs various platitudes, which I ignore, choosing to focus on the Hunters instead.

"Where's Archie? Is he alright?!"

The two men share a glance...but it's the nurse who answers. "Your friend is still in ICU. When you're feeling up to it I'll see about arranging a visit, but for now you need to rest." Then she gives me a small smile, makes a cursory check of my bandages, adjusts the flow of my IV's saline bag and leaves me alone with John and Dean.

"You don't have anything else to worry about," John replies, once the nurse has closed the door behind her. "I took care of the kid's body, so you and your friend are gonna be just fine."

The kid...something about his statement is...wrong...something...Dammit! Why isn't my mind working properly?! What did that woman give me, anyway?! Glaring at the IV, I rip it from my arm and force myself back into a sitting position, being slightly more careful of my injured hand this time. "No..." The two men give each other concerned looks at my obviously agitated state. "The ghost...it was a girl - younger than me...maybe 15 or 16."

John curses under his breath and glances at his son. "It's never easy, is it?" Looking back towards me, he asks, "Did you recognize her?"

I give my head a a solid shake, still not happy with the drugs now coursing through my system. "No, but I think...Archie...I think he did. We have to talk to him - the sooner the better."

Both the Hunters look grim. "That's easier said than done," Dean replies. "He hasn't woken up yet, and no one can seem to give us any information on when he will."

Reaching up to rub at the bridge of my nose, I experience a mild panic attack as I realize I'm not wearing my glasses. They're special, those lenses; I had them designed specifically so that cameras wouldn't pick up the silver glint of my eyes. Being without them...especially while sharing space with two Hunters...suddenly has me feeling extremely exposed. Trying to feign nonchalance, I quickly skim the room, relieved to find them sitting discretely on top of what appears to be a pile of clothes...my clothes. A faint blush begins to creep across my cheeks as I make yet another realization...the only thing between me and almost completely nudity is the wispy gown I'm currently wearing. Why the HELL did they have to remove my clothes?! My hand got sliced open! What part of that requires the removal of every garment on my person?! Feeling my blood pressure begin to rise, I take a deep breath - trying to remember my breathing techniques from yoga class. Calm...I need to stay calm...freaking out now won't serve any purpose...calm...

...and suddenly, as I reach a more meditative state, something clicks and I'm reminded of the other night, when Sara was talking with Archie...looking nervous and upset...then, when I confronted him later and he seemed about to tell me something important. They both knew...whatever - whoever - this ghost was, they knew! "Sara..."

I don't realize I've said her name out loud until Dean asks, "Who?"

"She's my roommate..." I reply, not really focused on the Hunters. I'm trying to make the connections, trying to understand how all of these people - living and dead - are a part of what's been happening. "I need to call her..." I say, more to myself than to them. "She knows...she has to know...but why does she know...?" Why can't I see it? What am I missing?

"So..." Dean says, somewhat impatient. "You wanna let us in on whatever it is you're muttering about?"

Looking up at him in mild frustration, I snap, "What I want - is my glasses, some real clothes, my cell phone, and for a certain insensitive dumbass to stop asking stupid questions!"

With a slight chuckle, John says to his son, "Why don't we step outside and give a bit of privacy?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but says nothing as his father ushers him out the door. I wait until it's completely shut before attempting to leave my bed, and then quickly make my way over to the stuff piled on the table. With a sigh of relief, I grab my glasses and push them back into place. Then I carefully examine my clothes, grateful to find they've been laundered, and there's not a speck of blood to be found. Getting into everything is a bit of a challenge with my hand all bandaged up, but I manage. Then, feeling much more at ease, I pick up my phone and dial Sara's number. It rings several times before someone finally answers...but it's not my roommate. It's a man, and his voice sounds both weary and tense.

"Hello?"

Thrown off guard, I stutter for a second before finally finding managing to say, "Um, hi...this is Veronica Brennan...I was hoping...um, could I talk to Sara?"

The voice is silent for a split-second too long...and I suddenly become uneasy. "Ronnie? Of course...I'm...I have some...bad news." As the man's voice wavers I suddenly recognize it - Sara's father! The uneasy feeling turns into a roiling knot in the pit of my stomach, and I suppress the desire to simply hang up so that I don't have to hear what he's about to say.

"What...what's happened?" I finally force myself to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Mr. McCauley sighs, as if steeling himself, and then replies, "Sara...she..." His voice wavers, then cracks, trailing off into silence.

My hand is gripping the phone with such ferocity I'm almost surprised that the small device is still in one piece. "No..." I want to scream it at him...but the words get stuck in my throat, coming out as more of a mumble.

Sara's father clears his throat and says, "We don't know much at the moment, but I can call you when there's more information..." He trails off again and I can tell he wants nothing more than to get this conversation over with.

"Thank you, sir; I'd...appreciate that," I respond mechanically, allowing the man to hang up so I don't have to hear him break down completely.

Afterwards, I simply stand there for a moment, staring into space. Sara's dead. Archie lived...so she died. Why not me? I was the obvious next target. Why didn't the ghost come after me instead? How can I NOT be a part of this?! What were my friends involved in that I wasn't?! With a frustrated scream I forget my shifter strength for a moment and throw the phone. It instantly breaks into several pieces, which go skittering across the floor in opposite directions. The Hunters are back in the room almost immediately and a small part of me is grateful for their dedication...although I'm now positive it's misplaced.

"What's wrong?" John asks, glancing in surprise at the pieces of my phone scattered around the room.

Looking at him, I suddenly find myself unable to say it. I know if I do I'll break down...and I don't want to do that...not now...and especially not in front of these two...but I have to tell them...

"Sara..." Just forcing her name past my lips causes my heart to clench. If I hadn't interfered...she'd still be alive...but then Archie...he'd be...

Both John and Dean's faces become masks of grim understanding, and I briefly wonder if they have any clue how similar they suddenly look. The older Hunter sighs softly, turning to look at his son. "We have a week before this thing kills again. Call Sam, tell him we need backup."

Dean nods, pulling out his phone. Something about John's words...bother me...One week...one...? Of course...I hadn't realized it before now...too focused on the reality of it all to care about counting the days...but each 'suicide' has been exactly a week apart...starting with Rory. I think back...carefully - what was going on a week before his death? The comp-sci project, of course, but we already knew that wasn't the connection...or was it...? Then it clicks, and I feel stupid for not seeing everything sooner. Of course - had to be! We'd just finished up a project session at Rory's house; Sara was there - the two of them had been 'unofficially' dating for a couple of months - and he offered to give us a preview of his newest eBay acquisition - an old horror movie even he hadn't had a chance to watch yet. They all knew how I felt about horror, so I declined, leaving the others to enjoy themselves, expecting Jackson to give me a full synopsis in a day or two. Only...he hadn't...in fact, I don't think any of them ever even mentioned it again...

"Ronnie...?" There's sympathy behind the question in John's voice. He probably thinks I've lost it...an idea which isn't deterred when I meet his worried gaze with a triumphant grin.

"That's the connection!"

The older Hunter looks a bit bewildered. "You...know what's going on...?"

"Yes!" I cry, getting more excited by the second.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Dean asks, hanging up his phone. "What do we have to do to gank this bitch?"

My smile falters slightly. "Well...okay...I don't know...exactly...but, the movie...the movie has to be the key!"

"What movie...?" the younger Hunter asks, eyebrows arching skeptically.

I'm about to give them my theory when there's suddenly a knock on the door and the nurse from earlier walks in. She seems a bit disapproving to see me up and clothed...but doesn't mention it. Instead, she says to me, "Your friend is awake and asking for you."

---

Archie's room is dim and still as we enter, with only the beeping of several monitors to even indicate there's anyone occupying the shadowed darkness. The nurse gives whispered words of warning about not over-stressing him and then closes the door behind us.

"Ronnie? Is that you?" My friend's voice is faint, a husky whisper, but there's fright there, as well.

I immediately speak up, wanting to reassure him. "Yeah, it's me." My shifter eyes adjust almost instantly to the darkened room and I make my way to his side, placing my uninjured hand carefully over his. I want to tell him not to worry, to explain who John and Dean really are, but before I can say anything else, Archie says, "I'm glad you're okay...but I think...I think Sara might be in danger...you have to warn her..."

The desire to tell my friend what's happened is overwhelming - the urge to have someone who can share in my grief is a powerful one - but I have no idea what the news of Sara's death will do to him, so instead, I take a steadying breath and say, "Don't worry...just tell me what this is all about...let me help you."

Archie chuckles softly, but it comes out more like a wheeze. "Thanks, Ronnie...but I doubt there's anything you can do..." My friend's silent just long enough for me to wonder if he's gone to sleep. Then he suddenly whispers, "If I live through this, I swear to never watch horror movies again - not ever!"

My heart begins to beat slightly faster at his words. Could my theory really be on the right track?! "What do you mean?" I ask softly, trying to keep my voice steady. When he doesn't respond right away, I give his hand a soft squeeze of encouragement. "Please, Archie - you know you can talk to me."

Finally, he lets out a dark sigh. "It wasn't a real movie...or, I guess, it was too real...or just real enough. The girl...she wasn't acting - her fear, her pain - no one's that good...no one." My friend begins to shiver and his eyes get wide. "God, Ronnie - we all knew...as soon as they began to kill her...but none of us could look away. Then it was over...and the screen went dark...but she was still there...covered in blood. Then she was gone...and we all pretended we didn't see it...see her." A sob escapes his throat, and Archie grips onto my hand, squeezing until my fingers start to go a little tingly. "Don't you see? She's punishing us - for watching her die!"

The monitors around me begin beeping faster and faster as I try to calm him down, but nothing I say seems to help. Suddenly, several nurses bustle into the room, and one of them ushers us out with a disapproving frown as the others converge on Archie, quickly putting him back into a medicated sleep.

The three of us make our way back to my hospital room, silently processing everything we've heard. Finally, Dean lets out a low whistle, giving me a heavy stare. "Did you know your friends were into that stuff?"

Rolling my eyes at him, I immediately protest, "There is absolutely no way ANY of them would have knowingly OR willingly viewed a snuff film. I guess...once they realized what it was...that it was a bit like a car wreck - they just couldn't stop watching."

The excuse sounds a bit lame, even to me. But, surprisingly, John comes to my defense. "It's more likely that the ghost was compelling them to watch. Chances are, once the movie started, they wouldn't have been able to look away...even if their lives depended on it.

"Which they did," the younger Hunter replies with a dark smirk. The comment earns him a glare from both myself and John.

Dean gives a sheepish shrug. "Alright...too soon, got it..."

Choosing to ignore him, I look to John and ask, "So...where do we go from here?"

The man give me a steady gaze. "We're not going anywhere. You're going to stay right here while my son and I take care of this."

"What?!" I cry out, both surprised and indignant. "You can't leave me out of this...!"

"You'll only get in the way," John interrupts, glancing at my hand.

"This doesn't make me a cripple," I argue, waving the appendage in his face. "It's fine...I'm fine! Besides, there's no way you'll get into Rory's house without my help. His parents have been in New York ever since the funeral and their security system is state of the art..."

Dean lets out a disbelieving snort. "So...what...you're a professional cat burglar, now?"

"No," I snap back at him. "I'm a professional hacker, and if you want to get inside without alerting the cops, then I'm your best bet. Besides, Rory's house is a literal mansion - even if you do somehow manage to get in; you'll have no clue where to start looking."

The younger Hunter glances over at his father, obviously waiting for the man to make a decision. John sighs, looking at me with conflicted eyes. "Then I guess we don't really have a choice," he finally replies.

"Nope," I tell them, happy to have won the argument and unable to resist a small, satisfied grin.

---

Back at my apartment, the guys change out of their FBI garb while I prepare my computer for the task at hand. It's not hard...although working with an injured hand gets frustrating after awhile - I can't type as fast as I want to. Still, in the end, hacking into the security system goes just as smoothly as expected - piece of cake - the security company's firewalls are no match for the tricks I can pull. In no time at all, I have my very own passcode that I can use to get us in, and the system will never know the difference between mine and the real thing. After that, we simply wait for nightfall. To help pass the time, I try to create and explain a rough sketch of the house's floor plan to the Hunters. It sort of works...I've never been a very good artist. After looking the map over, John and Dean opt to start their search in the basement (aka movie room) where all our meetings were held, and I volunteer to go through the stuff in Rory's room. Not long after we've developed a basic sort of strategy, it's time to head out.

On the way, the two Hunters attempt to give me crash course on ghosts - what works and what doesn't. Basically solid iron and salt are good and everything else will get you killed.

"But, wait," I protest, trying to understand. "We already know this ghost has an established pattern of attack, right? One that she seems locked into? So, what are the chances of us actually running into her again?"

John chuckles darkly. "If there's one thing we've learned when it comes to the supernatural - it's to always expect the unexpected. For a ghost, the realization that their existence is being threatened is usually enough to break them out of any patterns they might have had. It's really not a question of if she'll attack...but when."

"So...the sooner you figure out who she is, the better, right?"

"Not necessarily," the older Hunter replies. "There's an alternative - the destruction of the film itself. From what we already know, it sounds like this ghost is tied directly to the visualization of her death. While burning the bones is generally the best bet, in this case, destroying the film reel should be enough to stop her."

"And if it's not?" I ask softly, suddenly fearing for Archie.

John's silent for a second before answering, "We'll do everything we can...however...the most important thing is to make sure no one else can ever watch this film. Do you understand?"

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and I give a small nod. I know what he's telling me - prepare for the worst - the ghost might still get Archie. But at least it will end with him - no one else ever has to get hurt.

Suddenly Dean clears his throat, obviously looking for a change of subject. "So...Ronnie...before, when you said you were a 'professional' hacker...what exactly does that mean, anyway?"

I give a slight shrug, trying to decide how best to answer. "It means...somewhere in D.C. I've got a very big file."

The younger Hunter looks back at me with a disbelieving chuckle. "If that's true, why haven't the Feds arrested you yet?"

Smirking, I reply, "Because my real name isn't a part of the record. They only know me by my handle. And trust me, if they knew who I really was, they wouldn't come here to make an arrest - they'd be blackmailing me into service."

Dean arches his eyebrows in surprise. "We are talking about the same government here, aren't we?"

"It happens...not that they'd ever openly admit it. But I guarantee you, they DO have hackers working for them, and the best ones AREN'T there by choice."

He looks like he's about to ask me something else, but John interrupts with, "We're here," as he pulls the car off the road and into the shadows of some nearby trees.

The younger hunter lets out a low whistle. "You weren't kidding about the mansion!" he exclaims, getting his first good look at the Tate's gated estate. "What are they? Movie stars?"

"Actually," I reply, letting Dean help me out of the back seat, "Rory never talked about them much...and they were always out of town when I was here...so I have no clue where all the money comes from."

"Yeah, but with your 'oh-so-amazing' hacker skills, you could find out, right?"

Chuckling slightly, I reply, "True...but I generally avoid checking up on friends. It's all about trust...and privacy."

Dean and John both shut their doors almost simultaneously...and suddenly a dog begins barking.

"Oh, no..." I whisper with a groan. "I forgot about Bandit..."

The barking gets louder and nearer to our position as John glances towards the fence and asks, "Bandit?"

"He's their bullmastiff...I wonder why they didn't take him with them?"

"Isn't it a little late to be wondering something like that?" Dean gripes.

"Calm down...I'm not exactly a stranger...so, maybe he'll let me in without any trouble. Give me 5 minutes, okay?"

John nods in agreement. "Make it quick."

Giving him a thumbs up, I head for the main entrance, trying to decide how best to handle Bandit. He's not your...average dog...not by a long shot, and I don't mean in one of those "abnormally over-intelligent" sort of ways (although he is) - more like in a supernatural kind of way. He's a skinwalker...reformed, I suppose, since I haven't heard anything on the news about heart-stealing serial killers...although maybe he's just really good at hiding the bodies. I wouldn't know...since we've never actually talked.

With a deep breath, I arrive at the gate, grateful for its sturdy iron bars as Bandit charges forward, hackles raised, and barking up a storm. Glancing quickly over my shoulder to make sure I haven't been followed, I kneel down so that we're at eye level. The skinwalker stops barking, most likely confused by my actions, but continues to growl low in his throat.

Removing my glasses, I make firm eye contact and then allow him to see the flash of my inner eyelids. Maybe if he knows I'm a 'kindred spirit', this will be easier. Bandit backs up a step and his growling gets deeper, so I quickly try to talk him down. "Listen...I know what you are, so I know you can understand me. My friends and I are here because Rory's death wasn't a suicide...something killed him." The skinwalker stops growling and backs up a few more steps, obviously worried. "It's okay," I continue. "We're not here for you; it was some sort of vengeful spirit." I hold up my bandaged hand. "She's the one who did this...and the key to stopping her is probably inside. So, I'm going to turn off the security system, and we're going to search the house. Please, help us stop this thing from killing anyone else."

Bandit sits, looking at me thoughtfully, then he bobs his head once in agreement and gives a small wag of his tail.

With a grin, I whisper, "Thank you! Oh...and one other thing - the guys helping me...they don't know what we are...and it's probably best if it stays that way, okay?"

He bobs his head again, just as I hear footsteps crunching behind me on the gravel path. Turning quickly as I stand, hoping I don't look guilty or nervous, I greet the two Hunters with a small smile.

Dean eyes the massive bullmastiff sitting peacefully by the gate and glances at me with eyebrows raised. "What are you, a dog whisperer?"

I shrug my shoulders, trying to act nonchalant. "Like I said, Bandit knows me, and since you guys are with me, you're okay, too."

The young hunter doesn't look 100% convinced, and continues to eye the dog warily. "Whatever you say - let's get this show on the road."

With a nod, I quickly key in the code I created earlier, not at all surprised to hear the electric click and hum of the system disarming. Now, moving with purpose, we step through the gate and head for the house. Once inside, the three of us immediately split up, aiming for our respective destinations, and all the while Bandit stays close on my heels. It's pretty obvious (at least to me) that he wants to talk. So, when he follows me into Rory's room, I carefully close the door to keep our voices from potentially reaching the Hunters. When I turn back, instead of a dog, I find myself face-to-face with a very tall, very buff, and very naked man in his mid-thirties. With a startled cry my hands shoot up to cover my eyes, as I hear a deep voice grumble in embarrassment.

"Umm...sorry about that...haven't been human in a long time...forgot about the whole nudity thing."

Trying to keep my blushing to a minimum, I reply, "Apology accepted...now could you please cover yourself up with something...otherwise this conversation is going to be even more awkward than it already is."

He...Bandit, I guess...gives a grunt of understanding, and I catch brief flickers of movement and rustling sounds, before he finally says, "I think this is gonna have to do."

Lowering my hands, I see that he's confiscated the top cover from Rory's bed and formed it into a sort of sarong. "Thank you," I tell him with a small smile. "Umm...so, do you have another name...something other than Bandit?"

The skinwalker nods, looking me over curiously. "When I was human, my name was Winston. Now...I'd like you to tell me what this is all about...and how you knew what I was."

"Ah, yeah...sorry...Do you mind if I search while we talk?" I ask, stepping over to open my friend's closet. He gives a small grunt of approval, and I continue speaking. "We're looking for a film reel that Rory bought a couple of weeks before his death. It's sort of...haunted..."

"Haunted? What makes you think his suicide is related?"

As soon as Winston asks, I realize he has no way of knowing what's happened since Rory's parents left town. Looking down at my feet, forgetting the closet's contents for a minute, I try to focus on getting the words out as quickly as possible. "Well, that's the thing...this ghost didn't just kill Rory - it's going after everyone who watched the film. Laura...Sara...Jackson - they're all..." My voice catches, despite my desire to not get emotional.

Winston's eyes widen in sadness and understanding. "I'm sorry...and Archie...is he...?"

"He was attacked last night; that's how I got injured. Now he's in ICU..."

"But how can you be sure it's the movie?"

I begin sifting through the closet again, needing something to do with my hands. "Honestly...I'm not...but at this point it's the only thing that makes any kind of sense. I thought Rory might have stashed it here instead of down in the basement, where someone else could accidentally watch it."

Looking up, I see the man nodding thoughtfully. He seems about to say something...then pauses, as if unsure if he should speak.

"Do you know somewhere else it might be?" I ask, trying to prompt him into speech.

"Maybe..." the skinwalker concedes, suddenly staring at me with startling intensity. "But you haven't answered my other question - how did you know what I was?"

"Oh...that?" I ask with an embarrassed shrug. "It's actually a talent we probably share."

Winston cocks an eyebrow at me in mild disbelief. "How's that?"

"Our sense of smell," I reply with a small grin. When the skinwalker still looks confused, I continue, "I have somewhat unusual olfactory senses - my...umm...this shifter I used to know...he told me that it was probably developed as a way for our kind to recognize each other...but eventually it evolved to the point where we could smell the differences between a variety of humanoid species."

Now the skinwalker seems curious rather than confused. "Mmm, I think I get it...my nose doesn't work quite the same way...but I did know from the first time we met that you were more than human...so, each monster you meet smells different to you?"

"Yeah, sort of...although I usually have to be pretty close to even notice...my stupid allergies are always affecting it. Anyway, certain monsters smell certain ways...and when I hang around someone long enough, they develop their own unique scent on top of that. So, for example, all skinwalkers smell like freshly-mown grass...and you, specifically, smell just slightly of cinnamon."

Winston nods, beginning to understand. "So, you must have met a skinwalker before, right? To know what we smell like?"

With an embarrassed chuckle, I reply, "Actually, no - the shifter I mentioned earlier - he gave me a list of scents so that I'd know and could protect myself if necessary. It wasn't all-encompassing, but it's come in handy on several occasions."

"Sounds like this friend of yours really cares about you."

Startled by the turn of our conversation, all I can do is bob my head softly in agreement, and whisper sadly, "Yeah...he did."

The man immediately catches on to my altered mood, and tries to change the subject. "Well, I'm happy to help. Rory's death...was hard on everyone - Mr. and Mrs. Tate haven't been the same since. It's a damn shame...that kid was really going places - he had a future..." Winston trails off for a minute, staring sadly off into space. Then he visibly shakes himself and gives me an apologetic look. "Sorry...losing Rory...hasn't been easy."

Trying to get his mind back on track, I reply, "You said you might know somewhere else to look. Do you mind telling me where? The sooner we find the film, the better off everyone will be."

Winston looks down at his feet, shoulders slightly hunched. "Well, I'm generally not one to speak ill of the dead...but, maybe..."

When he trails off unhappily, I try prodding him. "I think, given the circumstances, that Rory would forgive you. Please..."

The skinwalker clears his throat a bit, not quite meeting my gaze as he replies, "There's a hidden safe in the theater room; Rory had it installed behind his limited edition "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman" poster. It's where he kept his..." Winston pauses, clearing his throat again with obvious discomfort. "Um...you know..." Then he sort of trails off and raises his eyebrows at me expectantly.

"Are you telling me Rory had a porn stash hidden in the basement?!"

Winston gives a small cough. "Well...boys will be boys...right?"

Chuckling, I reply, "Yeah, I suppose...and I guess that would be the safest place - his way of making certain no one else would ever watch it...okay, can you tell me the combination? Or do you wanna just try the Rin-Tin-Tin thing and see if the guys fall for it?"

The skinwalker chuckles. "About that...why're you hanging out with two men who make you so...uncomfortable?"

I hadn't realized my discomfort was that obvious...must be those canine sense of his. "Well..." I reply nervously, knowing I need to tell him the truth. "They're...that is...they needed my help...and how could I say no when all my friends were..."

Winston raises his eyebrows expectantly when I don't immediately continue.

With a sigh, suddenly unable to think of any decent stalling tactics, I mumble under my breath, "They're...Hunters..."

The skinwalker lets out a low, threatening growl, looking both startled and angry at my revelation.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?!" I cry out, trying to defend myself. "My friends were dying and those two were the ONLY ones willing to believe it might be something OTHER than a bunch of suicides. I just...I didn't want anyone else to die..." My voice cracks and I quickly turn away so he won't see the tears now trailing down my cheeks. Sniffling, I continue a bit more softly, "Even if I'd had any clue about this ghost...I wouldn't have known how to stop it. But they...they do. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but..." I turn back to him, staring the skinwalker down. "...if Rory meant half as much to you as you keep saying, then you should feel the same way!"

Winston meets my gaze evenly, looking torn. Finally, he gives me a broad grin. "You've got guts, you know that?"

I shake my head. "It's not...I just...sometimes there are more important things. Besides...I know for a fact that some Hunters are willing to look past the 'monster' on the surface."

He snorts, disbelievingly. "Yeah, if they haven't already learned to shoot first and ask questions later. Don't suppose you have any clue which those two are?"

Grimacing, all I can do is reply, "I hope I don't ever have to find out."

Suddenly we both hear loud footsteps headed towards us. I immediately step back towards Rory's closet as Winston, looking more than a little panicked, quickly shifts back into his canine form. For an instant I admire his ability to change forms so quickly and effortlessly - my powers don't offer me the same luxury - then the door is opening and Dean is standing there with a triumphant look on his face.

"I think we found something..." Then he notices Winston...Bandit...who's laying on the bed, still slightly wrapped in Rory's top cover. With a smirk, the Hunter asks, "Am I interrupting something?"

Trying not to blush as the image of Winston's nude, muscled form pops back into my head, I slap him lightly on the shoulder. "Quit being a smartass! What did you guys find?"

"A safe - hidden behind one of the framed posters."

Relieved that I won't have to lie to the men about how I know where Rory's porn is stashed, I ask, "Did you open it? Was the film there?!"

Dean looks slightly sheepish. "Dad wanted me to come get you first. He says it looks like it might be rigged to a separate alarm system..."

Giving him a wary look, I reply, "I'm a computer hacker, not a cat burglar, remember? What on earth does he expect me to do?"

The Hunter shrugs. "We're kinda running out of options here..."

He's right, of course...but there's no way for me to get the combo from Winston now. How are we going to pull this off without looking suspicious?! Glancing briefly at the skinwalker, I look back at Dean, bobbing my head in agreement. "Yeah, okay...it's not like we have anything to lose at this point, right?"

Then we head from the room, making our way quickly to the basement, where John is in the process of lining the entire room with salt. I walk over to the exposed safe, admiring its quality. Somehow, I suspect there's a lot more than just porn in there.

John walks up next to me, with a small scowl on his face. "It's definitely on a separate system," he growls, waving his hand in frustration. "But I don't have the tools for this hi-tech crap!"

Nodding slowly, I reply, "This isn't really my forte...I'm not sure..." but I pause as Bandit suddenly bumps up against me and then immediately moves away to sit beneath another of Rory's classic movie posters - Some Like It Hot, featuring Marilyn Monroe.

"I understand," John says with a sigh, as Bandit bobs his head up to the poster. "But you knew Rory, and it's his safe. Can you think of any number combinations he might have used?"

"Well...I..." My eyes trail back up to the poster, where I find myself staring at Marilyn in her skimpy, skin-tight costume. Then with a smirk, I tell him, "Actually, yeah, I think I do. Try 37-23-36."

As John keys in the numbers, I feel fairly confident about my choice. After all, Marilyn was, by far, Rory's favorite Golden Age actress. The older Hunter chuckles as something inside the safe's mechanism makes a satisfying click.

Dean looks at me, both surprised and slightly suspicious. "How did you know?"

I'm about to reply, but John actually beats me to it. Giving his son a slight grin, he says, "I'm surprised at you, Dean. Those are numbers that every hot-blooded American man should know."

He winks at me and looks back at the younger Hunter, who's still staring at us in annoyed confusion.

I nod to the poster on the wall behind him, explaining with a smile, "They're Marilyn Monroe's 'official' measurements."

Dean turns to stare at the 2D image for a minute and then looks back at me in disbelief. "And you know this how?"

I shrug silently, remembering with a sharp pang of grief all the times Sara and I argued about her decision to change her figure to fit Rory's 'ideal image.' "Does it really matter?" I ask, forcing the tremble out of my voice. "Let's just find that film and get rid of it."

Dean nods, but continues to eye me thoughtfully as his father opens the safe. Both men peer inside and the younger Hunter suddenly laughs out loud. "Hey! That's the original Casa Erotica...and it's autographed by Scarlett Blaze!" He turns to me, grinning. 'Your friend had good taste!"

"Dean..." There's an unmistakable warning in John's voice.

"Sorry..." The younger Winchester immediately steps away from the safe looking chastised. Then he turns to me and asks, "So, how exactly are we going to know which one it is?"

"It's old," I reply, as John continues rummaging through Rory's collection. "1920's, remember? So it's most likely on an actual film reel..." I pause in my description when the older Hunter visibly stiffens. I'm about to ask what's wrong, but then I sense the change in the air, too - like someone's turned on a giant magnet hidden underneath the floor. Dean immediately tenses, pulling a sawed-off shotgun out from beneath his jacket, and moving to stand by my side as the lights begin flickering violently. In twos and threes the bulbs start to pop, and Bandit is suddenly against my legs, growling long and low in his throat. Then the final bulb shatters and for an instant we're plunged into darkness before John quickly flicks his lighter open to continue his search.

"I thought the salt was supposed to keep her out," I whisper, my voice sounding panicked despite the desire to stay calm.

"It will...as long as the lines hold," Dean replies. "Unfortunately, it can't stop her from messing with the surrounding environment."

Suddenly, the over-sized screen on the far wall begins to glow, illuminating the room with a flickering, pale blue light.

"I...I don't think that's a good thing..."

Dean edges closer, eyes darting around rapidly. "Stay close to me. Dad! Just light them all up before this bitch gets creative!"

The younger Hunter has barely finished speaking when a pale, female face fills screen, glaring at me with those same accusatory eyes.

"Now would be better than later," I include, as the large screen begins to shiver violently.

John nods, tossing his lighter into the safe and fueling it with a hefty dose of lighter fluid. A piercing wail reverberates throughout the room as the screen's light morphs from blue to deep red. The ghost's skin begins to crackle and char as her face contorts with obvious pain; my stomach starts to churn...but I can't bring myself to look away. I need to watch...to see her burn with my own two eyes. Then, unexpectedly, the screen itself begins to bubble and darken.

"That can't be good..." Dean begins, when suddenly there's a focused explosion of flame, smoke and debris which throws all of us to the floor...and back into complete darkness.

For a split second, laying there in the pitch black, time seems to stand still...no sound, no sight, no nothing...then it all comes whooshing back with a speed that makes me instantly nauseous. There's ringing in my ears - my eyes are burning, and my injured hand throbs painfully. With a soft groan, I gingerly push myself into a sitting position, patting my body down carefully...making sure I still have all my limbs...and haven't been impaled by anything...problematic.

My eyes, adjusting to the darkness much faster than their human ones, quickly seek out the others. Off to my left Bandit whines softly and nurses one of his front paws...then to my far right I watch John struggle into a standing position as he asks. "Is everyone okay?"

Dean responds almost immediately. "Still here...and mostly sure I'm in one piece. Ronnie...you with us?" I can see him scanning the darkened room...although I don't imagine it's doing him much good.

It's strange...there's a hint of defeatism in his voice...almost as if he's not expecting an answer. And it makes me wonder how many times these two have done this...and not everyone came out unscathed. For an instant my mind flashes back to that night, nearly seven years ago, when another Hunter made the choice to spare my life...despite knowing what I was. After losing people...good people...to my kind and others like me, how hard had it been for him to just let me walk away? Did he regret it...does he still? I'm not sure why the answer is suddenly so important...maybe it's the sudden clarity of understanding about what Hunters really do. Whatever the reason...I know that once all of this is over, finding him will become my top priority...no matter what.

Apparently I've been silent too long, because Dean calls out again, with just an edge of worry, "Ronnie...don't flake out on us, alright...?"

"Sorry..." I reply softly, trying to come up with a good excuse for zoning out on him. "I'm just...I've never been in an explosion before..."

The younger Hunter chuckles. "Yeah, it's a first for me, too, actually..."

"So...is it over?" I ask, irrationally worried that just mentioning the ghost might summon her back into being.

"Looks that way," John responds, moving towards his son's voice. "Dean...my flashlight was busted in the blast. Is your's still working?"

Dean curses under his breath. "Sorry, sir...wasn't thinking." He reaches into his jacket, and seconds later a strong beam of light is panning around the room.

As the extent of the damage becomes more apparent, I can't help but muse out loud, "If anyone heard that blast..."

"We need to leave," John interrupts, immediately catching my meaning. "Let's go."

"Wait!" I protest, eying Winston with worry.

"Go? Stay? Make up your mind," Dean gripes, shining the flashlight in my eyes as he gets to his feet.

"We're going...but we're taking Bandit with us."

"You can't be serious," he scoffs. "That mutt must weigh a ton!"

"He's obviously hurt...there's no way I'm leaving him here!"

John sighs, but doesn't argue, instead scooping the skinwalker carefully into his arms. "Alright, let's head out."

---

Back at my apartment, the older Hunter gives Bandit a quick once-over and then proceeds to splint and bandage the mastiff's left front leg. There aren't any twenty-four hour vets in the area, and I'm grateful for his willingness to stay and help. Once John's finished and it seems like the skinwalker is resting comfortably, I suddenly find myself at a loss for words. It's time for them to leave, I know that, but saying thank you just doesn't seem like enough. Finally the elder Winchester clears his throat and hands me a card with nothing on it but a phone number.

"We're pretty sure this is over, but...just in case...you can get in touch with us at that number."

"I hope I never have to use it," I tell him with a sad smile. "But thank you."

He nods then hands me another piece of paper, this time with a name and address written on it, that reads, 'Anthony Castle ~ Jefferson, TX'. "Do us both a favor...and DON'T tell him I sent you," John tells me with a wry smile. "We're not exactly on speaking terms at the moment."

"This is..." Subconsciously, my hand goes up to grip my pendant.

The older Hunter gives me a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "In my opinion...the guy could use some hope. Who knows, maybe talking to someone he's helped could give him that..."

"I...I'll try," I promise, holding John's stare long enough for the Hunter to know I'm taking his words seriously.

Clearing his throat again, the elder Winchester jerks his head at his son. "C'mon, let's head up to Washington - Sam should be about finished by the time we get there."

I walk the men to the door; John leaves to start the car, but Dean lingers, eying the bullet hanging around my neck curiously.

He gives me a lopsided grin and asks, "Any chance I could get you to tell me what that's all about?"

Inwardly, I begin to tense up...but outwardly I shrug and share his smile. "We've known each other barely 48 hours and you want my life story?"

"Not the WHOLE story," Dean says with a laugh. "Just the story behind that." He gestures to the glass vial that keeps the silver from touching my skin.

"Maybe they're the same thing," I reply, holding his gaze and letting my voice take on a slightly serious tone.

The younger Hunter looks at me appraisingly. "Y'know...I'm starting to wish we had more time..."

He's interrupted by John calling his name. "Dean! Let's get a move on!"

The younger Hunter almost looks disappointed. "I guess duty calls..."

As he jogs over to the waiting car, I consider calling out to him - but the niggling little voice in the back of my head stops me. He's still a Hunter, it reminds. Trusting him is more trouble than it's worth. The voice is right, of course, so I let him go, watching with a mixture of relief and sadness as the two men drive off into the darkness.

Walking back inside, I kneel next to Winston and ask softly, "Do you want to shift, so I can take you to the emergency room? I know that aspirin John gave you probably isn't doing too much good."

He whines softly, but makes no attempt to alter his form. "Are you sure? I really don't mind..." The skinwalker nuzzles my hand gently and gives a small shake of his head. "I guess you really do prefer being a dog, huh?" A wag of his tail is the only response I get. "Alright, I'll get you to a vet first thing in the morning. Until then, I'm gonna try to get some sleep...but if you need anything, just wake me up, okay?" The mastiff gives me another nod as I stand up and head for my room. It's not until I'm walking down the hall and I pass Sara's door that a wave of realization hits me. She's gone...one of the first friends I ever made at CalTech...and I'll never see her again. The tears that suddenly start trailing down my cheeks aren't completely unexpected - how could I not cry for her? But the sudden rush of grief and guilt almost overwhelms me. Stumbling to my room, I collapse onto the bed and begin sobbing uncontrollably...I don't get any sleep that night.

---

Four Months Later

Pulling over to the side of the road, I re-check my map for what must be the 100th time. Beside me in the passenger seat, Winston, still in his mastiff guise, gives me a disapproving look.

"What?" I protest...knowing what he'd say if he were in human form. "I just need to check the map one more time..."

He huffs at me, and glares at the piece of paper in my hands. The skinwalker knows as well as I do that I'm putting off our arrival, and for a second I marvel over the fact that he can read me so well after such a short amount of time. Honestly, I didn't expect Winston to stick around very long after his leg healed...but he stayed...and I didn't see any reason to make him leave. Although I'll probably never know all of his reasons for sticking around, I suspect that, like me, he finds comfort and companionship in my acceptance of what he really is...and what he chooses to be. It was a bit odd at first...I couldn't decide how to treat him - like a dog or a human. In the end, we settled for a sort of happy median between the two; I talk to him like a human, and he responds to my words and actions (at least when we're alone) but in every other way he's just a regular dog...and he seems to prefer it that way. Despite that, continuing to call him Bandit just felt...weird, so I decide to use his human name - and he responds to it, so I guess my choice doesn't bother him too much.

"Alright," I admit, as he continues to stare me down. "So...maybe I'm putting this off...but it's a big deal, okay? We're talking about the Hunter that spared my life, here...and it's not like he knows we're coming...what if...what if he's had a change of heart...maybe this is a bad idea...we should just go back to California..."

Winston puts a paw on my shoulder and woofs once in encouragement...then he snatches the map out of my hands with his teeth and proceeds to eat it.

"Hey! No fair!"

The mastiff gives me a withering look - we both know I have the directions memorized. With a grimace, I reach up to turn the car back on, muttering, "I hope you get indigestion." I've only just revved the engine when flashing lights suddenly appear in my rearview mirror. "Cops? Since when did it become illegal to stop and check a map in Texas?" The skinwalker just stares at me with a look that says, 'I told you so.'

With a deep sigh I roll down the window and turn the engine back off, watching in trepidation as the police car pulls up behind my own and a lone male figure steps out into the gathering darkness, walking cautiously up to my window.

"You doin' alright tonight, ma'am?"

Gripping the wheel, I give a small nod, not really meeting his eyes, and murmur. "Yes, thanks. Did I...do something wrong?"

The man chuckles. "No, ma'am; I just don't often see cars parked along this stretch of road, so I thought I'd check things out - make sure everything's okay."

He leans down closer to the window and tilts his head...presumably to get a better look at Winston, and for the first time I get a good look at his face...and I freeze. It's him! My Hunter!

Without thinking, I blurt out, "You're a cop?!"

He looks confused, but responds with a grin. "Yes ma'am, that's usually what the flashing lights and badge mean."

Before even planning this trip, I had worked out exactly what I was going to say when I met him...imagined how it would be...rehearsed it in front of my mirror. But now that we're finally face to face every word of it vanishes from my head, leaving me speechless.

My dismay must be visible because he leans a little closer, looking concerned, and asks, "You alright, ma'am? I promise I'm not going to arrest you."

It's Winston that finally snaps me out of it, giving my shoulder a gentle nudge. Glancing at my companion gratefully, I give myself a mental shake and then steadily meet the confused gaze of the man I know to be Anthony Castle.

"Sorry," I reply with a nervous smile. "I just...wasn't expecting to meet you under these circumstances. It threw me off guard..."

The Hunter gives me a confused chuckle, looking slightly wary. "I'm afraid I don't understand..."

Although I've kept the same human form ever since that day, I shouldn't be too surprised that he doesn't recognize me - it was almost 6 years ago, after all. Taking a deep breath, I reply, "My name's Veronica...when I was sixteen...you...umm...well, you spared my life..."

The last part is whispered so lightly I'm surprised he hears me, but he responds, "I...spared...?" And then the light dawns in his eyes...right before they take on a worried, cautious look. "You're...the shifter...from San Antonio?"

I meet his gaze, heart pounding in my chest. "Yeah...that's me." There are several long seconds of silence, and I begin babbling to fill it with something...anything. "I just...some stuff happened recently. And I started thinking about...things...and then I thought maybe..."

The Hunter interrupts my rambling, looking slightly shocked. "You're...still using the same form?"

He doesn't seem angry...or like he's about to shoot me, so I answer, "Yeah...there wasn't any reason to change it, so..."

"I heard somewhere once that shifters have to do that...change their form every so often..."

I nod, relaxing a little bit at his conversational tone. "We do, yeah...about every six months...but we don't have to keep it. So, I just shift and then shift right back again. This form...it's kinda special; I don't need or want another one."

Anthony stares at me with a mixture of appraisal and surprise, and I get the feeling he's sizing me up. Finally he asks, "So...you got a place to stay?"

Shaking my head, I reply, "Not yet, I was just going to find a hotel once we got into Jefferson." He glances at the mastiff, and I quickly answer the unasked question. "I know...most hotels don't allow pets...but Winston is...special."

"Special...? The same way you're...special?"

I give the Hunter a nervous grin and behind me my friend starts to whine softly. "Yes...but he's harmless, you have my word."

Anthony raises skeptical brows, and says, "Don't take this the wrong way...but I'm still not sure how much your word is worth."

His distrust shouldn't surprise me...but it still hurts just a little. This isn't going at all like I'd planned. "Could you at least give us a chance? I...I'd really like some time to talk with you."

He eyes the two of us carefully, in silence, then gives a small nod. "Alright. Why don't you stay with me instead? That should give us plenty of time to...chat."

I can hear the implications in his tone, even if he doesn't say them out loud - the invitation is so he can keep an eye on us. My mind is warning me to be careful; saying that no matter what this man did for me in the past, he's still a Hunter, still dangerous. But my heart tells me that Anthony would never hurt Winston or me without good reason. So...I just have to make sure not to give him one. Nodding slowly, I reply, "If you've got room to spare, we'd be happy to be your guests."

The hunter gives me what seems to be a genuine smile and says, "Alright then; I'm officially off-duty anyway, so you can just follow me home."

Less than fifteen minutes later we're pulling up in front of a quaint little house on a narrow road lined with towering trees. Even in the night-time shadows, I can tell this building is old...definitely 19th century. But, other than that, it appears fairly unassuming - no one would ever guess that the man residing here hunts monsters for a living. Shutting off the engine, I look over at Winston and give him a quick scratch between the ears. "I guess it's too late to turn back now, huh?" I ask him with a soft grin. "Are you regretting sticking around?"

In response the mastiff gives me a steady stare, and then raises his paw and places it in my hand.

Grinning at him, I reply, "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Okay then - let's do this."

My friend lets out a soft, rumbling bark, following close behind as I open my door and step out into the warm summer air. We meet Anthony on the porch, just as he's unlocking the door, and the Hunter ushers us inside. The front room is meticulously neat...the kind of neat that makes you afraid to touch anything, and I eye the Hunter with a new kind of respect - there's no way I could ever keep my place this tidy.

Anthony walks towards the back of the house with Winston and me trailing behind. As he walks, the Hunter looks back at us briefly and says, I wasn't expecting guests...so there's not a lot in the fridge. How do scrambled eggs and bacon sound for dinner?"

My friend licks his chops with a soft growl. Grinning, I tell Anthony, "I'm pretty sure Winston approves...but I'll pass on the bacon, if that's okay? I don't eat meat."

Giving me a quick, appraising look, he nods and leads us further into the house, where we quickly arrive at a small kitchen that's just as pristine as everything else. The Hunter motions for me to sit as he begins rooting around in his fridge and cabinets for supplies. Within no time the eggs are ready, and he divvies them up onto three plates, setting Winston's carefully on the floor. I'm not sure if it's intentional, but Anthony seems to be making sure I can see what he's doing as he prepares everything. It's a considerate notion; and one I appreciate...although more for Winston's sake than my own. The skinwalker wasn't too happy when I explained my reasons for taking this trip...although I think he realized right away how important it was to me. So, anything that might help put his mind at ease is greatly appreciated.

As we eat, I explain to Anthony my reasons for coming - my recent, unexpected brush with the supernatural - the Hunters who helped me (although I don't name names) - and the sudden desire to find the person who changed my life all those years ago.

The Hunter gives me a long look, and then says slowly, "Y'know, back then, I was half convinced that in less than a week you'd show up demanding vengeance for your father's death...or something like that..."

Surprised by the admission, I stammer, "But...why? I was the one who contacted you. If my father's blood is on anyone's hands...it's mine..."

Shrugging, Tony replies, "I decided that it must have been some sort of elaborate trap...designed to lure Hunters out into the open."

"Then why didn't you just kill me?" I ask, voice dropping to just above a whisper, not really sure I want an answer to my question.

His gaze is steady, as he says, "Because my entire life I've been trained to go with my gut...and for the first time ever it was telling me NOT to kill the monster...so I didn't. I regretted it later, but by that time you were long gone. To be honest...it's bothered me ever since..."

Worried by the path our conversation seems to be heading, I tell him, "But your gut WAS right! I'm NOT a monster! I've spent every day since then trying to be as normal as possible. And I would never intentionally hurt an innocent person. Look!" I reach into my shirt and pull out the pendant hidden there. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't see this bullet around my neck and remember what you said to me back then."

"So...you still remember that...after all these years?"

I give the Hunter a small grin. "It's sort of become my mantra."

The look on his face is that of a man who wants desperately to believe that something is true. "All these years...I'd hoped...but there was always this nagging doubt..."

"I never meant to make you feel that way; I'm so sorry for not contacting you sooner..."

Anthony chuckles. "I think I'm the one who should be apologizing...for doubting you. After all, you gave up your own father...I should've had more faith."

My father...the one person I spend every day trying to forget. He was a patient, loving man...but only to me. He had no tolerance for humans, and no qualms when it came to killing them. When I was younger I honestly believed I could change him...but gradually I came to realize that nothing I said or did would ever alter his point of view. So, while he was making plans to murder yet another family, I was making plans, too. Originally, I'd intended to kill him myself...but when the time came to do it I couldn't pull the trigger, too afraid of becoming just like him. It didn't take me long to realize that my only hope was to find a Hunter...something much easier said than done.

Anthony's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to bring up bad memories..."

"It's not...I mean...you didn't." I protest with a weak smile. "I'll always wish things could've been different...but I know I made the right choice. Maybe I can convince you that you made the right choice, too...?" I watch the Hunter's face carefully, trying to put my Psychology classes to good use and accurately read his expression...but he's got one of the best poker faces I've ever seen. So, all I can do is watch and wait.

Finally, he nods and says, "I think you already have..."

---

My time with Anthony (or Tony, as he prefers to be called) goes quickly; even Winston seems to be enjoying himself. We spend our days surrounded by a weird combination of the normal and the bizarre. Although he works for the Marion County Sheriff's department during the day, Tony's still a very active Hunter - taking good care of practically the entire East Texas area. While I don't join him on his hunts, I discover that my background in journalism has given me an unexpected edge in this unusual world. Using a combination of the internet and the Hunter's varied collection of rare texts, I begin learning how to refine my researching skills to better meet his needs.

A part of me marvels at the events that have lead me to this point - if my father could see me now...All my life he drilled the fear of Hunters into me - one horror story at a time. That fear ruled our lives...and turned my father into a serial killer. Every few years he'd find a father/daughter family, and we'd take over their lives. When I was young, he'd tell me it was the only way...and I believed him - he was my father, after all. Why would he lie? But as I got older, and he continued killing, I began to doubt...and when he tried to force me into my first "kill" I began to fear him more than the Hunters he was always talking about. And that's why, when I turned sixteen and my father began looking for another family, I did the only thing I could think of to stop him - and contacted a Hunter. In all honesty, I expected to die, as well. Everything I'd ever been told about Hunters had me believing I wouldn't stand a chance. But Tony...I guess he changed my outlook just as much as I changed his.

As I continue to learn everything the Hunter will share with me, I also watch in fascination as Winston discovers a brand new facet of himself - using his supernatural abilities to help out on hunts. He seems more at ease with himself than he's ever been...and I can completely understand. There's just something about finding that perfect median between who you are and who you want to be. Granted...I haven't felt that way in a long time...since right after my father's death, actually...but I still remember, and maybe...just maybe...I might get there again some day. Who knows...I might be closer than I think.

The summer comes to an end far too soon, and I'm not surprised when Winston expresses the desire to stay behind. Personally, I think he and Tony make a good team...even if the Hunter's not quite willing to admit it yet. If it weren't for school, I might be inclined to stay myself. Helping out these past few months, learning what hunting is all about, knowing that I'm helping to save lives - it's an amazing feeling...and one not easily duplicated. But I've got my degrees to finish first...after that...who knows.

On my last day we all stand outside the house, Tony and me chatting casually as I lean against the Harley Sportster he just finished restoring. It's a gift...since my car had a bit of an accident during a hunt a few weeks back, and it's now residing somewhere at the bottom of Caddo Lake. Driving the motorcycle took a little getting used to at first, but now I can't imagine getting around any other way. There's something very cathartic about feeling the wind rushing through my hair and against my skin. Still...the trip back to Pasadena will be a bit lonely without the skinwalker to keep me company.

As I pack my meager belongings onto the back of the bike, I finally work up the nerve to ask Tony something I've been meaning to talk to him about for awhile now. "Hey...can I ask a favor...?"

He nods. "What's on your mind?"

"Well...you remember that friend I told you about right? Archie?"

"The one who survived the ghost attack?"

Shuffling my feet in nervous contemplation, I reply, "Yeah...well, I was wondering...you see, he hasn't really been the same since...everything, and I was kinda hoping that maybe, on my next trip down...I could bring him with me?"

Tony looks confused for a moment. "Hmm...and you think bringing him here will help?"

Shrugging slightly, I mumble, "Well, maybe...I mean, he jumps at the smallest sounds...he wasn't like that before. And I thought that if you, y'know, talked to him...maybe trained him a bit...he wouldn't be quite so...afraid, anymore."

The Hunter doesn't really look convinced, but he gives me a small smile and says, "I can't promise anything; you know this life isn't for everyone...but if he's willing to come, I'll see what I can do, alright?"

Grinning ear to ear, I wrap Tony in an impromptu hug. "Thank you...for everything."

Thirty minutes later I'm back on the road and headed for California. There's a sense that flows through the air as I race down the highway - a feeling that my life is traveling in directions not entirely controlled by me. I suppose some people might call it "destiny", but I'm not quite sure I believe in that sort of thing. Whatever it is, I have to admit it scares me a little...but it's a good kind of fear - the kind that keeps you on your toes - makes you ready for anything. So, whatever fate has in store for me, I'm willing to meet it head on. After all, there are so many things in this life more important than fear.

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