Stink rose from the open road like steam curling away from the rim of a cup of morning sludge coffee. Heat from the asphalt lingered, dangerously unassuming; twinkling merrily in a mirage. A great German shepherd dog loped down the street, tail dragging and tongue lolling from his toothy mouth. No nametag hung from his neck and no one would have known that the shepherd was anything other than a stray. The dog's fur was matted with dust and blood, and he looked about as mangy as any dog could get. If the dog still had his tags, he would have worn them proudly, puffing out his chest and reflecting the light off the carved metal letters that would have spelled his name: LUCKY.

Lucky's shoulder still hurt from where Jax shot him with the silver bullet. The betrayal and anger he had felt at the time drained out of him as quickly as the blood from the wound. Now it was as stale as the dried gore matting his fur.

Lucky had known that going back to Mandy and Aidan's was a long shot. He remembered the look on Mandy's face and shuddered. The heavy heat did nothing to stop the cold that flooded Lucky's body like a wave when he thought of what he had done. Mandy's rejection was well deserved. Living with the mother and her son was a beautiful dream for him, but he could only imagine what nightmares she would have from now on.

There was nowhere he could go but back on the street, like the stray he always was. This time though, he was armed with the benefit of a permanently warm coat of fur. Not to mention an extremely tough stomach and receding human dignity, which would allow him to eat anything off the street, with the exception, of course, of the people walking on the street.

There was a hunger in Lucky's stomach that could hardly be filled by someone's discarded curbside McDonald's meal. It was deep and black; a cavernous void, that could only be assuaged by the consumption of the human heart. Lucky knew what he was. Mandy hadn't called him a psycho for nothing. But he decided, when he gathered up what was left of his fleeting courage to walk to her door for the last time, that he would never kill a human again.

The yearning gap in his gullet would never be filled, and hunger would always laugh at his pitiful attempts to slake it with normal nourishment. Lucky knew the constant pain in his side would be a welcome companion reminding him of what he had decided to be. A skinwalker.

The hunter brothers had conveniently wiped out the rest of the high level skinwalkers. The lower level 'sleeper cells' like himself probably didn't know any of this was going on.

Come to think of it the brothers had almost killed him too. The big one (Sam was his name, maybe?) almost shot him. Lucky's claws clicked on the concrete and he contemplated that escaping with his life, may not have been the best course of action after all.

At least he didn't have to worry about anyone anymore. Just himself. He'd just leave the past behind him, like he'd always done before. Who cares about the past of a mangy mutt anyways?

'Lucky', was not his real name. Obviously. But he liked the name, if only for it's irony. He missed his tags. The weight of them around his neck and the constant jingling. He missed what they meant. That he was owned and had a home.

Lucky scoffed as he realized how messed up it was for him to be thinking of himself in terms of ownership. But the thought was comforting in a way. If he ever did have a family again, it would be so much easier to live as a pet. Not because he didn't want to find his own food, or live by his own instincts, but because, "Good boy, Lucky!" or "No, bad dog!" was so satisfyingly simple.

The tarmac under Lucky's paws bit into his pads and he winced, flattening his ears against his head. He could feel his nails shortening against the long black file road. Where to go? Eagle St. was a spilt decision, but out of town would definitely be better in the long run. Lucky started to make a beeline to the Downtown Terminal before he remembered that he couldn't actually ride the bus. Seeing as he was a dog and all that.

The sounds of traffic became louder as rush hour closed in. Time to high tail it to anywhere other than the road. Lucky hopped up on the sidewalk next to a woman walking in inconveniently high heels and he wondered if her feet were in more pain than his at the moment. He could smell her perfume. He could smell what she ate for lunch (a chicken burrito with extra guacamole), and that she had sex three nights ago, but not with her husband. Lucky's tail brushed her spray-on tan calves and she finally noticed that there was a huge German shepherd walking unleashed next to her. Immediately the scent of fear engulfed him, which was followed closely by a shriek. He stopped and looked up incredulously at her. The stupid woman threw her cell phone at him. It bounced painfully off the bridge of his muzzle.

He almost felt bad for her and he was going to let it go, but when she started yelling obscenities at him, he pulled back his lips and snarled half-heartedly in her direction. She instantly shrieked louder and ran away at top speed in her four-inch heels. Shaking his head, Lucky turned the corner onto Church Street. He could hear the confused voice of the person on the other end of the cell phone receding behind him as he headed towards the one place he might be able to find some clothes without feeling too guilty about their origins. St. Joseph's Cathedral.

St. Joe's. That was what he'd called it back in the day. When he was a stray human and not a stray dog. The people there were fair. Catholicism was never for him, but he was always welcome, ever since he came to Buffalo four years ago. He hoped that Fr. Bob was still around. You would never believe such a loud voice could come out of such a skinny little man. He might be the smallest, kindest man to walk God's green earth, but Fr. Bob was no pushover. Lucky could recall, with vivid detail every time he had earned the man's wrath (for good reasons too). He actually remembered being thrown out once. Literally. And the man was half his size. Lucky had asked Fr. Bob about it, but all he would say was, "With great love comes great strength!" which was frustrating, to say the least.

To tell you the truth, the only thing that Lucky could remember about St. Joe's that was bad at all, was the location. It sat, tall and proud steeple, right smack-dab behind the police station.