Nick was far gone before I drew myself away from the window. "Why didn't you do that with me?" I asked turning around to face my two "Captors".

Emily looked down at her feet. But Seymour was quick to answer. Even though, I really didn't care about that, seeing as how the end of this little conversation was already within view.

"It's hard enough of a strain on Emily to control a regular person. Add your ability to shape-shift, and it becomes way too much." He said. I wanted to respect his worry for his daughter, but he practically sent her into the arms of death when she confronted me. I didn't buy the intent in his voice.

I sat back down in my chair. I wasn't worried about much of anything now. He was emotional, sort of, and she was furious.

"What did yall plan to do?" I asked, speaking my mind. "I saw your little trophy on top of your entertainment center. That's why I ask." I said, letting the real me out. Curious and always wanting to learn.

"That old thing? I found that in northern California about six years ago. That was back when my initial curiosity was in witchcraft. An obsession that was bred from my daughter's ability to control certain objects."

"That doesn't answer my question." I said, stopping him from continuing.

"Your blood." Emily said, speaking up after her long silence. "You keep it all to yourselves!" She yelled, her father tried to quiet her, but she continued. "All the while, people die from disease!"

"EMILY!!!" He boomed over her voice. She became quiet, though, she seemed to be tearing up around her eyes. That was it! This whole fiasco was for... I turned to Seymour, disgusted.

"That wasn't your plan though." I said, staring him square in the eye.

He scowled, it was the first time I'd seen it, but deep inside of his stare, was desperation. "You're dying."

Silence stapled his lips shut, even his daughter stayed quiet. All the while, a smoldering rage built itself inside of me.

"You sent, your only daughter, after me?"

"It's not like that!" He yelled, rising to his feet.

"She could have died, but that didn't matter. Not if you could live another day!" I yelled back at him.

Emily was speechless and looked to her father with shock. I couldn't blame her.

On the other hand, he'd taken a much more direct approach to the situation. And I saw it coming. As he shot for the gun on the table, I grabbed the knife, and kicked the table across the room. He was much slower than I would have pegged a fifty year old to be. Whereas, he was still a little muscular, he was no match for what I had to offer.

Though, as I stood across from him, poised to strike him down if he went for the gun, a familiar scent hit me, all too fast.

Nick kicked open the door, still possessed, and grabbed me from behind. Seymour smiled. "You shouldn't have hesitated, Michael." He said, bending over to pick up his gun. "Hesitation is a sign of weakness." He slid the clip back in and pulled the cover back, allowing it to click into place as it slid the first bullet into the chamber. "And weakness..." He said, "Is failure."

And right as he pulled against the trigger, a large black arm swung from behind him, grabbed his arm, and capped the gun. The blast was muffled as the bullet shot right through my father's hand. He didn't flinch at all. His blue eyes were level and fierce as he stared at Seymour. Emily screamed, but there was nothing she could do.

Nick let go of me, probably released from Emily's control due to her shock.

My dad raised his thick, tree trunk arm high into the air, until it scraped against the ceiling. His jet black fur was frayed and shot right out of his skin, giving his wild appearance even more of a boost. I didn't have much time, as his hand came down like the hammer of God. Seymour couldn't move as imminent death came at him like a train, and as I slid under my dad's rage, and between the two warring fathers, I felt the true power of my father.

I held my arms above my head, crossed, and caught the blunt force unprepared. It was enough to divert the attack, but not enough to hold my ground. I was brought down as if I was clothes lined. Dropping like a rock.

Collapsing to the floor, I looked Seymour in the eye, then my father, who even when changed, looked confused. "Don't kill him." I said, out of wind, trying to pick myself up off the floor. The task proving far too difficult for me to manage.

An unsuspecting hand came to my aid as Emily helped me up.

I thanked her, and then motioned to my father that we should leave. And after guiding Nick into the car my dad came in, Emily stopped me. "You were bluffing when you said you'd spit in someone's canteen... right?"

I smiled. "No. I spit in my canteen to kill the bacteria. Besides, I'd have to be changed to infect someone."

She smiled. "You are pretty smart." And without warning, she stepped forward, and kissed me on the cheek.

"What was that for?" I asked in surprise.

"For saving my father from that monster." She said.

My father was still out in the woods, to change and get dressed. I thought it funny that she'd think of him as a monster. But...

"That's my dad." I said, smirking a little more than I should have.

Her eyes grew wide, as she exclaimed, "That's Your Dad!"

"Yeah, that's what Nick said when he saw my dad for the first time!" I laughed. A few seconds passed between us as I heard my dad coming out of the forest. He didn't look too angry for having to drive eight hours to get shot and save his son.

Seymour though, he looked pitiful as he sat on the stairs to his cabin.

"Is he going to be alright?" I asked out of pity.

Instead of answering me though, Emily looked me in the eye. "There's something different about you." She stated. "Every single werewolf story I'd ever heard makes you out to be a ruthless killing machine. But that isn't you at all."

"It's just because humans are slow prey." I joked. She laughed, and we said our goodbyes. As I watched her out of the rear window, over the unconscious Nick in the back seat, I started to feel bad for the both of them. But as I looked over at my dad's hand, wrapped in a torn shirt, he'd stolen from the house where he'd been shot; I started to feel a little less sorry for them.

"How's your hand?" I asked.

"How are your arms?" He asked.

They hurt like hell, and I was pretty sure that my bones were bruised. That how my arms were. And after a while in serene silence, we both started laughing.

I am his son after all.