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A/N - Sorry for the delay. I got a little bit of a block as I was writing this part. Hopefully will have more time in a little over a week.

All characters & locations fictional.

Chapter 2 - Never a Dull Moment

"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe." - Friedrich Neitzsche

Thompson State Park

New London, NH

August 6, 2012

"You've gotta be shitting me!"

The shrill screams of the bank patrons and employees covered my quiet mutter as I felt my compact 1911 filling my grip as it slid from the holster concealed behind me as my left hand went for my cell phone. My body was already reacting to the gunshots, moving toward the wall so that I wasn't visible from the entryway, my pistol held close and covering the only entrance to the safety deposit area where I was.

Acting solely on muscle memory, I hit my speed-dial to get more help as I started to move down the dividing wall toward the entrance to the bank lobby.

"New London Sheriff's office. Deputy Wilson."

"Heather, it's Mike. Start me anyone available to the credit union. 10-52H. Shots fired."

"I just got the alarm. You're confirming a bank robbery?" She was new, just finishing up her first few months on the job and the adrenaline spike was evident in her voice. I'd heard that enthusiasm before, and knew that I needed to stop her before she made a mistake that got someone killed.

"Heather, take a breath," I coached as I glimpsed a security mirror above the entryway while I slipped my shield from my back pocket and slid it over my belt, phone clenched between my ear an shoulder. "Send the alert over the terminals. No radio traffic, no sirens. Advise that I am in the bank and armed. Blue jeans and a black tee shirt." A litany of clicking reached my ears as she followed my instructions.

Looking up at the mirror in more detail, I saw two masked figures in dark clothing armed with handguns. I couldn't make out the models, but did catch that the shorter of the two subjects was holding the gun sideways and gesturing with it. The other shooter was leisurely looting through the cash drawers, apparently unaware that the alarm had been raised.

Great. These guys are amateurs. Stupid but volatile.

"Mike," came the voice in my ear, "I've got a pair of radio cars less than a minute out. Four more within two."

"Good. I've got two subjects armed with handguns. They're waving them around pretty recklessly, but are taking their time with the cash drawers. Look like amateurs. Dark clothing and black ski masks. I don't see - Shit!"

Looking at the security mirror, I saw one of the men aim a large silver pistol at the bank manager who was cowering on the floor, hands over his head as if he were trying to burrow into the ground. I couldn't see what the kid was doing, but I started inching toward the edge of the dividing wall. As soon as I saw the shooter's hand move to the slide, I knew.

They weren't trying to scare him.

They were trying to kill him.

I simply reacted, the phone falling from my hand as I leapt to my feet. With rapid, steady paces, I approached the edge of the wall and was turning the corner, pistol up and tracking across my view as I heard the sound that I had dreaded.

Another thundering boom shook my eardrums as I turned the corner, rapidly demolishing any hope of a positive ending. Fuck.

"Federal Agent!" I shouted as I turned the corner, sidearm tracking on the chest of the black suited offender, wide, white eyes looking at me in surprise. I saw that oversized silver handgun starting to track toward me. With each degree the gaping muzzle turned to stare at me, my own grip felt like it tightened a ounce on my pistol.

"Drop the God-damned weapon!" That was the only warning my mind could spit out as it shuffled through its own series of responses, index finger squeezing the trigger to just before the breaking point as time almost seemed to slow for me, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins to the thundering pulse of my heartbeat as I felt it start to happen.

The stench of burnt gunpowder suddenly became more than a background odor for me, its acrid stench standing next to the powerful odor of fear coming from the other bank patrons, as well as a scent that I just couldn't place. The sounds of my breathing became almost omnipresent, and the hum of the air conditioner felt as if it tripled in volume, my senses rapidly sharpening and becoming much more acute.

Inhumanly so.

As that black muzzle continued to sweep toward my chest, my vision glued to that one sight, my finger continued to slip backward, micron my micron, millimeter by millimeter ticking closer to the point where I would take a life.

As the shooter crossed that line of no return, I felt the clean snap of the trigger, the sharp report of the firing cartridge deafening in my ear as the powder ignited, propelling the lead slug into the chest of the shooter. The sensory assault of that report sent finally caused my mind to snap back as a further shot left my sidearm, muscle memory still controlling my actions as my instincts had come to the fore and overtaken me.

Eyes up and out, I locked my gaze with the second shooter, his eyes dazed in a stare that just didn't see. There was no shock or pain in that gaze, no realization at all about what had just happened to his compatriot. All I saw was dull, empty sightlessness.

And his pistol tracking toward my chest. There wasn't time to call out, my pistol's white sights centering over his the dark trenchcoat covering his chest as he continued to swing toward me from his position at the rear of the bank.

My pistol barked out another two rounds and the sound of the screams of the bank patrons came back into focus, the intense encounter having drowned them out previously to my overstimulated mind. With a thump, I saw the second shooter fall to the floor, body as limp as a ragdoll, dark blood soaking through an even darker shirt and again marring the pristine marble floor of the bank.

Before the screams even managed to begin to quiet, I had already started moving toward the first downed shooter, a booted foot landing on the oversized handgun lying upon the floor a foot from the outstretched fingers of the first shooter, my brain identifying it as one of the over-hyped IMI monstrosities.

'Amateurs. Definitely amateurs,' thought the analytical side of my mind as the more instinctual portion of my mind slid the weapon from those outstretched fingers with a flick of a foot. Even more instinctually, I caught myself sampling the air, catching the coppery stench of blood, but also the slight, underlying scent of human fear, and even some urine, both I assumed from the bank patrons. My ears strained, a small piece of my mind trying to twist them so that they could scan the room as sirens grew in intensity in the background, the piercing yelp filling the deathly quiet in the bank.

Even more startling, I caught the scent of a slight animal musk, one I recognized as my own, the sharp acrid scent of adrenaline and stress filling it. It was rather sobering and startling; my body had started its shift...uncommanded. Even stranger was the other smell I caught. There was a strange, indecipherable scent lingering around the bodies below me. I couldn't place it, the blandness and unfamiliarity of the scent just serving to further confuse both my Lycan learning and human mind.

Forcing the odd scent from my mind by pure strength of will, I continued over to the second shooter, sending a second, smaller pistol skittering across the floor as I reached the second shooter, my white-knuckled grip on my sidearm loosening in my hand as I realized that he too was dead, a pool of blood still spreading across that marbled floor and around my boots.

Slipping my pistol back into my holster, I returned to the bank manager, but the sight of the gaping wound in the back of his head was enough to prove to me that he wasn't going to be counting cash anymore.

"Police! Keep your hands in the open!"

I froze, my arms out as I processed the command, unable to place the commanding voice.

"Federal Agent. I'm armed," I called in response as I slowly spun around, arms away from my sides. I didn't want to get shot.

"Two shooters down. One 50," I reported as I turned, referring to the radio code for a homicide.

"There's two, Mike." The calling voice had retreated from its command presence and my mind could now place it. I completed my turn to see Deputy McKenna standing before me, her Glock returning to its holster as I faced her, the standard face of a seasoned law officer on her face, but a pain of sadness sitting in those blue eyes deep seated in her red-freckled face.

Behind her expressionless face, I saw a spreading pool of blood near the doors, that dark crimson liquid already starting to seep into the beige carpeting under the desks beside the atrium. A creeping sense of dread began to fill me as I moved toward the door, my mind hollowing out, hearing only my hurried steps on the marble floor. As I approached the door, I saw what my mind's eye had feared.

It was Wes. Those eyes that had been so mischievous when he greeted me not ten minutes earlier, still wide in shock, dark and unseeing, as they stared at the ceiling. That mouth that had smiled so impishly was open in a silent call of alarm, a call of warning never heard. The dark hole in his chest, surrounded by even darker specks, betrayed his cause of death. This wasn't my first death, but...after the adrenaline has worn off...when you realize that you just talked to this person not even half an hour before their life was cut short...if it doesn't hit you in some way, you just are not human.

And his kids...and grand kids. I just couldn't help feel sorry for all his pups. I didn't know them well, but Amy did...

I just shook my head before I completely drifted away in my thoughts, that old mask falling back in front of my face until I could be alone with my mate. Standing, I walked over to McKenna who had tried to fish out the wallet of the two shooters without success. As I walked up to her, I caught pieces of the shooters that I had not noticed as the events had unfolded, their pale skin, dark painted nails, and the marks upon the wrist of the one who had carried the Desert Eagle.

"Dawn," I quietly started, "You need a walk-through?"

She simply shook her head in the negative and extended her hand towards me. Slowly reaching behind myself, I drew my sidearm, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber, handing her the three pieces. She handed my sidearm off to one of the other deputies who had started to flood the bank, who started to fill out the evidence paperwork. She went toward the other bank employees and patrons who were shakily standing at the side of the bank, some fidgeting nervously, others simply staring ahead sightlessly, minds still not all engaged from what had happened.

"We'll get this back to you soon, agent." The words of the deputy beside me drew my attention as she handed me a clipboard to sign the paperwork for my sidearm. With that, she took the paperwork and my sidearm outside to one of the cruisers as I turned around, back toward the safe deposit box area.

I retraced my hurried steps to that small, secluded room. Bending down, I picked up the manila envelope off the floor where it had fallen. As I stood, my eyes passed over the nondescript steel safety deposit box and its contents. The only remaining contents of the box was not the typical gold, baubles or jewels that one would expect to be found in a safety deposit box, but a nondescript leather bracer, cracked from age and the dry environment of the bank.

My curiosity was piqued and I picked up the bracer, feeling that old, cracked leather in my hands as I took it in, the sight of an expansion joint in the bracer where the leather was meshed with a piece of fabric currently folded over and buckled with a set of corroded brass snaps. When I saw the small pocket on the back of the bracer, I was struck by just how much it resembled mine, but as I was brought out of my reverie by a new voice emanating from the bank, one I recognized. Grasping the envelope and bracer in my hand, I strode back toward the bank to chat with the owner of that voice.

"Agent Raskin," I called as I reached the doorway of the deposit room. "Got a second?"

The resident agent turned to face me, a slightly solemn look on his face as he replied. "What happened?" He asked as his hands dug into the expensively tailored suit jacket, emerging with the small leather pad and silver pen that he carried everywhere.

I walked him through the events at the bank, from my interaction with the bank manager to what I heard in the safety deposit room to the final gunfight...leaving out the fact that the events had almost drawn out the beast in the middle of the atrium. His muffled "mmm-hm" and "and then" prompts peppered the saga, but he let me complete my retelling of the events of the robbery without any major questions.

"Agent Hart," he started, his muddy, brown eyes searching mine like those of some suspect. I kept his gaze, not averting mine, not shifting my body, my wolf and human both trying to maintain dominance over this mousy man. "Thank you for your time and help. I'll be reopening the squad investigation to try and see what's going on here now."

Yeah, that was why I didn't back down before him. He didn't know about the existence of Lycans...I still couldn't call them 'my kind'. That was because he wasn't overly trusted. He tended to go the easy route way too often. All too often the local police did his work for him, or another agent got a lucky break, but he was someone's fair haired boy upstairs and I had to deal with him.

"It's not them," I countered, trying hard to restrain the disdain that my mind wanted to insert into the words.

"Excuse me, agent?" He replied, turning back as if I had slapped him across his face. "It's a bank robbery in the same town with a similar MO? I have to reopen the case."

"Agent Raskin, I'm not telling you how to do your job, but I'm also the one who closed the squad case last year," I reminded him. "The Squad used automatic weapons, and was well trained. They also were found to be involved with kidnappings in the area. The similar MO is bullshit. It was a takeover with a guard shot to gain control and dominance, yes, but that's it. These guys were amateurs." This guy was definitely making my temper flare. He was going to waste time on this bullshit, but he also had an ulterior motive. I may not be a dedicated profiler, but you pick up on things after a little time in the job...plus being able to smell emotions didn't hurt...even if I couldn't tell him or a jury that.

"And how do you know that? That sounds like unsupported conjecture to me."

"First," I replied calmly as I counted on my fingers, "They took too much time. They were not in any hurry to rifle through the cash drawers, and if one had not decided to shoot the bank manager in cold blood, the police would have arrived and surrounded the building before they could get out. When I called dispatch, there were already cruisers on the way."

"Yes, but -" He started to interject, but I cut him off.

"Second, the one that was apparently supposed to be the lookout had his back to an open room, something anyone with any experience in this stuff would not do, particularly when they could be there or there," I continued, gesturing to two corners where not only was there an unobstructed view of the bank, but there was also a clear line of sight to the window looking over the parking lot. "The fact that the guy who was supposed to be on guard let his guard down to execute the manager suggests something strange was going on."

"Third, the two shooters were dressed as if they are paying homage to Klebold versus as an outgrowth of the squad. Finally, there's the issue of the choice of weapon. The lookout carried what looks like a Desert Eagle. It's a great choice for intimidation, but not so much for combat...particularly when you don't train with it. I saw him misfire before I entered the room. My guess is that he limp-wristed it when he killed Wes. Between all that and the fact that they were waving the guns around more than a cheerleader at homecoming, they have no tactical experience. Nothing these guys did after taking control of the bank seems sound in any tactical sense. The squad was organized and trained. These guys are not."

Rankin simply nodded, apparently cowed by my minor tirade.

"You know how to contact me. "Deputy McKenna," I called to the deputy currently scrutinizing the second shooter who turned toward me in response. "You want me to bring Amy to see Margaret?" She simply nodded her assent and I headed toward the exit before I remembered that I'd dropped my phone and doubled back to pick it up.

Picking the phone up from the ground, I saw the blinking light signifying a missed call and saw the number was from Alabama and that they had left a voicemail. With my curiosity piqued by that bracer though, the phone call could wait.

As I reached my truck, I took a closer look at the bracer in my hands. The black stained leather was cracked and stiff, the brass buckles corroded together so I couldn't open the pocket on the back, but I couldn't help but be reminded as to how similar it all looked to my own carry sleeve.

Placing the bracer in a cupholder, I opened the manila envelope and slid out a small sheaf of paper. A lot of the papers were mimeographed, yellowed and brittle, harking to an older time. The sheet on the front, however, was much clearer, although still over a decade or so old by the looks of it, a piece of the tracking for a dot matrix printer hanging off the bottom. What caught my attention most on that sheet, however, was not the condition, but the name and signature at the bottom.

Thomas K. Hart.

My father.

My interest shoot up at the realization that this note was likely what my mother had been referring to as "ancient history" as I began to read it.

Dearest Mary,

I apologize for not having told you this before, but I just haven't had the nerve. I was trying to make up that family tree you've always been talking about. I found more about you than I ever expected to. You see, your family history isn't as clean as we all wish it was, or as clean as you deserve. You're related to a serial killer...but that's not the most surprising part of it. You are part werewolf.

Even as I sit here writing this, that seems wrong, but it's true. The true name of the race is Lycan, and this town is full of them. I know about them because of my position at the park, but I haven't been allowed to tell you or Mike. They are just as human as you or I, but just as humans have their lunatics, they have theirs.

We both know your grandfather Richard grew up in that New York orphanage not knowing his parents. The truth is that his mother was a prostitute who gave him up anonymously before she killed herself with alcohol. Her name was Delia Kelley, and she was probably part Lycan, carrying the genes but not able to transform. Her sister Honora, though, was a full Lycan.

Honora was also better known as Jane Toppan, and a serial killer.

She also killed between eleven and thirty one people while posing as their nurse and then held them as they died. What the papers don't say is that she held them in her wolf form, almost innocently nibbling on them as they lay paralyzed from the opiates. The bracelet here is hers, a sign of the wolf she could become.

When I first found this out, I wanted to tell you, but it wouldn't change anything. It's just a dark moment in your history that you don't need to know about...But now, with Mike and Amy actually looking more and more like a couple, I think I'll have to use this. Hopefully they can recognize that you may not be wolf, but you and Michael are the same as them.

If you are reading this, it means that either they have assented to my request, or that I am dead. Regardless of which circumstance you are reading this under, remember that you have not changed. You are still the same woman I fell in love with all those years ago in the Adirondacks. I'll be there for you.

Love,

Thomas

As I finished that letter, a sense of worrying dread started to grow that not only did I have to deal with all of the new instincts and desires, but I also had to deal with the instincts of my forebears. Almost as quickly as that unbidden thought had come into my mind, I dismissed it with a shake of my head. My mother had been dealing with this for much longer than I had and I hadn't heard of any new serial killers in the area.

And anyway, I already have someone to cuddle with and nibble on, I thought as my wakeup call from that morning came flooding back to me. A small, satisfied smile crossed my lips as I pushed my history back from my mind, reaching for my cell to call my wolf for the unpleasant business of this afternoon. As I picked up the phone, I saw the blinking LED announcing a saved message and automatically went to listen to it. My fingers danced across the touchpad as I was accessing my voicemail, HAL announcing one new message.

"Mike, it's Jerry. Call me back. It went bad...real bad..." Without any more fanfare the phone simply beeped into silence. Jerry's voice sounded horrible, shaken and exhausted. Nowhere near the jocular, confident tone that he typically sported. Something was definitely wrong.

Calling him back, I heard the phone ring once before he picked up, voice still strained and exhausted but still sounding official as he answered. "Agent Simpson."

Jerry, it's Mike. What happened?" I heard a quiet, almost inaudible, stutter run through his voice as he tried to start to relay whatever had shaken his so before he took a deep breath.

"Mike, Nate's dead." That was it. No explanation, just that fact. I had actually been drafted onto the team because he was on leave due to the death of his son and had never really gotten to know him well. Hell, he had just been cleared back to duty a few weeks ago, and even then he was pretty aloof, but I realized that even in those short few weeks he had impressed me and rubbed off on me. But it was nothing like how Jerry knew him.

"Jerry, I'm sorry. I know he was your friend. What happened?" Honestly, Nate was more than just Jerry's friend. The two were closer to brothers.

"That's just the thing, Mike. We got pinned by a trio of wights...looked like they hadn't fed for a couple days too, so they were strong and hungry. We were too busy trying to save our own damned asses to see what happened to him until after it was too late. Mike... he used the incendiary. He was bitten."

I was taken aback. Wights and other vampires were always a pain in the ass, but if they didn't feed for a little while they were monstrous in every sense of the word. And if Nate had to use the incendiary...well. All the normals on the team carried incendiary devices for just that occasion. There was nothing that could be done for any of the humans if they were bitten...and they couldn't let themselves be taken by the darkness. The incendiaries were for their own death, nothing more nothing less.

"Jerry, I'm sorry. I wish I had been there; able to do something. What do you all need?" I was afraid that the answer was going to be to come back early, but he surprised me.

"Mike, there's nothing you can do. I'm still trying to figure out what's going on. I'll call you later."

"Okay, Jerry. I'll wait to hear from you."

With that the phone clicked dead as I realized that I couldn't do anything for him. I was on desk duty until the damn report came back on the shooting. If the locals didn't clear me quickly, I'd have to clear that up when he called back. But, I didn't think that would be a problem. I knew someone with a little leverage.

I started my truck, aiming for home as I dialed. It was David's gruff voice that picked up the phone, though.

"Whaddaya need, Mike?"

"David, I need to talk to Amy... I did it again." I could almost hear the head tilt as the phone was simply handed off with a murmur of voices in the background.

"Mike," Came the rough voice of my wolf, "What did you do again?"

"Amy, there was an attempted bank robbery this morning. Four dead, the two shooters, the bank manager, and Wes. I wasn't able to stop them in time. Deputy McKenna, Dawn, asked if you and I...we could go speak to Margaret."

"Oh...Oh God" was her only reply. "Of course. Give me half an hour to call the pastor. When will you be home?"

Making a snap decision, I decided that I needed at least one positive memory of this day.

"If you need thirty minutes, I have to make a quick stop. I owe someone fireworks."

A/N - This story grew on me again. More to come. Looking forward to your feedback.