Conor stared at the contents of the two envelopes on his desk.

Prominent on the stack were four Irish Passports. Two he recognized. There was an expired one from the 1980s. It was last used in the summer of 1991 when he arrived at DFW Airport with 40 Irish Punt in his pocket, a guitar, strong boots, and a bag of wool clothes that were nearly useless in the heat. A second passport gleamed with new gold foil, the harp symbol proudly in a central place of prominence. Ireland was part of the EU now and other major changes had happened in the long twenty years since. The second passport contained a recent picture of him.

Thing is… he had no recollection of taking the passport photos or even applying for the renewal.

The third passport and the other envelope’s contents were more curious. There was a set of documents from Lombard Odier, apparently a bank in Switzerland. A few of them had dates, and they were from 1967. There were also a couple of photographs of a man that Conor didn’t recognize wearing a tailored silk or perhaps jacquard collarless suit with a silk cravat. The writing on the back of the photos all said the same, “Sean Michael Fitzhugh, London, 1967.” The third passport was for Fitzhugh. It was covered in stamps from all over the world, and all from the 1960s. The fourth passport was also brand new and had a picture of Fitzhugh as well, except now much older. He was also wearing Conor’s nicest shirt.

The second envelop had been sent to him from a law firm in London, Irwin Mitchell. It was addressed (briefly) to Mr. Fitzhugh who had apparently requested the documents once his renewal was processed and to send them all at the same time. Mr. Fitzhugh also apparently lived here in Conor’s apartment.

He felt like he was in some kind of Hollywood movie.

It was Monday morning in Dallas, and Conor O’Neill, Marisa, and Brett were strolling a car lot underneath a Vietnam era Huey helicopter mounted on a giant pole.

This particular car lot was famous for an additional reason to its memorable sign post; it was one of the foremost dealers of Classic Cars in the area. Row upon row of automotive history stretched in both directions.

“They’re my fruit enzymes!” Brett proudly beamed as he took another swig. “Here, try some man, they’re really good for you!”

Conor took the proffered container; a re-purposed convenience store water bottle. He then took a sniff of the orange concoction. The acrid fumes made him wince, and he’d smelled some of the foulest reeks dreamt up in the Nevernever.

“Jaysus, Mary, an’ Joseph, your what?!”

"Good mornin’! Breakfast is nearly done." Conor was standing at a stove, finishing up breakfast.

"Aren’t you required to say ‘Top o’ the Morning’ or something like that?" Marisa entered her own kitchen, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

She sat down at her small table to watch her guest finish cooking breakfast. On the table were plates, glasses, and flatware for two. Milk had been poured already so she took a sip as she waited.

She didn’t have much food in her fridge as normally she was at her pack’s “communal” housing. In spite of her lack of groceries, the Irishman nevertheless had several things going on at the same time from what she could tell. From her frying pan, the distinctive aroma and smell of bacon wafted through her apartment … which served as her “alarm clock” this morning in point of fact. As for what in the world that could require her oven, sauté pan, and a cutting board … those were a complete mystery.

"Conor, I cannot tell when you’re joking!" exclaimed the lovely blonde as she playfully smacked his right arm.

The couple was sitting at a table with various Spanish speakers at Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Dallas, it was a Friday night and a fish fry was being held for Lent. Lots and lots of people were there to enjoy the entertainment and the fried catfish, Tater Tots, beans, cornbread, and the rest.

“I’m totally bein’ serious!” The chuckling Irishman was sitting next to the girl, which allowed both of them to watch the various other members of the parish attending the event.

Conor and Marisa were on what could only technically be called a date. A Lenten Fish Fry celebration at a prominent Catholic Church would hardly have been either party’s first choice. However, they were here escorting Marisa’s teenaged cousin and her friend. In the last four months, the nights of the Dallas / Ft. Worth Metroplex had become dangerously unstable. All sorts of "things-that-go-bump-in-the-night" now felt emboldened (for various reasons) to venture forth and hunt.

In response to that, some other supernaturally aware forces were operating to protect those important to them. One of those groups is the Fort Wolf Posse, a band of werewolves – mostly Hispanic and a few Caucasians – now worked overtime to ensure their various relatives were safe as they went on with their lives. Marisa was a prominent member of that pack. Conor’s relationship with the FWP was … nebulous at best … though his interest in a specific member of it was clear.