Arriving beneath Alex's house, he had looked for Gerard, but the latter had not appeared. His sense of smell—highly developed even in human form—had immediately picked up the scent of fresh blood. Following the trail, he had found the werewolf's body hidden in the alley.
Without wasting any more time, Michael had smashed down the metal door that gave access to the building and rushed up the stairs. As he climbed, the sounds of the struggle grew louder. Reaching the top floor, he had undressed and transformed. Upon entering, he had seen Alex with a katana in her hand, two wolves already down, and a third ready to attack. The latter hadn't noticed his arrival. Seeing her there, in the middle of the wolves, sword in hand, he had felt both admiration for her courage and a blind rage toward the werewolves who were trying to overpower her.
Now he looked at her. Her head was tilted to the side, and her breathing was labored. He touched her face: it was hot. He had to hurry.
---
The wheels crunched the gravel in the forecourt, and the brakes kicked up a spray of small stones. Michael ran down, took Alex into his arms, leapt over the porch steps, and reached the entrance, where Christopher and the doctor were waiting.
"I had the guest room prepared," Christopher said, preceding his brother up the stairs.
Upstairs, Fredrik removed the shirt Michael had used to bandage her and examined the wound. From his bag, he took out a small bottle and slowly poured its contents onto the lacerated flesh, then injected the contents of a syringe into Alex's arm.
Michael watched anxiously. Christopher stood beside him.
When he finished treating her, Fredrik motioned for them to leave. "I don't know if she'll survive. It depends on how much damage the poison has done. It doesn't seem to have reached her vital organs, though," he said, glancing at Michael, who stiffened. "She also has scars from blades," the doctor added with a frown. "I can't explain them. They're all old and healed."
Michael nodded and returned to the room where Alex lay.
---
Christopher placed a tray with two sandwiches, a bottle of water, and a glass on the dresser. Michael didn't look at him. His brother stepped closer and stood between the armchair and the bed. His gaze shifted from Alex's face—shiny with sweat and contorted in pain—to Michael's, drawn with worry and pale from exhaustion. He hadn't left the room or slept since the day before.
"You should rest," he told him.
Michael shook his head. "Not until she opens her eyes and I know she's okay."
"At least eat something."
"Later."
Christopher waited a moment in silence, then squeezed his brother's shoulder. "She'll pull through," he said, then left the room.
---
In Oldgrove, the day was gray and rainy. Natalie opened her red umbrella and exited the station in search of a taxi.
"To the Barnaby Hotel," she said as she got into the first cab in line.
On the way, she observed the buildings alternating in shades of brick red and white. She had chosen a hotel close to the center and near a park.
---
That evening, she headed downtown. The search would begin in the nightclubs of Oldgrove, where humans and wolves blended their lives in a shared eagerness to drown their souls in beer and spirits.
Natalie entered the Yellow Flag, pushing hard on the wooden door with its frosted yellow glass panes. The place's smoky atmosphere wrapped around her like a heavy, damp blanket. The room was medium-sized, with high tables and wooden stools. The bar ran along the right-hand wall.
Nat adjusted her shaved hair and her mackintosh, then headed for a free stool.
As she waited for her double malt beer, she unfastened her coat belt, revealing long legs encased in sheer black stockings. She took a deep breath and let her senses scan the place: no werewolves in sight. She took her time finishing her beer, then got up and left.
That night brought no luck—but the next one did. In the third bar she visited, George's Pub, three wolves were seated at a corner table. A smile played on her lips as she sensed them. Her eyes scanned the three men who had turned to look at her upon entering. They were all muscular and lean. One had brown hair and eyes of the same shade. Another was blond, attractive, with large gray eyes that roamed over her body with clear interest. The third had typically Indian features.
With steady steps, Nat walked toward the table. Its occupants hadn't taken their eyes off her and watched closely as she nonchalantly unbuttoned her mackintosh, revealing a short dark dress.
"May I?" she asked, and without waiting for a reply, sat down on the bench next to the blond, flashing him a smile. Then, with a nod, she called the waitress. "A Guinness," she ordered, turning back to the three with another smile.
"So beautiful. Are you new here?" the blond asked.
"Just arrived."
"Will you be staying?"
"Who knows?" she replied with a playful smile. He eyed her red-painted lips, and she felt his desire. "Do you live nearby?"
"For a while."
"You could be my tour guide."
"It would be my pleasure."
That night, Albert—that was his name—took her home. The sex was intense, sensual, wild. Just like Natalie. At dawn, as they lay side by side, he looked at her in admiration. She was stunning. The first rays of sunlight caressed her white breasts and the perfect features of her face. With a smile on his lips, the man fell asleep.