"You wanted to talk to me?"
Christopher nodded and motioned Michael to sit down. The Packmaster's new study was basic: a wenge and steel desk, shelves on the walls full of papers and binders, a sofa and two mocha armchairs. Michael took a seat in the leather armchair opposite the desk and waited for his brother to put aside the papers in front of him.
"How is it going with Alex?"
"Good, pretty good I'd say. He's a fast learner."
Christopher nodded. "We have discovered those responsible for the attack on Fredrik's house." He paused. "They were not Nereus' werewolves; they were hunters."
The word dropped like a bomb. "How is this possible?" Cold had taken possession of Michael's limbs.
"There are many groups of hunters..."
"And they would have discovered our pack just now?" Anger turned his words into a snarl.
Christopher shook his head. "I don't think that's possible either. I think Nereus is still behind everything."
"Bloody bastard! He's a traitor to his own kind!" Michael had stood up and was clenching his fists.
"Mick. When you come out I want you to be careful. Our enemies are no longer just werewolves. When you're on the streets of Oldgrove, you'll have to watch out for humans too."
Michael nodded. "Have you told the others yet?"
Christopher nodded. "When Ty and Lucian discovered that the corpses left at Fredrik's villa were human, they also found their medallions: the head of a wolf. The bullets from the guns were silver. Fortunately, legends die hard."
Yeah, thought Michael, though it was little consolation to know that humans thought that all it took to kill a werewolf was silver; in fact, just the right amount of good old lead was enough. "Have you found out what group it is yet?"
"No. The mark is not registered in our archives; it must be quite new."
"How should we deal with them?"
"Kill them. Hunters are always an exception."
Michael nodded, "Good."
***
When she was alone in her room, Alex thought back to Michael's words, which had certainly not calmed her down but had actually stoked her fears: she did not want to become a bloodthirsty beast.
She hated Michael for what he had done to her; it would have been better if he had let her die! Perhaps it was she who should have let him die when she had found him in the street injured. It seemed ages since that night. And just as distant seemed her old life, in which she still thought werewolves were part of ancient legends and horror films.
He sighed. Nothing would ever be the same again. Not that everything was rosy, but at least that was a world in which she knew her way around, how to survive. Now... yeah, now what was she? Apart from a loose cannon, of course. She got up and went to the mirror to look at her own reflection. Nothing seemed to have changed. She reached out a hand to touch her mirrored figure, wishing it were true: that everything was as it was before. What place in the world was there for a werewolf? Not for just any werewolf: for her.
***
He was sorry to be hard on her, but most of all he was sorry to be so cold and distant. He would have liked to hug her and give her comfort, make her feel that she was not alone, that she was not a monster. But she hated him right now, and the new wolf had to respect him, had to recognise his authority: Alex's very life depended on it. He would teach her discipline and to respect and love her wolf. He hoped that, in time, she could forgive him and return to loving him. He did not regret what he had done: he would save her again by transforming her. He would rather have her leave and lose her, knowing she was happy somewhere in the world, than dead. The idea of her, cold and inert, with no breath of life left in her, her eyes glassy and empty, was absolutely unbearable. The pain of not having her by his side would always accompany him, but the comfort of knowing she was alive and the hope that she would return to him would keep him going.