Alle Kapitel von werewolves : Kapitel 21 – Kapitel 30

Jane pressed her forehead to the cool passenger glass, watching late-afternoon Sydney slide by in blurs of steel and jacaranda. In her lap, she cradled a small doll—the one Jake had bought from the hospital gift shop—brushing its hair with absent fingertips. The Firebird hummed beneath them; for a while, that was the only sound.“Did you mean it?” she asked, voice soft but clear.Jake glanced over. “Mean what, kid?”“That you’d treat me like family.”His knuckles eased on the wheel; something in his face let go. He looked back to the road. “Yeah. Of course I meant it. You’ve got no one, and you need someone looking out for you. So… yeah. You’re my family now.”Jane’s smile was small and secret. “It’d be nice, you know. You, me… and Kim.”Jake stiffened a fraction. “Kim?”“It wasn’t her fault,” Jane said, still watching her hands.He exhaled. He knew. He was angry at the silence and the timing, not at her. Kim fought death for a living; she didn’t make it.“So what are you now? Doctor

St Vincent’s, next afternoon. Jane crouched by the hospital bed, folding brand-new clothes into a small wheeled suitcase. A pair of sneakers sat neatly beside it, tags still attached. She tucked in a colourful hoodie, then a rolled Barbie raglan top, humming under her breath.In the doorway, Jake leaned, arms folded, watching.“Those are some nice clothes you’ve got there,” he said with a crooked smile.Jane startled, then relaxed. “Oh—thanks! How long have you been standing there?”“Not long.” He stepped in. “Are you ready?”She zipped the bag, gave it a final pat. “I guess so. Where are we going?”“To my apartment. But first—” he paused, “we’ve got to drop in and say hi to my olds.”She blinked. “Your… olds?”“My parents,” he chuckled. “Sorry—slang. You’ll get used to it.”Her smile thinned as she caught the change in his eyes.“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said gently. “Promise me you won’t freak out?”Jane tilted her head. “Okay… I promise.”Jake swallowed. “It was m

Next day, early afternoon. Jake steered the Firebird through the rusted gates of a suburban wrecking yard. Beyond them sprawled a graveyard of metal—shells stacked two and three high, panels peeled like tinned fruit, windscreens spidered and dulled. Off to one side, a neat row of reconditioned cars gleamed like polished headstones under the winter sun.He pulled up by the fibro office and climbed out.A big unit was already waiting—bald dome, wiry beard, singlet stained, arms like they’d been quarried. He stepped forward, voice gravel thick. “You the bloke who called about the Commodore sedan?”Jake offered a hand. “Yeah. Jake Michaels. Where is it?”“Over there.” A thumb jerk left toward a line of wrecks waiting assessment. “Name’s Chaz Donovan.”“G’day, Chaz.”“Come on. I’ll show you the poor bastard. Smashed to the shithouse, it was.”They walked past bent frames and glittering drifts of glass. At the end of the row sat the red 2009 VE Commodore SV6. Or what was left of it. The bo

Night settled hard over St Vincent’s, the corridors thinner, the air colder. Paperwork for Jane’s temporary discharge sat half complete on a trolley outside Room 24. Inside, Jane thrashed in tangled sheets, a storm brewing behind closed eyes. Her bedside monitor ticked along at 70 bpm—steady, ordinary—then began to climb. The numbers smeared upward. By the time it hit 700, the machine lost its mind and screamed. In her dream, wolves tore beneath a crimson moon. Shadows collided, teeth and claws and breath like smoke. Blood spattered snow. Bones snapped. Gods at war. Jane’s back arched off the mattress. A heel whipped the IV pole. Metal clanged; the saline bag burst with a wet pop. She fought something no one else could see. At the nurses’ station, a shriek ripped through the central monitor. Baz, broad-shouldered and mid–Brendan Fraser rerun, jolted upright. “Shit.! 40 CODE IN ROOM 24!” He dropped his coffee, eyes latching onto the screen. DOE,J. Heart rate: 1000 bpm. He grabbed t

The hospital foyer was a maze of pale-blue uniforms, antiseptic, and the low hum of overworked air-con. Jake cut through the sliding doors, boots ticking on tile. Four lines curled toward triage—ice packs to cheeks, twisted ankles, bloodied hands. The usual chaos, moving unusually fast.He queued behind a man with a shoulder out and scanned the room. His heart thudded—not nerves; urgency.At the desk, an older nurse with a tight grey bob typed without looking up.“Excuse me, I’m looking for Tom Michaels,” Jake said.“Hold on a moment, sir,” she replied, eyes on the screen.Jake leaned in a little. “What about Kimberly Watkins? Nurse—maybe a doctor now?”That made her look up. “Who?”“Kimberly Watkins,” he repeated.“I’m sorry,” she said, tone sharpening. “No one by that name works here.”Jake’s stomach tightened. “Great. Wrong hospital,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. Then—“Wait, what about a John or Jane Doe? Anyone brought in this morning from a car accident?”A sigh, t