The Last Werewolf (Vidar #1) | ONC2021 Grand Winner

Help Wanted - 10h/week

A thousand years.

Thick black locks of hair fell to the ground as Vidar scratched the itch behind his ear. An entire millennium of hiding among the humans of Antwerp. Yet now he had seen it all.

The brooding muscular man in the picture stared into nowhere as he ripped his shirt off his chest, paying no attention to the skinny blonde by his feet. In the corner, the silhouette of a wolf howled at the full moon. 'The Alpha's Mate' read the title.

The joints in his wrist popped as Vidar placed the book, and two other copies, on the shelves next to the other half-naked men and women. Of the ten long centuries he had lived through, the twenty-first century had come with the strangest inventions and even strangers fads. Still, a blatant pornographic adoration of werewolves was not what he had in mind when signing up for his supplier's quarterly 'Hot Stuff' deal.

From the counter, he picked up a paper cup and slurped, the acidic taste of coffee foreign after a few days of eating raw meat and drinking rainwater. Life as a werewolf wasn't sexy. To live as the last of Fenrir's kind was a curse.

Not that he could be picky about what he sold. Even immortal werewolf gods needed a roof over their heads and food on the table. After putting the new books on display, he took out the outdated newspapers and stuffed in the new batch. Brightly coloured ads promoting friendly credit services or a discount on BBQ meat stood in sharp contrast to the articles warning about debt and heart disease.

Humans were peculiar creatures. 

Their days of noble trade were gone, the rusty late Victorian cutting, sewing, and polishing machines now serving as tables to display notable books or groundbreaking magazines. His old brushes, pliers, and knives decorated the wall behind the counter, reminding him he was as much out of place as they were.

A yawn erupted from deep within. As he stretched, cracking his back and neck, more clumps of hair landed on the ground. He would sweep all day, blaming the mess on some moulting dog when customers complained.

Working in the shop the morning after a full moon was more out of necessity than choice. The day before yesterday, Danny had resigned, announcing he had given up on his philosophy studies to pursue a career as DJ Beathagoras in the Mediterranean clubbing scene. With no assistant to open the shop, Vidar had no option but to endure the pain and hair loss that came with transforming from a shaggy wolf into a Viking god.

From the counter, he grabbed the paper saying, 'Help wanted. 10 h/week — flexible hours' and taped it to the back of the register, covering the picture of Tigger, his neighbours' missing striped cat. 

The animal would never come home; it had been at the wrong place at the wrong time when Vidar had come home a few cycles ago. The creature hadn't suffered. A single swipe of his claw had cut its throat. Before the body had stiffened and grown cold, he had buried Tigger next to the sunflowers growing on his rooftop garden. Once the mourning period was over, he would buy the Steverlyncks a new kitten.

He proceeded to the door and opened it. On the other side of the street, a group of half a dozen teens sat on and around a bench, paying more attention to the brick-sized machine in their hands than the skateboards by their feet. They seemed to be always there, together yet still looking at each other through their phones. At least, they didn't think it funny to scribble ill-poorly drawn penises on anything that would hold paint, like the youngsters who had occupied the skatepark before them.

The first customer came in as Vidar managed to refill his coffee. He nodded at her in greeting. As always, she wore a black suit and high heels that clipped on the tiles. A small white box covered her ear.