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

Such strange foxes on Facebook

Your uncle is an ass. You should report...

The message flashed before him as he knocked the door open, his fingers retracted and eager to punch. Kira stood frozen. Behind her, the newspaper stand had tumbled down, the first papers in each rack crumpled, the corners ripped. The mess was the least of his worries.

"He came in," Kira said shrilly. "I couldn't get him to leave. He... he." She held her shaking arms tight against her body.

Vidar sniffed. Stale beer.

At the back of the store, by the opened fridge, stood a man in a long, dirty brown coat. His hair lay flat against the back of his head, yet otherwise spiky and unwashed. One by one, the red cans of Jupiler disappeared into his arms.

"Marcel!" Vidar shouted.

 He strode towards the man with long, quick paces. His muscles quivered. Trespassing the store and frightening Kira. Now, the old drunkard had crossed a line!

"Just taking a few nightcaps, lad," Marcel slurred. "We're not all like you and that Canadian actor from the Matrix—forever looking thirty-five. Some of us have to drink away our sorrows, forget just how cruel time has been."

Vidar grunted. "We're not open yet."

"The cute little lady—"

"Hold your tongue!" Vidar bellowed.

If Marcel was dazed, he didn't show it. "Ah, come on, for old time's sake. I was one of your first customer's back in the early nineties. So, I'm early. I'll pay for these drinks and another magazine." Then he made the mistake of looking past Vidar, a sly smile on his face. Kira whimpered.

Vidar inched closer, his shadow cast over the drunkard. He clenched his fists, swallowing the rage boiling at the back of his throat. 

Through clamped teeth, he snarled. "Leave."

"But..."

"I said leave."

Foam spluttered around as Marcel dropped the cans to the floor. His elbow bumped into Vidar as he strutted past him, his head held high. "There was a time you were grateful to have me as a customer. The only reason this place isn't bankrupt is that I suggested you sell magazines and drinks. I'll take my business somewhere else."

A trail of crashing cans followed him out of the store. The occasional piece of ten or twenty-cent clattered down as well.

Kira leapt back as he approached.

Vidar drew in slow breaths. He could knock Marcel to the moon and back, beat him black and blue until he remembered neither his name nor the town he was born in. But he didn't want to resort to that kind of violence, not in front of Kira. 

Once he started revenge, he couldn't always control how it ended.

"I'm so sorry," Kira squeaked.

He exhaled, unclenching his fists. The urge to yell that she should stop apologising for other people's mistakes was strong, but he refrained from doing so. He flexed his hands, stretching the stiff muscles.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked.

Softly, she shook her head. Her voice trembled with emotion. "He looked weirdly at me. I thought he would—"

The upbeat melody coming from the kitchen tore into their conversation.

"You should get that," she said with a sob.

Mo could wait. "Are you okay? If you want to go home instead, I'd understand. You don't have to stay."

"No," she said firmly. Her eyes darted across the store. "Weirdly, this place makes me feel safe. You're huge, with your long hair and scruffy beard, like an old Viking warrior. Nobody messes with you."