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

Down to the Wounded Woods

His muscles clacked as he pushed the pedals, his fingers losing their grip on the handlebar. The avenue is an endless plain of factories and warehouses, each smelling worse than the other. A lousy patch of dried grass separated him from the cars zooming past the slower trucks at dazzling speeds.

He grunted, the wind whistling in his ears. Since there were no Velo stations near the Fort of Lilo, he had bought a day pass. Five euros wasted because Mo didn't know when his shift would end.

Vidar groaned. Despite a steady ebb and flow of customers—many disappointed to see Kira wasn't there—he had whacked a paper on the door: Exceptionally closed at 17.00. 

The moonrise didn't wait for Sunna to park her carriage of light. Her father played by his own set of rules, every day approximately an hour later.

Manni was fast approaching. Vidar could tell. His toenails scraped the inside of his boots. His teeth already felt too big in his mouth. He wanted to rip off his clothes, struggle free from the loose shirt and baggy trousers. Free from the tightness binding him like a chain wrapped around his body.

His pace slowed further, but he would be even slower on foot. He couldn't risk not making it to the forest around the Fort of Lilo. Or what was left of it.

Beyond the huge red and white electric pylons peeked an old mill, the Unicorn. The walls were a dirty grey, the result of decades of traffic passing on the four-lane avenue. A foreign object of bygone times. In the background, beyond the fields of weeds and the river, the mists of Doel spurted up from the power plant's towers.

The once so mighty steadfast of Lilo was an empty shell, as wounded as the small stretch of woods that remained between the Schelde Avenue and the river, swallowed by the ever-expanding harbour. Safe for a few acres, a meagre gesture from the politicians too afraid to take the blame for the death of the historic village.

Vidar crossed the road, instantly disappearing into the grove of oak trees. The first edge of the moon burst over the horizon. His nose picked up the scent of beer and fries. A pub or brasserie. His ears pricked up at the sound of children playing and laughing in the playground. Car doors opened and closed with a smack.

Hundreds of meters and a wide moat between them. The low-hanging canopy covered him from view. Still, he already felt naked and exposed. If it weren't for Isegrim, he wouldn't have come here. How could the old wolf call this place his home?

He dumped the bike deep into the bushes and undressed, stuffing his clothes into his bag. Suddenly, he felt a lump in his pocket: his phone.

He checked it one last time. No new messages from Mo.

Of course not. The Ifrit had expected him to return the blasted box.

His body jerked forward. Thick black fur sprouted from his pores. His hands and feet turned into claws. His muscles spasmed as bones snapped and tore through his skin. 

He gritted his teeth, biting away the pain. Too close to civilisation to howl, but Allfather, how he wanted to. He dug his nails into a tree, leaving deep gouges into the bark.

He moaned. His stomach rumbled, craving meat. As his teeth grew into fangs, he attacked his bag, ripped straight through the paper around the two-pound bloody steak. It would keep the worst of the hunger at bay while he searched for Isegrim.

Finding the old grey wolf was easy.

A pair of yellow eyes peered out from the bushes. Vidar stayed still until the frail and bony wolf slowly rose from its hideout. He was small, no bigger than the average husky, his fur grey and thinning.