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.

The creature grunted, "Moon Wolf."

"Isegrim," Vidar replied.

"It's been a while since your last visit, Old one. I thought you had forgotten about me."

Vidar winced as his tail curled from his spine. "I prefer the forests in which I roam to be wider. Somewhere I can hunt."

"Why hunt if the humans leave scraps?"

"You're getting lazy."

"They took my land—I take their trash. Eye for an eye, a mess for a mess." There was mischief in the wolf's voice. A hint of pride too.

"Did you hear about Reynaert?" Vidar asked.

"Bad news travels with the wind. What an ending. Between you and me, the fleabag deserved far worse, but this was disrespectful. A disgrace." The old wolf licked his paw, comforting himself. "Who would commit such a crime?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Vidar said. "I need to ask. When was the last time you saw him?"

Isegrim's ears perked up. "Seen—not in a long while. My bones are weary, Moon Wolf, but Tybalt's offspring know where to find me when the fleabag was up to no good. You can't hide anything from cats."

Tigger flashed through Vidar's mind. A hum came out as a groan.

"Our kind is dying, our territory diminishing each year. Reynaert preyed on easy targets. Last I heard, he was pestering the giant down in Hoboken's polders. Annoying, but nothing like his old tricks. I let him. We're the last ones left. Tybalt's long gone, Bruin disappeared centuries ago, and Grimbard..." The wolf panted. "A few moons ago, the robins chirped of a badger lying by the side of the road, blood everywhere. I haven't seen Grimbard since."

One and one was two.

"I'm thinking of leaving," Vidar said.

"There's nowhere to go, Moon Wolf. Sooner or later, the humans will claim the land to gain a profit. You're lucky—you can blend in."

"All temporary, and it used to be much easier."

The old wolf lay down, his paws stretched to the front. For long moments, he appeared to doze until he finally said, "Reynaert wasn't happy with how you managed our interests. Last time he and I spoke, he complained about the growing number of outlanders in the city, driving the native creatures out."

"That's a lie!" Vidar snorted, suppressing a growl at the back of his throat. "Kludde lives down in the sewers. Lange Wapper in Hoboken, and that's because he hates the city. He hasn't been there in years. Antwerp has become a metropole, both for humans and paranormals. And may I remind you I'm a foreigner too."

"It's different. You've been here long enough, Waaslandwolf."

"You once bore that title too. More than one wolf prowled over Waasland's grounds."

"And soon, it might be a jackal. How will you explain that?"

Vidar bared his teeth.

"You know I'm right." The wolf turned his back on Vidar. "Come, Moon Wolf, I don't wish to fight you. I know a place where the sun warms your bones before the dusk sets in."

Vidar considered leaving, but he had nowhere else to go. The grove stretched from the Schelde Avenue to the moat. He couldn't flee further inland or cross the river without being seen. Besides, as long as Mo wasn't here, he wanted to avoid being alone.

So he snoozed in the sun, eating day-old scraps that Isegrim had fetched from his burrow. They were neither tasty nor filled his belly, but he was grateful nonetheless. As the noises of humanity faded, Isegrim shared his plan to steal more food from the pub's trash after sunset. Though Vidar had no intention to follow the old wolf, he listened.

"They sometimes leave an entire sausage," Isegrim raved on. "One bite and they throw it out, ridiculous." He stopped talking, then pushed his muzzle against Vidar's neck. "You have an old wound there."

In his human shape, Vidar would reach for the spot. As a wolf, he couldn't do that. "Yeah, I have an itch there."

"A grazing of a nail, or..."

A crack interrupted Isegrim.

Through the trees appeared a chubby man with olive skin in a white hospital uniform. 

Mo! He was finally here.

"Oh, Wolfie, there you are," he said. I was at the actual fort, but there are no trees there. Had to go all the way around."

As he stepped towards them, Isegrim shot up, a growl not far away.

Vidar blocked the old wolf. "He's one of us—an Ifrit."

"Foreign scum," Isegrim hissed.

Vidar growled. "He's my best friend. If you cross him, you cross me."

Isegrim snarled back but moved aside, tail between his legs.

Behind Mo, a second crack resounded.

"Great, three for the price of one," said a deep voice.

From where the sound originated stood not a man but a familiar girl with blue hair.

She looked like Kira, but she couldn't be: her eyes a piercing green, slitted like a snake. In her hand, a knife. The light of the moon reflected in the blade.

Blood-red.

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