Breathing heavily, Vidar clicked the Velo bike into a free dock. A green light flashed in his face. He could have been sitting comfortably in his chair, shouting at the TV that the producers of 'Vikings' got it all wrong, then falling asleep just before the episode reached its climax. But no, tonight, his duty was to crawl through Antwerp's sewers, searching for a creature that didn't want to be found.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Mo had offered to join, but the Ifrit was more useful leading the police on a goose chase than getting his webbed feet wet. Besides, Kludde and strangers were a match made in hell. He would rather attack Mo from the back and toy with him than listen to an explanation.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

This was a task Vidar had to do alone.

He blinked, his gaze fixated on the dock. A few seconds passed before he realised the green light no longer flickered.

On the console, he typed the number 35698 and his pin code.

'An error has occurred.'

He glanced back at the bike number: 35689 instead of 35698.

Sleep, beer, a good steak—the order didn't matter. He entered the codes again. His hand slipped from 4 to 5 as he entered the pin code.

'An error has occurred.'

"I know," he grumbled.

He typed extra slowly.

'The bike has been returned correctly.'

After pocketing his card, he headed for Kievit Square. Night or day, sunshine or rain, a biting wind worthy of Frost Giants raged through the alley connecting the railway station to the square. Between the hours of eight in the morning and six in the evening, the place was bustling with people rushing in and out of the tall buildings, always in a hurry, always on their phone.

Now, there was nobody here. Abandoned.

The neon light of the corporate logos reflected on the road bricks. A rusty steel baobab tree stood at the heart of the square, the surrounding stones tainted with a dirty orange-brown residue. The city could have planted a real tree but opted for this monstrosity.

Modern art...

He passed the entrance of the Lindner Hotel, then turned the corner. High up in the Sky Lounge, people in expensive suits sipped champagne and ate oysters while signing million euro contracts. Not much had changed since the middle ages in that regard. Castles replaced by skyscrapers, suits instead of tunics and breeches, yet the rich feasted blind to the struggles of the rest.

A taxi passed in the Van Immerseel Street. Vidar waited for the car to disappear into the distance. Tires screeched as the driver far exceeded the speed limit of thirty kilometres. The sound of the engine faded. All was quiet. No human (or creature) in sight.

With a precise stomp, Vidar loosened the manhole cover. He shoved it aside, far enough for him to access the sewer. Holding his breath, he jumped in. 

Cold water seeped through his shoes and into his socks. Slippery mud at the bottom gurgled and slurped as he lifted a foot, releasing rotting chemical fumes. He could have been at home, a blanket wrapped around him, a giant pint of mead on the coffee table. If the paranormals didn't wreak havoc, there was always some egghead who had to ruin his quiet evenings.

He slid the cover back onto the hole. A dull, deep clunk reverberated off the walls as the last whiff of fresh air faded. The stench sharpened. By Odin, the streets had become so clean he had forgotten just how bad humanity smelled.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness—a perk of having been a wolf not a day ago. A maze of tunnels lay ahead. Drip. Drip. Drip.

This was going to be a long evening.

Up until a good forty years ago, the location of Kludde's lair was common knowledge in the paranormal community. The demon was always up for a party and found alcohol in unlikely places. When the fortress 'Het Steen' had been manned, he lived in the sewers below, spooking the prisoners. Then he moved to the left bank of the river Schelde for a few decades, only to return to the city when Napoleon ruled over Antwerp. The French troops left in 1824, but Kludde stayed until the city turned his home into an over-expensive tourist trap.

Crazy humans, paying twenty euros to dab into this stink...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Now he had to pee too.

He sauntered through the waste, ignoring the squeaking of the rats feasting on leftovers floating in the water. Where Kludde dwelled, the critters wouldn't. They feared him enough to keep their distance, to prevent ending up as demon snack.

Vidar was up to his shins in slime now. Above him, a deep bass thumped away. Stone fragments dropped from the ceiling as feet pounded. No, as much as Kludde enjoyed spying on humans, he preferred places where he could sneak up on his clueless victims, one at a time.

The near vicinity of the club would be a possibility. Vidar moved away from the music.

"Kludde?" he called.

He waited for a reply, but nothing came. 

The grating of a tram told him why. Too noisy.

"I know you," Vidar whispered to himself. "You must be somewhere around here, enough to see during the day, easy to attack at night. Lazy, like the king of the jungle. Where are you, you old bastard?"

He carried on, vigilant for any sign of the demon. Down here, darkness reigned, an Evernight capable of wasting hours to those trapped in the labyrinth of pipes and drains. One could circle through the same tunnels without realising.

Another alley, another nest of rats. He went right. Nothing. He went left. A bloated fur drifted into the water, slightly larger than a house cat. Poor creature—to end up here, destined to become Kludde's dinner.

Slowly, his senses dulled. The stench was still strong, but not overwhelming. His vision blurred. All he heard was drip, drip, drip.

And he still had to pee. He should have gone earlier; the place was a giant toilet, anyway. No tempting the Norns. Kludde could be lurking in every corner, waiting to jump on his back when he was most vulnerable.

Vidar reached into his pocket for his phone. His fingers fumbled over the too-tiny buttons. A bright green light shone in his face. 

It was past midnight.

He turned the phone away from him, illuminating the road ahead. There was supposed to be a torchlight function, or app, or whatever it was called, but he had never learnt how to switch it on. This worked too.

"Kludde! I know we haven't spoken since you took a bag of coins from the German troops, but... I need your help, for old time's sake. Come on, man. You must be here somewhere."

All of a sudden, a rattling of chains sounded in the distance.

"Kludde?" Vidar asked.

He rushed towards the noise as fast as the sewage allowed him to. Drops of goo covered his pants, splattered his back. It was Kludde, with his sulphur scent, like a gas lamp being lit, like gunpowder, like a long fart after a heavy meal.

"Kludde!"

Then, the mud sucked around his shoe, halting him abruptly.

Vidar faltered but didn't fall.

His phone, however, slipped from his grip. As though time slowed, he still tried to catch the bright plastic brick. Clunk, against his Asgardian ring.

Then splash.

The grass field background sunk into the mud.

"Paljas!" he shouted. The Antwerp curse word echoed.

His ears shot up with a wolf-like twitch as playful giggling replied. 

"Vi-i-i-d-a-r, Viii-i-dar, aren't you glad to hear me, to smell me, to see me?" His deep voice had a sing-song intonation.

Vidar fished out his phone, wiped it clean to the hem of his shirt. He said nothing, waiting for the shadow to appear at the end of the alley, the red eyes glowing in the dark, the clattering of the chain. At the other end, an unbreakable bottle that was always full no matter how much the demon drank.

Finally, Kludde showed himself. A winged wolf walking on his hind legs, hunched, as though carrying the weight of the city on his shoulders. "Is the God of Silence still angry, or have you had your revenge?"

"Forgiveness is a human trait, but I accept you cannot change the past," Vidar said. He paused. "I need your help."

"How desperate are you to come to me for help?"

"Some brute dug up Viviane, butchered her. They cut off her tail—I want to find out who did it."

"Why is this my problem? Hasn't Viviane been dead for centuries?"

He wasn't surprised to find Kludde so stoic. "Mo and I think a human is behind it—someone who wants to expose us."

"Who is Mo?"

"He's like us, helps me keep an eye on the community."

"Is he good?"

Vidar nodded. Kludde had been cursed to speak in questions and riddles. An approval could not be uttered. His face hard to read in the darkness.

"You're the only one who can help, Kludde," he said.

The creature grabbed the bottle and took a long swig. After he had wiped his mouth clean, he asked, "Can you take me to my lair?"

This was the closest to a yes he would get. "If you show me the way."

Vidar turned so Kludde could hop onto his back, the demon's favourite means of transportation. Pleasing him was key to get information. Though Kludde was no lightweight and the chain clunked heavily against his legs, he received proper instructions, asking him to go right, left, or straight ahead.

"Do you want to lose your head?"

Vidar ducked as the tunnel narrowed. Unless his sense of orientation betrayed him, Kludde was leading him out of the city, towards the district of Deurne. Revving engines. Cars raced at incredible speeds—they were crossing the highway under the ground.

He let out a soft grunt as he shifted Kludde's weight, preventing him from sliding down his back. The walk seemed endless. 

"Since when do you live so far?"

"Since when does humanity kill nature?" Kludde replied.

"There's still nature in Antwerp. City Park, the zoo, King Albert Park. My shop is right across Park Spoor Noord."

"Where it's as green as Rivierenhof, where the humans roam during the day, but most avoid during the night?"

"I see. You enjoy scaring young couples climbing over the fence, looking for some privacy."

"Is it a crime?" Kludde grumbled.

"Crossing the line, but nobody has died."

"Am I a murderer when they scare themselves to death?"

"Has that happened recently?"

"Is seventy years ago recently?"

Not in human terms.

The tunnel widened again as the sound of the cars above faded. Tree roots poked through the walls and ceiling. The sewage dried up.

"Can you go left?"

Vidar took a sharp turn.

"Can you see my throne?"

Kludde's lair was a hole in the wall small enough for the wolf-like creature to crawl into, but not Vidar. In the middle, a chair of branches. The sewer king's throne.

Vidar stood still as the demon leapt off his back. Through the barred drain seeped broken moonlight. He yawned.

Kludde sat down in a chair of branches, then rustled in a bag. "Do you want bread?"

Vidar's stomach grumbled with hunger, but he wasn't desperate. "No, thanks, I prefer food that hasn't soaked in mud."

"Did you know there's a restaurant here?"

"Oh, it comes from a restaurant. In that case..." Vidar accepted the bread. The crust was hard, but the middle was still soft and had a rich flavour. When had Kludde developed such fine taste?

Kludde threw him half a bottle of wine too.

"The restaurant is generous," Vidar said.

"Do you think it's from the restaurant?"

Vidar guessed that meant no. More than likely abandoned by Kludde's victims as they ran from him. Thirsty, he drank anyway. The wine was too dry for his taste, but he gulped it down, nonetheless.

"About Viviane, do you know if someone besides us knew where she was buried?"

"Other than us and the mermaids?"

"Yeah."

Kludde drank from his own bottle, took a deep breath, then drank some more. "Other than you, me, and the mermaids?"

"Touch your nose if the answer is no." A trick Vidar suddenly remembered from their gallivanting days.

The demon twitched. Shifty, his finger bopped his nose. He refused to look at Vidar.

A lie.

"Someone approached you, didn't they?" Vidar held the bottle of wine up. "Did they bring you this, Kludde, in exchange for information?"

"Man, woman, animal, god, creature? Do I know—do I know?" His long hair slumped over his face as his shoulders curled over his chest.

"I think you do," Vidar said, calm but assertive. "Tell me, old friend... we may all be in danger."

"Do I know... Do I know?" The demon repeated. He started rocking in the chair. "Has the trickster ever been tricked? Do I know?" 

"A trickster? Was it Lange Wapper, or Reynaert the Fox, a leprechaun, or..." It couldn't be. Loki perished after Ragnarök, slain by Heimdall. "Was it a God, like me? Part Frost Giant, a huge ego, always strangely smelling of horse."

"Do I know... do I know? Kind the words, shit like birds. A drink. A wink. Who wears a hood and comes through the wood?"

"Kludde?" It was never good when he resorted to riddles.

The demon screeched, a shattering sound that shook the ground and cracked the trees. Vidar buried his head in his chest, covering his ears as the noise became too much to bear.

When he looked up next, the screech still rang in his ears. Kludde was gone.

Through the drain crept a faint ray of sunshine. Morning. An entire evening and night wasted, his bladder painfully full, and for what? A trickster had approached Kludde—that was all he learnt.

Vidar grabbed his phone from his pocket. He pushed the on-button. The dive into the sewage hadn't done the plastic brick any good; it refused to turn on. Or perhaps the battery was drained again. These days, he could never tell.

Once he had spotted the nearest manhole cover, Vidar climbed out of the sewers. A family of ducks quacked in the pond as though nothing had happened. Pigeons landed near the green containers next to the Rivierenhof Castle, a large white mansion with a superiority complex. The restaurant had good bread though.

Vidar walked beside the playground. The swings, slides, and climbing racks enjoying the calm before the storm of children raged over them. On the other side was a small patch of trees, unworthy of being called a forest, but good enough to receive a godly golden shower.

He considered a tram ride home. Yet aware of his overwhelming stench, he grabbed another Velo bike and cycled through Deurne. The sign above an apothecary shop told him it was five to six. 

In about an hour, his shop would have to open. He accelerated. The delivery of newspapers and magazines of the day was on the way. Another day of work, unable to get closer to this mystery. A trickster able to spook Kludde. What did they want with Viviane, with Antigone? Where was the link—what wasn't he seeing?

His brain failed him. Only more questions, and no answers.

A rage of frustration bubbled beneath the surface. He suppressed a roar as Sunna shone down on him. A good shower, a hearty breakfast, and a bucket of coffee would help him through the day. Tonight, he would sleep like Njorun.

At the dome of the Sportpaleis, Antwerp's biggest concert hall, cars stood in line to drive up the highway. Soon, the avenue would be gridlocked completely, as it did every day. He jumped a few red lights, zigzagged around cars honking.

He cycled through Park Spoor Noord, his territory, eventually parking the bike in the dock closest to his shop. He power-walked home.

Then, as though the world knew he could use a helping hand, he saw her standing by his shop, guarding the bundle of newspapers. Her blue hair a beacon of hope.

The girl. She had returned.

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