Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

1. The Boy with a Strange Name

MAY 2017

The city of Slobodinsk, near Rostov-on-Don, Southern Russia

***

At first, Volya didn't realize he had a date with destiny at the principal's office. 

It was a normal Tuesday, just before geometry. Since he was better at math than everyone else in the orphanage, he was looking forward to spacing out next to his best mate Toshka all period long. 

But nope, no dice. The fate came calling in the form of a loudspeaker announcement. 

"V-AAH-lya Wolkov," the loudspeaker blared over the dingy hall,  where Volya, Toshka and the rest of his classmates twiddled their thumbs. Their math teacher, a twitchy alcoholic, took to keeping everyone outside his classroom  before the bell. To save his frayed nerves, he said. Volya wished for a similar consideration, since the hallway experience was a decent approximation of being confined with ten monkeys, a rooster and a weasel in a sealed barrel.

"Vaaahlya Wolkov, come to the principal's office immediately."

Before the echo of Volya's screwed-up name died down, heat rushed into his face. Thank God for the mop of curly hair that hung into his eyes and the burned-out halogen lamps in the hall! When he turned red, he turned seriously red. 

"Sod off," Volya muttered preemptively. 

Sniggering broke out on all sides of him, anyway. All conversations ceased, so with Volya's off-the chart hearing, he could hear Toshka's every breath. Which wasn't much of a comfort, because it sped up in anticipation of trouble, intensifying to a bit of a whistle at the end of every inhale.

"Valya Wolkov," the loudspeaker insisted through the hiss of static for the umpteenth time. "To the principa—"

Volya pounded the wall behind his back with his fist. His name was V-O-lya, with an O, as in a word volya, yes, volya, the word that meant freedom, not Valya with an A.

Volya was an idiotic name, no argument, but was a little respect too much to ask for? He had lived in this effing orphanage forever. They should have learned his name by now.

It was all he owned.

"Oh, look, our freak got 'Valentine-d' again," Dimon the Bruiser jeered, then hummed an insipid pop-song. "Hey, Valya-Valya-Valentaaaine!"

"Hello to you too, Dickhead," Volya shot back.

"Don't be like that, VAH-lya." The Bruiser's grin was more of a snarl than a smile. Somehow, without moving, he seemed to stretch upward until he loomed.

Thanks to the dim light, Volya didn't get to enjoy the view of the Bruiser's stained teeth, wider than an average snow shovel. The stench of cigarettes and something even fouler, though, assaulted his nose. He wrinkled it, then bared his teeth too. "Sod off."

"Still here? Gee, when will you clue in that nobody wants you around?" the Bruiser said. His cronies picked up their cue, a good little Greek chorus.

"Nobody wants you here!"

"Get lost!"

"Is he deaf or something?"

The Bruiser slipped down the wall a bit, sticking one of his overgrown legs out to block the way.

Seriously, genius? Like the taunts would rattle Volya to the core, and he'd dash away, maybe even in tears, tripping over it? He glared from under his fringe. "Hah!"