The Last Werewolf

‘It’s official,’ Harley said. ‘They killed the Berliner two nights ago. You’re the last.’ Then after a pause: ‘I’m sorry.’

Yesterday evening this was. We were in the upstairs library of his Earl’s Court house, him standing at a tense tilt between stone hearth and oxblood couch, me in the window seat with a tumbler of forty-five-year-old Macallan and a Camel Filter, staring out at dark London’s fast-falling snow. The room smelled of tangerines and leather and the fire’s pine logs. Forty-eight hours on I was still sluggish from the Curse. Wolf drains from the wrists and shoulders last.

A veil of melancholy has fallen over Jacob Marlowe. He’s the last of his kind. Hunted by his enemies and haunted by his past, he is worn out by centuries of decadence and debauchery, and by the demands of his lunatic appetites. He decides to submit to the authorities at the next full moon.

However, as Jacob counts down to suicide, a violent murder and an extraordinary meeting plunge him straight back into the desperate pursuit of life.

Gory and sexy, The Last Werewolf is a thrilling take on our relationship with the wild side, what it means to be alone and the transformative possibilities of love.

Glen Duncan is a highly regarded literary novelist and readers will find that The Last Werewolf—erudite, playful, ironic, intelligently frightening and frighteningly intelligent—is to the bulk of werewolf literature as Moby Dick is to Anglers’ Weekly.