The Last Werewolf (The Weres of Europe) by Jennifer Denys, Susan Laine

the past three hours from the wide open rapeseed and wheat fields with the occasional hamlet or farmhouse dotting the landscape. Birches had fewer leaves, but the evergreens were as deep green as ever. Summer had tried to let air in by opening the car windows, but cold air had assailed her immediately. The temperature couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve degrees Celsius, and she could see remnants of the past winter by the tiny blotches of snow in the shady parts of the ground by the woods. She smiled. The temperature wasn’t much different from back in England , but the difference was it was less damp here.
    And there were a lot of woods. Both sides of the road were covered in mixed forests, pines, and birches alternating side by side. Summer had never seen this much wilderness in what felt like a continuous stretch. It was beautiful, and she felt a kind of longing for the now long-gone past when England , too, had had lots of forests.
    “It sure is pretty out here,” she said to herself, admiring the view on both sides of the small winding road she was now on, having left the highway behind long ago. “Mum, you must’ve loved it here. Even though I was so young, I do remember you always loved the woods and anything green. Maybe I should’ve known you weren’t from England when you spoke of grand forests so lovingly. Silly of me not to realize, now that I think about it.” Shaking her head reproachfully, she discarded these thoughts in favor of driving.
    She had passed the exit to Ruovesi about fifteen minutes ago, so she knew she was getting close to her destination. Fortunately, she had bought a route map from Helsinki to Pajuskylä from the car rental place. She had turned to Route 3481 five minutes ago, but she had yet to see the sign for Pajuskylä.
    Jittery, she squirmed in the driver’s seat, continuously licking her dry lips and keeping her eyes wide open so as not to miss anything significant. Yet, when the view opened up to a long modern bridge, Syvinki Bridge , she knew from her study of the road map that she had missed the intersection to the village. Cussing up a blue streak, Summer spotted a little side road immediately after crossing the bridge, so she swerved hard and fast, leaving a trail of dust behind her on the dirt road, causing the tires to squeal as she hit the pavement and then the tarmac, going back the way she came.
    Letting out a deep breath, hoping no highway patrols had noticed her U-turn, Summer went over the bridge again, the metal rails shining in the mid-morning sunlight. Still, there was little danger anyone had noticed her reckless driving since the small streets were all but empty, maybe one or two cars having passed her during the last quarter of an hour.
    Finally, inching forward, she spotted the blue sign reading Pajuskylä on the right side of the road. It was shadowed by willow and birch branches, so it wasn’t a surprise she had missed it. Turning onto the right road and driving slower than before, she searched for a grouping of buildings to indicate the presence of the village. What she saw was mixed farmland and woodland, and here and there a farmhouse, but nothing big enough to constitute a village.
    “Is the damn thing invisible?” she muttered in frustration. She now regretted not asking Rik to accompany her, since the Finnish countryside really was far more sparsely populated than she had anticipated. And having the man with his witty tongue along for the ride would just have been a pleasant bonus.
    Suddenly, after rounding a small bend, a tiny cluster of buildings opened on the right, and she quickly pulled up to a small bus stop, as indicated by a yellow plaque with a simplified black picture of a bus. After the dry dust had settled, Summer saw what looked like a village grocery store plus a few other buildings without signs. Yet, none of them looked like the fire-engine red Worker’s House of Syvinkisalmi, a kind of unofficial village meeting hall