Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4)

by Helen Harper

  ‘He had it all planned out.’ I shook my head at what Rothsay had done. He’d thought of everything and covered every eventuality. Apart from one: me. ‘I suppose you’ll be heading back to Maidstone soon?’

  ‘There are a few bits and pieces to tidy up but yes, it won’t be long. I think it’s probably time we left the residents of Barchapel in peace.’

  I smiled faintly. ‘I don’t imagine many of them will be sad to see the back of us.’

  From somewhere behind me, I heard a faint snort. I glanced over my shoulder to see Chloe standing only a few metres away. She tossed her head and marched away in the direction of the hospital carpark. My eyes tracked her as she strode over to where Miranda and Albion were climbing into their campervan. ‘Give me a moment,’ I murmured.

  Boateng looked slightly confused but Lukas smiled. ‘We’ll be here.’

  I headed over, following in Chloe’s footsteps. As I drew closer, I could hear her voice. She sounded surprisingly unsure of herself. ‘So,’ she said, ‘there’s like this concert on next weekend. I have a spare ticket. If you feel like going with me.’ Her nose wrinkled and she jabbed a startled looking Albion in the centre of his chest. ‘But don’t go getting any funny ideas. This ain’t a date or anything. Just friends, innit?’

  I cleared my throat. Chloe looked round and frowned at me. ‘What? I’m being nice. You can’t arrest me for that.’

  ‘I’m not going to arrest you, Chloe.’

  She sniffed. ‘Whaddaya want then?’

  I reached for my wallet, slid out a card and passed it over to her.

  ‘Why are you giving me this?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Because I want to make you an offer,’ I said. ‘You’re getting to the age where your school will expect you to go on work experience.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Hairdressing. Or looking after little kiddies. Or working in a hotel. That’s usually what it is.’

  ‘And those are all very valid types of work,’ I said gently. ‘You can learn a lot from them. But if you fancied something further afield, my department in London is offering a work-experience placement.’ I glanced at Albion. ‘Two placements actually.’

  Albion shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough encounters with criminals.’ Miranda jabbed him with her elbow. ‘But thank you for the offer,’ he said hastily.

  I smiled at him. ‘No problem.’

  Chloe’s lip curled. ‘Work experience with the police? Become a pig?’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion. Have a think and let me know.’ And then, because I didn’t want to intrude any longer, I nodded and returned to Lukas’s side.

  ‘Since when did Supe Squad offer work-experience placements?’ Lukas enquired.

  ‘You heard that?’ I shrugged. ‘Since now. I’ve made an executive decision.’ And I didn’t care whether DS Grace, the new Supe Squad detective, agreed with that decision. It was going to happen.

  ‘We should head back to the Bird and Bush and pick up the rest of our things,’ I said to Boateng. ‘You have my contact details if you need them, or if there are any loose ends that need to be tied up.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Boateng said. ‘Safe journey home. From what I’ve heard, there was a wild storm in London last night. You should be careful on the roads.’

  ‘We will be. Thank you.’ I straightened my shoulders. Lukas’s hand slipped into mine once more and squeezed. ‘Although we won’t be heading home just yet. There’s another stop to make first.’

  It was a small ward with only one occupant. Samuel Beswick was lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. His chest was rising and falling, and I couldn’t see any scary-looking tubes other than an IV line.

  I approached him gingerly, my footsteps light. Even so, when I was less than two metres away, his eyes flew open in alarm. He didn’t exactly relax when he noticed me, but he did appear less likely to leap out of his bed and run away. Not that he would have got far in his current state. ‘DC Bellamy,’ he croaked. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘If you’d rather I go, just say the word.’

  He waved a thin hand. ‘No, please. Stay.’

  I pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘You’ve had a haircut.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘Ready for the catwalk?’

  I smiled back. ‘Maybe not yet.’

  He looked me over. ‘You don’t look very well yourself, detective.’

  ‘Let’s say I’ve had a busy few days.’ I paused. I didn’t want to draw this out but he needed to know the truth. He deserved to know. ‘We found him,’ I said quietly.

  Samuel Beswick’s gaze flew to mine. The hope reflected there was painful to see. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Last night I killed the man who murdered my parents twenty-five years ago. Your conviction is being overturned as we speak. When you walk out of this hospital, you will walk out as a free man.’ I reached for his hand. ‘On behalf of the Metropolitan Police, I want to apologise for the terrible wrongs you suffered. Words won’t make up for what happened but they are heartfelt.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘I am so very, very sorry.’

  He choked, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. ‘I don’t…’ he gasped. ‘I can’t…’

  I gripped his hand more tightly. ‘You’re innocent,’ I told him. ‘And free.’

  I stayed with Samuel longer than I’d intended. When I finally walked out of the small hospital on the outskirts of the city and saw Lukas waiting for me, I headed straight for him.

  He wrapped his arms tightly round me. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It went okay. I thought he’d be angry – he has a right to be angry.’ I hesitated. ‘Not angry, fucking furious. But he wasn’t. I could learn a lesson or two from Samuel Beswick.’ I burrowed deeper against Lukas’s chest. ‘Did you manage to find a phone and tell the other vamps that you’re on your way back?’

  ‘Mmm. I did.’ There was something in his voice.

  I pulled back so I could look him in the face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It appears,’ Lukas said darkly, ‘that there’s been trouble in our absence. Something to do with trafficking. And supes.’ His jaw tightened. ‘Apparently Devereau Webb is involved somehow.’

  I stiffened. That was all I needed. ‘We’d better get back to the city quickly then.’

  He brushed his lips against mine. ‘Indeed.’

  I ran a hand through my hair and lifted my chin. No rest for the wicked.

  Acknowledgments

  There are numerous people who I need to thank - first of all, Karen Holmes for her superlative editing and constant support and cheerleading, as well as Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Designs for her fabulous work on the book cover. Thanks are also due to Barbara Hall and a whole host of advance readers for their input, as well as Ruth Urquhart and the team at Tantor for their stellar work on the audiobook. I must also particularly thank Detective Constable Lynne Thompson-Hogg for reaching out and for reading through everything to help make sure I kept on the straight and narrow with British police procedures. Any errors are, of course, my own.

  Thank you so much for reading Scorched Heart. I truly hope you’ve enjoyed Emma’s latest escapades while discovering her past. It would mean a huge amount if you could write a review!

  There will be more from DC Emma Bellamy later in the year, and Devereau Webb will make his own return in License to Howl which is scheduled for release in September 2021. You can read more about what he was up to while Emma was in Barchapel in The Noose Of A New Moon, which is available now. Read on for a sneak peek of the first chapter.

  Helen xxx”

  A sneaky peek at The Noose of A New Moon

  BOOK ONE OF THE WOLFBRAND SERIES

  CHAPTER ONE

  When it comes to werewolves, the one thing nobody talks about is how itchy their balls become when they’re covered in a layer of soft, fuzzy fur. Devereau Webb reflected on this small matter as he padded through the small copse of trees planted artfully around the children’s play pa
rk.

  He wasn’t far from the entrance of the building he called home. He could, of course, hunker down and perform lupine yoga to use his tongue to deal with the offending itch. He knew it was possible because he’d already tried it, but this was the mouth with which he kissed his niece on the cheek. Once he’d satisfied his curiosity that the feat was physically possible, the niggling part of his brain that remained human wouldn’t allow him to do it again. More’s the pity.

  He did his best to put the mild discomfort out of his mind and paused underneath a small oak tree. Dawn wasn’t far off, and he fancied he could already see the sun rising over the top of the buildings to the east of the city. Dew covered the ground causing an earthy smell to rise and permeate the air, masking the usual city scents of petrol, rubbish and people.

  A flicker of movement to the far right caught his attention and his body quivered involuntarily. Rat. He resisted the urge to bound after it. He was a predator and he was hungry, but he had standards.

  A solitary taxi appeared from round the corner about three hundred metres away. It trundled along the road before pulling up at the curb just beyond the line of trees where he was waiting. He watched, sinking back on his haunches, as a dishevelled couple reeking of alcohol and sex and the optimism of youth staggered out from the back seats.

  As the taxi pulled away, the woman bent down, unbuckled the straps on her shoes and slid the offending articles from her feet. Devereau tilted his head and focused on her. Vodka and cranberry – that’s what she’d been drinking. Her perfume was light and floral, clashing with the pungent smell of her companion’s aftershave which was still eye-wateringly strong even after a night on the town. She wobbled slightly as she straightened up, her shoes in her hand.

  Less than three seconds, Devereau decided. He’d be on her in less than three seconds, even if she ran. He shivered, his golden fur rippling down the length of his body.

  The man was wearing a patterned shirt and skinny jeans. They didn’t suit him. He had broad shoulders and thin legs, so the tight denim made his torso look as if it were balancing on toothpicks like a canapé at a party. A juicy morsel of pink flesh ready for the eating… A sliver of drool escaped from the corner of Devereau’s mouth. He licked his lips.

  ‘Babes.’ The woman had a thick accent, London through and through. ‘Babes.’ She waved at her boyfriend to get his attention. ‘Take my shoes, babes.’

  The man did as he was told. From the trees, Devereau Webb snorted. The couple froze.

  ‘Do you think that’s…?’ the woman murmured.

  The man nodded, a taut movement that emphasised his fear. His eyes darted from side to side as they attempted to pierce the gloom. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said loudly. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  Devereau could smell his terror. Literally. He licked his lips again.

  The man reached across and took his girlfriend’s arm. ‘Come on.’

  They started moving, hurried steps that took them away from where Devereau was watching. ‘What if he comes after us?’ the woman whispered urgently.

  Devereau Webb smiled.

  ‘I’ll fight him off.’ The man’s grip on the shoes tightened. The blustering bravado in his voice was almost painful. ‘He won’t hurt us.’

  Devereau stood up and stretched then stepped out from the cover of the trees and padded silently after the scurrying couple. They turned down a path to the left, heading to a block of flats a mere stone’s throw from his own high-rise building. As they did so, the woman glanced over her shoulder. When she saw him, less than twenty metres away, she let out a tiny squeak.

  The man’s head turned. His eyes widened as they travelled the length and breadth of Devereau Webb’s massive wolf body.

  I know, Devereau thought. Bigger than you imagined, right?

  The man yanked his hand from his partner’s, dropped the shoes to the ground where they fell with a loud clatter, and spun round. A heartbeat later he started to sprint, pelting away as fast as his matchstick legs could carry him.

  The trouble with running, Devereau considered, was that it made you look like prey.

  The woman didn’t move. Devereau was well aware that it wasn’t because she didn’t want to, it was because sheer terror had rooted her to the ground. Her body was quivering, shaking visibly from head to toe. Even her teeth were chattering.

  Devereau didn’t alter his speed. Keeping his movements smooth and steady, he strolled up to her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

  He gave her one long look, and then forced the change. Golden-tipped fur gave way to smooth skin, and his scars and tattoos became visible again. His bones snapped and his blood fizzed… And then he scooped up the woman’s shoes with a human hand and held them towards her. ‘I believe these are yours.’

  At first she was unable to speak. She swallowed, still shaking uncontrollably. After a moment, though, she pulled back her shoulders and raised her chin a fraction of an inch. There. That was better. ‘Thank you, Mr Webb,’ she murmured. Her trembling fingers took the shoes.

  He grinned. ‘Call me Devereau.’ He nodded after her boyfriend who had flung himself into the lobby of his block of flats and was desperately trying to barricade the door with a plant pot. ‘You can probably do better than that, you know.’

  All she could manage was a tiny nod. Devereau shrugged. On two feet rather than four, he wandered stark bollock naked towards his flat, pausing only to reach down and give himself a damned good scratch.

  ***

  It had been easy to resist the urge to attack the couple; it was less easy to resist the urge to attack the four-inch-thick rib steak that he’d left on the kitchen counter. He’d been planning at least to sear it round the edges first, but his hunger got the better of him and he devoured it raw like a wild animal. He probably ought to work on that, he decided, as he licked his fingers.

  He went to the fridge, took out a second steak and devoured that too.

  His tastes had changed as well as his body. He no longer wanted curries with their clever layers of spice, and the bottle of hot sauce that he used to apply liberally to most of his food now lay unopened. He didn’t even need to sprinkle salt on his meals any more. As long as there was meat, and lots of it, he was happy.

  Tossing the plate into the sink, Devereau tilted his head slightly. He grabbed the dressing gown that hung over the back of a chair and shrugged it on before moving to the front door. He opened it to reveal a short, dark-haired man whose fist was raised ready to knock. ‘You’re late, Gaz,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yeah.’ Gaz shuffled his feet, dropping both his gaze and his hand. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Devereau stepped back and gestured him inside. ‘What are the overnight numbers looking like?’

  Gaz thrust a crumpled newspaper in his direction. ‘I picked you up the morning edition,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘I thought you might want to read it. You’re only mentioned on page six today, so that’s progress.’

  Devereau took the paper without looking at it. ‘Gaz…’

  ‘Mrs Ford up on the eighteenth floor has complained again about her boiler. The plumber’s been round and says it’s fine, but she reckons he’s pulling a fast one and wants you to speak to him.’

  ‘What happened to McGann? Doesn’t he usually fix the in-house plumbing problems?’

  Gaz coughed. ‘He, uh, moved out on Monday. He has a young family so, you know...’

  Devereau’s gaze hardened. ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘Uh.’ Gaz twitched. ‘I think they wanted more space. And a garden.’

  Devereau folded his arms. ‘Did they, indeed?’ He glared. Gaz shrank. ‘What about the overnight numbers?’ he repeated. ‘How did we do?’

  ‘The boys picked up a few wallets,’ Gaz said reluctantly, his eyes shifting so that he no longer had to meet Devereau’s hard gaze. ‘But there’s not a great haul. People don’t carry much cash these days, especially the rich ones.’

  ‘It’s also the start of summer.
Plenty of people are heading off on holiday. There are vacant flats and houses lying all over the city that are ripe for the picking. It’s not rocket science. Jemmy a few locks, slip inside, take the odd valuable or two…’ Devereau stretched out his arms. ‘Not to mention all the damned Gucci, Armani and Louis Vuitton toting tourists who are too busy taking photos to pay attention to their bags. This is supposed to be peak season.’

  Gaz didn’t disagree. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So? What’s the problem?’

  Gaz looked away.

  Devereau sighed. ‘Just spit it out.’

  ‘Fucking coppers are still all over us, boss.’ The words emerged in a nervous rush. ‘Nobody can move without being followed. They can’t nab you because you’ve gone supernatural, so they’re going after the rest of us instead. And there’s plenty of journos hanging around. You might be on page six but you’re still big news. They’re offering cash to anyone with an inside scoop. Things will die down sooner or later.’ He sniffed. From his tone of voice, he didn’t believe his own words. ‘It’s hard right now, innit? But things will go back to normal soon.’

  Devereau felt a flare of rage. There was far worse than his Flock out and about in London. His people were non-violent. They didn’t threaten and they didn’t do any physical harm. They didn’t even steal any sentimental shit. On the few occasions that a crew member nabbed something irreplaceable, such as a lock of baby hair pressed into an old key ring or a grubby old wedding band, Devereau had always made sure that it was returned anonymously.

  The Flock skimmed the top, targeting the rich in order to help the poor. He gave to charity and he helped his community – it wasn’t about merely lining his own pockets. Unfortunately, where Robin Hood and his Merry Men were venerated, the Shepherd and his Flock were despised.