The Noose Of A New Moon (Wolfbrand Book 1)

by Helen Harper

  Then he spotted the couple on the other side of the street. Hang on a minute – he’d seen them before. He growled. It was the same couple who’d been hanging around outside the tower block that he’d assumed were journalists. Devereau shook his head. He wasn’t going to let them glide by this time. He turned in their direction.

  A shadow fell across his path. A burly, heavyset male with bushy eyebrows and a dark expression moved in front of him. ‘You’re Devereau Webb.’

  Devereau kept his expression neutral. ‘I am.’

  ‘They say your wolf is bigger than any that’s been seen before.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘They say that you’re telling everyone you were bitten four times.’

  Devereau was starting to sense a theme and he also recognised the belligerent edge to the man’s tone. He might not know a great deal about his new werewolf cousins but he knew people; this guy was building up to a confrontation. He wanted to goad Devereau into a fight, either to prove to the world that he wasn’t scared of anyone or to prove that Devereau was nothing more than a liar and a weakling.

  It would be easy to allow the confrontation to go ahead – and it would certainly discourage further attempts – but it wouldn’t make anyone like him. Devereau could work on developing power and respect later; right now, being liked would get him further. ‘You’re a naturally born wolf, right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ The man bared his teeth and pointed to the tag on his arm. ‘And I’m ranked epsilon in Clan Carr.’ There was a definite glint of challenge in his yellow eyes.

  Devereau didn’t blink. ‘Oh, I met your alpha this morning. Strong lady.’ He leaned forward. ‘Listen, maybe you can help me. When I change into my wolf, I get really itchy. You know, down there.’ He gestured at his groin. ‘Is there some kind of cream or salve I can use to stop it? It’s embarrassing to ask, but you’ve always been a wolf so I figure you’ll know better than anyone.’

  The Carr werewolf stared at him and Devereau tried not to grin. He’d shocked the man out of his antagonism by referring to something so intimate, and implied a compliment by suggesting that his adversary might have the answer. Everyone, both humans and werewolves, usually responded positively to honesty. Devereau was being truthful: the itchiness was a problem.

  Nonplussed, the werewolf took a step back. ‘There’s a Clan Carr shop on Booth Street,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Herbalist place. The owner’s not ranked, but he’s an alright kind of guy when you get to know him. He can give you something that will help.’ He paused. ‘Just tell him that Cannon sent you.’

  ‘Cannon Carr?’ Devereau raised his eyebrows. ‘Cool name. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’ Cannon nodded and stepped aside to allow him to pass. He didn’t seem to realise that his actions indicated that Devereau was the superior wolf. Mission accomplished. Except, while he’d been chatting to Cannon, the two supposed journos had vanished.

  Devereau hissed. If they knew what was good for them, they’d stay out of his way in future.

  By the time he finally reached the familiar Supe Squad door, he’d had several similar supe encounters, not all of them with werewolves. One was with a pixie, and a couple of gremlins had yelled at him from across the street. Now all he had to do was charm the coppers as well as the supe populace and he’d be well on his way.

  He knocked loudly on the door. He wasn’t sure if DS Grace would be back from Whitechapel but it would be easier if he were. He mentally crossed his fingers and stood back.

  Liza opened the door and scowled at him. ‘Devereau Webb,’ she sighed. ‘Back again. Why are you here?’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you again, too,’ he said with an easy smile. He pointed at her face. ‘You have some crumbs on your cheek. Looks like chocolate cake to me.’

  She grimaced and wiped them away. ‘Yes.’ She glared at him. ‘And you’re not getting any.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking. But now I know what to get you to thank you for your help. I appreciate the time you took to explain everything to me. I wanted to drop by to tell DS Grace that I’ve done what he asked and moved to an officially sanctioned address. I thought there might be some paperwork to fill in and this seemed like a good opportunity.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Liza looked at him coolly. ‘For some reason, I didn’t think you were the sort to voluntarily present yourself at a police station. And yet here you are, twice in one week.’

  ‘It’s a conundrum,’ he said cheerfully. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m just trying to get off on the right foot and avoid making enemies. This is a good chance for me to turn over a new leaf and be on the right side of the law for a change.’

  It was clear from the way she sucked in her cheeks that she didn’t believe him for a second, and he liked that about her. He could charm the pants off the gnarliest of werewolves, but Liza would probably always be suspicious of him regardless of what he did. Of course it was her loss in the long run, but he had to admire her stubborn resolution.

  ‘Who is it?’ DS Grace called from inside the building.

  There was something else that could be said about Liza: whether she worked with the police or not, she wasn’t worried about masking her true feelings. A spasm of irritation crossed her face. ‘Devereau Webb,’ she called back. ‘Again.’

  Devereau made full use of the opportunity and stepped smoothly past her into Supe Squad. A strange smell lingered in the air but he ignored it and strode down the corridor towards Grace. He didn’t want the detective to put him in an anonymous interview room; that wouldn’t help at all.

  He made it to the end of the corridor before DS Grace appeared from a room to the left and stopped him. ‘Mr Webb,’ he said. ‘What excellent timing. I have a few questions for you.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ Devereau said smoothly. He glanced into the room. There were several desks laden with blinking computers, stacks of books and papers. Fresh-faced PC Fred Hackert was sitting on a small sofa with a mug of coffee in his hands. Devereau beamed at him as if they were old friends. ‘Hey! How’s it going, Fred?’

  Surprised at being asked, Hackert jerked and glanced up. ‘Oh, it’s you. Yeah, things are alright.’ He paused. ‘Did you go to Heart the other day?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did you meet any vampires while you were there?’ There was something deliberately casual about his tone.

  ‘I hardly think this is the time—’ DS Grace started.

  Devereau ignored the detective. ‘I did. There was one lady in particular who was very helpful.’

  Fred put down his mug and jumped to his feet. ‘Oh yes? What was her name?’

  ‘Scarlett.’

  Fred’s eyes widened. Behind him, Devereau heard Liza click her tongue in exasperation.

  ‘Scarlett? You met Scarlett?’ Fred gasped. ‘How was she? What did she say?’

  This was perfect. Devereau took full advantage and walked into the room. ‘She was really helpful,’ he said. ‘She listened to all my woes and set me on the right track.’

  Liza snorted. ‘I’ll bet she did.’

  Fred frowned at her. There were two vivid points of colour high on his cheek. ‘She’s a good person, Liza.’

  Liza rolled her eyes.

  ‘You’re not allowed to be in this room, Mr Webb,’ Grace interjected. ‘If you follow me to one of the interview rooms, we can get some privacy.’

  ‘Sure.’ Devereau shrugged as if it were no problem and stepped back towards the door. Then he stopped. ‘Say, what is that smell? It’s really strong.’

  ‘It’s a mixture of verbena and wolfsbane,’ Fred replied eagerly. ‘Only supes can smell it. The fact that you can smell it so strongly proves that you’re a supe.’

  ‘I kind of thought that turning into a four-legged animal did that,’ Devereau smiled. ‘But sure, let’s go with smell.’

  ‘I expect,’ Liza said, ‘that you’re used to dealing with strange herbal scents after your visit to Heart.’
/>
  He glanced at her. ‘Actually, I did smell something odd in there.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ She smirked. ‘The vampires have their own concoction that they pump into the air. Whatever is in it is a closely-guarded secret, but it makes humans euphoric. It’s like some kind of legal high.’

  Devereau’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what does it do for werewolves?’

  Her smirk broadened. ‘It relaxes them. Stops them from feeling angry and aggressive.’

  Fair enough.

  ‘And,’ she added, ‘I’m told it also makes them highly suggestible.’

  Something inside Devereau’s chest hardened. No wonder Scarlett had made that remark about waiting until he was in full control of himself – and no wonder he’d opened up to her like he had. It had definitely been out of character. His eyebrow spasmed in annoyance.

  ‘All this chat is completely unnecessary,’ DS Grace blustered.

  ‘You’re right,’ Devereau said. ‘I only came to tell you that I’ve done as you requested and moved house. I’ll write down my address for you.’ He turned, searching for a pen and a piece of paper. Spotting a biro on the desk to his right, he took it and grabbed a Post-it note at the same time. There was a wad of paper and several handwritten notes in front of the computer; he couldn’t see the screen because it was angled away from him.

  Devereau bent down to write and squinted at the notes at the same time. 12 Goodman’s Alley. Registered owner Marsha Kennard. He scribbled his new address and straightened up. ‘Here you go.’

  DS Grace snatched the paper from him. ‘Why was your car in Whitechapel this morning?’

  ‘I heard there was a ruckus over there and that a werewolf was involved,’ Devereau said. He started his explanation honestly, though he wasn’t planning to end it that way. ‘I wanted to check it out for myself but I couldn’t get close. By the time I realised I was wasting my time, the traffic was terrible. I left the car where it was and came back by public transport. I’ll pick it up later.’

  ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that, do you?’ Grace demanded.

  ‘Well, I certainly wasn’t involved in what happened at Whitechapel,’ Devereau said. ‘I was moving house when it all kicked off – whatever it was. I’m sure my new neighbours will confirm that, as will the three clan alphas who came to welcome me to the neighbourhood. You’re free to check with them, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t need your permission to check anything,’ Grace said. ‘And I’ve already told you,’ he added as if he’d just remembered, ‘you’re not allowed to be in this room.’

  Devereau placed his hand on his chest. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ He moved towards the door but before he reached it, he turned to Fred. ‘I’m seeing Scarlett later tonight,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to pass on a message?’

  Fred started to stutter. Devereau smiled politely as his eyes slipped to the computer screen. There was a photo displayed on it; it looked like an official mug shot. He immediately recognised the face grinning unapologetically out at him – it was of one of the corpses from Goodman’s Alley. He scanned the text underneath it: David Bernard. 48 years old. Then he swung his gaze away.

  ‘Tell her,’ Fred said, ‘tell her that … that … that … I’m thinking of her.’

  Devereau nodded gravely. ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘Mr Webb!’ DS Grace hissed.

  Devereau smiled. ‘I’m on my way, detective. Thank you for having me.’

  Chapter Nine

  When he got back home, the kid was up. She was sitting groggily at the table in the kitchen with a bowl of cornflakes in front of her. That wasn’t the only thing that was different: instead of the permeating aroma of damp, there was a lemon freshness clinging to the air.

  Devereau frowned at Dr Yara, who was humming away to herself and washing a cup at the kitchen sink. ‘Have you cleaned up in here?’

  ‘I do a bit,’ she answered breezily.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘I know.’ She turned her head and gave him a crooked grin.

  ‘Thank you.’ He paused and added, even though he knew it probably wouldn’t do any good, ‘Don’t do it again.’ He pulled out the wooden chair opposite the girl and sat down. She didn’t look up. ‘Hi,’ he said gently. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Nothing. Not even a blink.

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  The girl raised her spoon and stared at it as milk dripped from its curved underside back into the bowl.

  ‘How about where you’re from? Or where your parents are?’

  She slowly moved the spoon towards her mouth then chewed several times.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about yourself at all?’

  The girl swallowed her mouthful. ‘I’m a monster,’ she said so matter-of-factly that he jerked.

  ‘No.’ He gave her a ferocious glare but immediately regretted it when she flinched. He softened his features. ‘You’re not a monster.’

  ‘I killed those people. Those two men.’ She dropped her spoon with a clatter and stared at her hands. ‘They’re dead because of me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She went back to resolutely ignoring him.

  ‘Look,’ Devereau said, persisting, ‘I can help you. But I need you to tell me—’

  Dr Yara walked up to him and placed a hand on his arm. She shook her head. ‘No. Now is not good time. Martina must eat, bathe, then rest. She can talk later.’

  ‘Martina? That’s her name?’

  Dr Yara shrugged. ‘Is what I call her. It means—’ she hesitated, searching for the words ‘—little warrior.’

  Huh. He glanced at the girl. It suited her. Despite her quiet meek appearance, he knew deep down that she was a fighter. ‘I want to help her, Dr Yara. But to do that, I need to know what happened to her.’

  ‘When she is ready she will talk,’ Dr Yara said serenely. She tipped her head towards the kitchen. Understanding, Devereau headed out. A moment later, Dr Yara joined him. ‘Martina, she has great trauma. Lots of pain. She need time.’

  ‘Pain? Physical pain?’

  ‘No. It is in here,’ she tapped her skull. ‘But in here is worse sometimes.’

  He nodded. He could understand that.

  Dr Yara wasn’t finished. ‘But she also has scars. Bruises. I do not think these are from her wolf. Someone do this to her. Someone hurt her before.’

  Devereau stiffened.

  ‘And she has mark.’ Dr Yara motioned towards her shoulder. ‘Here. Is—’ she struggled with the word ‘—like burn.’

  ‘Burn?’

  ‘You take iron and heat it and…’ She grimaced.

  ‘A brand?’ Horror filled him. Someone had branded the child?

  ‘Yes.’ Dr Yara nodded. ‘Brand.’ She reached into her pocket and handed him a piece of paper. She’d sketched out a facsimile of it: a squiggly line intersected with what looked like the letter M. As he stared at it, Devereau sucked in a breath of pure rage.

  Dr Yara looked at him pointedly. ‘Your hands,’ she said.

  He looked down. Wiry hairs had sprouted all over the back of them and his fingers looked misshapen and claw-like. He clenched his jaw and forced his hands back into human form. ‘Sorry.’

  Dr Yara didn’t appear concerned. ‘Is no problem.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll change again? Is she still … dangerous?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Now she is too tired.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe later. Tomorrow perhaps. She cannot control what is inside her.’

  Devereau rocked back on his heels. That was going to be a problem.

  ‘Stress will make it worse. We must be careful. But is okay, Mr Webb,’ Dr Yara said calmly. ‘I will help her. And you will help her. It will be good.’

  He sincerely hoped so.

  ***

  His attempts to persuade Martina to speak postponed for now, Devereau elected to work on the few scraps of information he already possessed. He’d exhausted all of h
is leverage with the various bigwigs and power brokers in London in his efforts to gain full-moon access to Regent’s Park. That was okay – it had been worth it – but it meant that now, in terms of research, Google was his only friend.

  He started with the supposed owner of 12 Goodman’s Alley where he’d found Martina and the bloodbath, and typed the name Marsha Kennard into the search bar. Scrolling through the results, he found only one listing for a Marsha Kennard in London. Given that it was for a funeral home notice from eight years earlier, he doubted it was going to be any use. Fortunately, when he searched for David Bernard, one of the men who’d apparently been killed by Martina when she was in wolf form, he had more luck.

  ‘Thank you, LinkedIn,’ he muttered under his breath. Apparently David Bernard was a high-profile solicitor who worked exclusively in financial law. He had a small office with a swanky address in Canary Wharf that Devereau made a note of. He wanted to know why a man like that had been in the small house in Goodman’s Alley because there was no good reason that he could think of. There were plenty of bad ones, however.

  With his research attempts completed for the time being, he picked up his phone. Rachel Foster hadn’t called him back; she was probably hoping he’d forgotten all about their earlier conversation. She should know better. The school day had finished over two hours ago and she’d had plenty of time to fulfil his request.

  ‘Mr Webb.’ There was heavy resignation in the headteacher’s voice when they finally connected.

  ‘Mrs Foster.’ Devereau smiled. ‘Have you done as I asked?’

  ‘Before I answer that, I want to know why you need this information. These are children we’re talking about. If there’s a chance that they could be in danger from the likes of you…’

  He interrupted her. ‘I don’t hurt children. In fact, I don’t hurt anyone.’