by Helen Harper
They marched three abreast down the street with the captive gunman stumbling behind them. It was only when Martina started to drag her feet that Devereau allowed them to slow down.
They were far enough away from both Lisson Grove and Soho that he could steal a car without it being immediately traced back to him. There was an estate car on the other side of the road that was so old he knew he could break into it easily. He pointed it out to Dr Yara. She clicked her tongue in disapproval but followed him with Martina and their captive.
Devereau tried the door. It was astonishing how many people forgot to lock their cars and it was always wise to check before forcing a door open. Unfortunately, the owner of this vehicle was smart and the door didn’t budge. Before he could try anything else his phone started to ring. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket with his free hand and glanced at the screen. Three missed calls, all from Mrs Foster.
He frowned as the phone continued to ring. He debated with himself and then answered it. ‘Hi Scarlett.’
She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. ‘Have you spoken to all the alphas? How did they take the news?’
‘I spoke to some sniffy werewolf called Robert,’ he answered, unwilling to lie to her outright.
‘That’s one of Lady Sullivan’s betas.’
‘I figured.’
‘What about the others?’
‘I haven’t spoken to them yet.’
There was a beat of silence. ‘Where are you now, Devereau?’
The best way to answer any question that you didn’t want to answer was to ask a question. ‘What about Lord Horvath? How did His Fanginess take the news?’
Scarlett hissed. ‘He’s not here. He’s gone up country to deal with something else.’
What a shame. ‘Oh dear,’ Devereau murmured.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she continued briskly. ‘I’ve gathered up plenty of the others. I’m heading to your place to get hold of your prisoner so we can question him. The rest are heading back to the warehouse to investigate it inch by inch. Tell the clans to meet them there.’
Devereau didn’t answer. The silence stretched out painfully.
Eventually Scarlett spoke again. ‘I was afraid of this.’ She sighed with grim resignation. ‘You haven’t told the alphas what’s going on, have you? Are you back at your house? Is Martina with you?’ She hesitated. ‘Devereau, are you being a fuckwit and doing something really stupid?’
The smallest smile curved his lips. ‘Scarlett,’ he said, ‘you knew deep down I was going to do something really stupid. And you wouldn’t have let me go off alone to do it if you didn’t approve, even though you can’t say so aloud.’
‘The next time I see you, Devereau Webb, I’m going to slap you so hard…’
‘I’m already looking forward to it. Take care, Scarlett.’ He ended the call.
Before Scarlett could call back and berate him again, he hit Mrs Foster’s number. To his surprise, she answered on the third ring. Despite the late hour, the headteacher didn’t sound tired at all. ‘Mr Webb. I was hoping you would call me back.’
‘You have news for me?’
‘I do. I’ve managed to locate the girl’s identity. I know who she is.’
Devereau sucked in a breath and glanced at Martina. She was staring at the ground. His fingers tightened round the phone.
‘Go on.’
‘Her name is Angelica Crystal. She’s from Bromley. Her father is her sole guardian as her mother is deceased. He’s a businessman who runs some kind of import company. She’s not been reported missing, but she’s been absent from her school for three weeks and they’re concerned. They’ve contacted her father several times and he’s not responded. Social services haven’t had any luck in getting hold of him either.’
‘Angelica,’ Devereau whispered. As soon as he said her name, her head whipped up. He couldn’t mistake the sudden terror written across her face. The bound gunman also stared at him, his baleful expression clear despite the night gloom. ‘Thank you for this, Mrs Foster,’ Devereau said more loudly. ‘I think that, given the circumstances, it would be wise if you keep the information about her to yourself for now. I’ll take care of things from here.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr Webb. You’ve involved me now by divulging what’s happened to this girl. I completely agree that it would be sensible not to approach either her father or the police until you’re sure exactly what has happened, but you can’t seriously expect me just to forget about her.’
Devereau turned and walked a few metres away. He kept his voice low. ‘Right now she’s both dangerous and in danger. It’s safer for you if you forget you ever heard of her.’
‘I can’t do that. Where is she at the moment? I can’t imagine that she’s in an appropriate environment for a child. You need a responsible adult who’s going to look after her properly.’
‘I am a responsible adult.’ Some of the time, anyway. ‘And I’ve got help. In fact—’ He broke off as he thought of something. ‘Mrs Foster,’ he said suddenly. ‘How many bedrooms do you have?’
Chapter Eighteen
It was after three in the morning when they reached the detached house with its pristine front garden and smart red-brick facade. Martina was curled up gently snoring in the back seat of the stolen car, while Dr Yara stared out of the window, agog at the vision of London’s suburbia. It was a far cry from the tower block where she lived, and it was certainly different to the ramshackle terraced house which Devereau now rented. For one thing, there weren’t any visible bullet holes.
‘We can trust her? This teacher?’
Devereau’s eyes flitted round the quiet street, piercing dark bushes and examining shadowy corners. ‘We have to,’ he said simply. ‘But wait here in the car for a few minutes first.’ He paused. ‘Just in case.’ They were already risking far too much to take any foolhardy chances.
He opened the car door and stepped out, tilting his head for a moment to listen. From the end of the cul-de-sac there was a rustle and he stiffened, watching as the leaves on a bush quivered. A fox padded out, its nose raised as it too sniffed the air. Its head twisted towards him and it froze, staring at him. The fox knew instinctively that he was a dangerous predator who was to be avoided at all costs. It remained stock still for several seconds before bolting across the road and disappearing into the shadows of another garden.
‘You don’t concern me,’ Devereau whispered after it.
He turned on his heel and examined the rest of the area. All of the houses, bar Mrs Foster’s, were in darkness. He suspected that the people who lived here were the sort who ensured they had security lighting at their front and back doors. There were certainly enough Neighbourhood Watch signs to give any burglar pause. Rather than upsetting him, however, their presence comforted him. Nosy neighbours meant there would be less chance that strangers could slide in without being noticed.
Satisfied that the street was devoid of watchers, he returned his attention to Mrs Foster’s home. The curtains were drawn but it was obvious from the weak glow that there was a light on downstairs. He couldn’t make out any movement from inside but that was to be expected. Stepping forward on the balls of his feet, he walked across the dew-laden grass where his footsteps would be muffled. He ducked low beneath the window and listened again; there was no sound other than the hushed murmur of classical music.
Abandoning the front of the house, he checked the rear. Mrs Foster appeared to have a penchant for ugly gnomes: they were dotted all over the back garden. Several of them looked remarkably evil and he glared at one that seemed to be giving him the eye.
Satisfied that all was quiet, he went to the back door and tapped gently on the glass. Within moments, Mrs Foster appeared, a belted dressing gown wrapped tightly round her body. White-faced, she peered out before registering his features and relaxing. ‘You’re alone?’ she asked as she opened the door.
‘I’d like to check your house first,’ he said. ‘It’s not that I don’t t
rust you but…’ He shrugged and amended his words. ‘It’s that I don’t trust you.’
Fortunately, she didn’t seem offended. ‘That’s wise, Mr Webb. I’m still wondering whether I can trust you. This is my home. And you’re a werewolf.’
‘Before I was a werewolf, I was a crime lord,’ he said. ‘A small fact that you were aware of and which never bothered you.’
Mrs Foster’s brow creased. ‘Oh, I beg to differ, Mr Webb. You were no crime lord – a crime squire at best, if we’re being honest.’ Devereau raised an eyebrow and she smiled. ‘I have a nephew who works for you. Or at least he used to work for you.’
He had no idea who she was talking about. ‘It doesn’t bother you that I led a family member of yours into a life of crime?’
‘It was a year of his life at best. Ian was always a troubled lad, despite our best efforts. He worked for you for ten months and then you booted him out and sent him on his way to university.’
‘Ian Tanner,’ Devereau said slowly. ‘He went off to do electrical engineering.’
She nodded. ‘He graduated last year.’ She looked at him levelly. ‘Let’s be clear, I do not approve of what your organisation does but you sorted out Ian. He still speaks very highly of you.’
‘Even though I’m now a werewolf?’
‘Even now.’ She gazed at him assessingly. She might be in a dressing gown but she still cut a formidable figure. ‘Tell me what it means to be a werewolf.’
He crossed his arms in exasperation. ‘I’m sure you’ve read plenty on the subject in the past few days.’
‘I want to hear it from you.’ She fixed him with a glare.
‘I left school at fourteen,’ he said. ‘I was expelled and I never bothered going back. I don’t think I can explain it eloquently enough for your purposes.’
‘I doubt that very much, Mr Webb. I think you’re more than eloquent enough for the both of us. I might be a school teacher but I’m not naïve enough to think that intelligence only begins at the classroom door.’ She waved at him impatiently. ‘Speak. And be quick. You’re letting in a draught.’
He didn’t appear to have much choice. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘I have power,’ he said finally. ‘When I change, I can feel it in every sinew, in every vein and in every bone of my body. I’m hyper-aware of everything and there’s almost nothing or no one that I don’t think I can kill. When I’m a wolf, I can smell what people feel. Their emotions seep through their pores with such strong scents that I’m amazed I never noticed them before. There’s a man tied up in the boot of my stolen car right now and, even though he’s metres away and I’m like this,’ he gestured at his human form, ‘I can still smell his terror.’
Mrs Foster’s hand rose to her throat in horror. ‘What do I smell like?’
‘Confusion,’ he said. ‘Fear. Wariness. Worry.’ He tilted his head. ‘And garlic.’
She gave him a puzzled look before her expression cleared. ‘Oh. I had chicken Kiev for dinner.’ She swallowed. ‘Why is there a man in your boot?’
‘He tried to kill Angelica Crystal, and I think he might have some answers about what’s happened to her and who is responsible.’
‘Will you torture him?’ Her voice was steady despite the loaded question.
Devereau didn’t lie. ‘I will do what it takes to get the information I need from him.’
Mrs Foster didn’t blink. ‘Have you ever killed anyone, Mr Webb?’
He thought of the man from the roof who’d fallen next to PC Hackert’s shiny shoes. ‘I have,’ he said quietly, and with considerable shame. ‘Not as a wolf but as a man.’ He didn’t attempt to explain that it had been self-defence, or that the man had been trying to kill him. He’d done what he’d done and he would own up to it. ‘I won’t hurt you, Mrs Foster. I won’t hurt Angelica Crystal. I can’t say more than that.’
She gazed into his eyes then stepped aside and gestured him indoors. Devereau jerked in surprise. ‘You told me the truth, Mr Webb. I can ask for nothing more.’
‘You have to be sure.’
She nodded. ‘I am.’
He didn’t smile. ‘Then call me Devereau.’
She held out her hand. He took it.
‘I’m Rachel,’ she said softly.
***
He didn’t take long checking Rachel Foster’s home. Nobody else was there. ‘Your husband?’ he asked.
‘My wife passed away last year,’ Rachel said.
Devereau winced. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That I had a wife? Or that she’s dead?’
‘Both.’ He put his hands in his pockets in a vain attempt to avoid the sting of discomfort from showing in his body language.
‘I try to keep my professional and personal lives separate,’ Rachel said. ‘I was more successful than I realised.’ She gave a slight smile, although it lacked humour. ‘Madeleine had cancer. It still feels very raw.’
Alice’s face flashed into his mind. ‘I’m truly sorry.’
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘Everyone always is. When I heard about Alice’s leukaemia…’ She didn’t finish her sentence.
‘She was lucky.’ He looked down. ‘We all were.’
‘I’m glad.’ Rachel sounded as if she meant it. ‘Listen, about the library. I’m truly sorry for what happened.’
Devereau growled, ‘I don’t care about the damned library.’
‘Fair enough. I just want you to know that it wasn’t my decision. We all have to answer to other people.’
‘I don’t answer to anyone.’
She laughed. ‘Of course you do. You’ve got a young girl waiting out there and probably an entire community of werewolves somewhere, too. Where is Angelica anyway?’
Devereau rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’ll go and fetch her.’ He went back to the front of her house and nodded at Dr Yara, who was still in the passenger seat of the car. She opened the door and peered at him. ‘Is alright?’
‘Yes.’
Dr Yara sniffed. ‘Good.’
From the back, Angelica stirred. ‘We’re here?’ she asked sleepily.
‘We are.’ Devereau smiled at her. ‘You’ll be safe here.’
She didn’t flinch. ‘I won’t be safe anywhere.’
He had no response for that.
The three of them walked to the front door where Rachel was waiting. She smiled with far more warmth than he’d seen before. ‘Hi, Angelica. I’m Rachel. It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘Martina.’
Rachel started. ‘Pardon?’
‘My name is Martina.’ There was a mutinous tilt to her chin. ‘It means little warrior. I don’t want to be Angelica again. He called me Angelica all the time and now I don’t want that name.’
Devereau, Dr Yara and Rachel exchanged looks.
‘Who is he?’ Devereau asked.
Martina stubbornly pinned her mouth shut and shook her head. It was clear she wasn’t going to talk.
Rachel recovered first. ‘Then Martina it is,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Are you hungry? I know it’s the middle of the night but I can get you a snack, if you like.’ Martina shook her head. ‘Then let me show you to your room. I’ve made up a bed for you.’ She glanced at Dr Yara and Devereau. ‘There’s a room for the two of you as well, if you don’t mind sharing.’
‘Dr Yara can take it,’ Devereau said. ‘I have a few things I need to deal with.’
Both women looked at him.
‘Yes,’ Rachel murmured. ‘I suppose you do.’
Yara gave him a disapproving frown that Devereau pretended not to see. ‘Call me if there’s any hint of trouble,’ he said.
‘We’ll be fine.’
He sincerely hoped so. He nodded once and left.
***
This wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do but he was going to do it anyway. Steeling himself, he drove the car until it was several miles away from Rachel Foster’s house, then found a quiet spot on the edge of some pla
ying fields and pulled up. He walked round and opened the boot. To the gunman’s credit, he’d stayed quiet throughout the journey but he let out a terrified squeak when he saw Devereau gazing down at him.
Devereau reached down and removed the gag. ‘You can scream now if you want,’ he said conversationally. ‘Nobody will hear you if you do.’ He wasn’t entirely sure that was true but it sounded good. The key to success here was brutal confidence, the more brutal the better. He’d had plenty of practice in the past – and now he was a werewolf he had even more tricks up his sleeve. ‘What’s your name?’ His tone was mild.
The man hesitated. ‘Morty,’ he quavered. ‘What do you want?’
Devereau grinned nastily. ‘To have a little fun.’ He grabbed Morty’s shirt and hauled him up, dragging him out of the boot and depositing him unceremoniously on the ground. ‘Take a look around.’
His captive lifted up his head and gazed round. ‘Wh – what? There’s nothing here.’
‘Exactly.’ Devereau licked his lips. ‘I’ll give you a twenty-second head start.’
‘Huh?’
Devereau smirked and finally allowed the werewolf inside him to take over. Within moments, his hands and feet changed to heavy paws. His body grew and altered. The release was almost orgasmic. He shook out his fur and drew his lips over his sharp lupine teeth.
And that was when the man in front of him started to run.
Devereau watched. For someone who’d lost a lot of blood and had recently spent a considerable amount of time unconscious, Morty was putting on a good show. He sprinted away, zigzagging across the first field. Unfortunately, it was often used for amateur rugby matches and the ground was uneven, with divots and holes and bumps that would make even the best runner struggle. He’d barely managed thirty metres before the toe of his shoe caught in a rut. Momentum flung him forward and he landed spread-eagled on the ground.