Licence To Howl by Helen Harper

Chapter Twenty One

Sarah Greensmith hadn’t yelledat him. Yelling wasn’t her style. She had, however, been icy cold and demanded that he get his arse to the airport and onto a plane to London without any further delay. She hadn’t appeared particularly impressed with his theories about RBPL either.

‘You’re basing this off what? A scrap of paper and a brief conversation with a crazed wannabe terrorist?’

‘It fits,’ Devereau had insisted. ‘Not only that but Solentino made a point of mentioning coordination in relation to terrorist attacks.’

‘Chrisopher Solentino is dead.’

‘But his ideas might not be.’

She had gone silent then. But not for long. ‘MI5 will consider this further. You will return to London.’

‘Not yet, I won’t.’

‘Goddamnit, Devereau!’

He’d hung up after that and destroyed the burner phone which Moretti had given him for the very purpose of calling her. There was no point continuing the conversation further and he’d told her everything he knew. He crossed his fingers and hoped that MI5 would take his theory seriously. But he was ready even if they didn’t. Devereau Webb, Nicolo Moretti and Scarlett Cook might be an unlikely trio to save the world. They’d do it if necessary, however. With that thought, he tumbled into the bed in one of Moretti’s lesser known properties and crashed out.

When he woke up five hours later, he felt like a new man. Or wolf. Whichever. Six fights and a chase through the streets of Rome might have pushed him to his physical limits and, unlike a human, his inevitable collapse had been far more dramatic, but at least his lycanthropic blood allowed him to recover quickly. It was just as well. Devereau was well aware that there was a considerable amount to do.

He found his suitcase, thoughtfully left at the foot of his bed, and quickly dressed before heading out in search of Scarlett. She’d clearly taken advantage of the hiatus to get some sleep herself and also looked considerably refreshed. Even better, she also had a pot of coffee on the go.

‘It’s good to be Nicolo Moretti,’ she said, passing him a steaming cup.

‘And it’s good to be one of his friends,’ Devereau agreed. The Italian alpha might possess a gargantuan ego – but both the size of his heart and his willingness to help matched it.

‘You’ve timed your sleep well. He just phoned,’ Scarlett informed him, ‘and by the sounds of things, he’s managed to dredge up some useful information although he wouldn’t say what over the phone.’

Excellent. Devereau nodded and took a sip of the coffee. He had faith that Moretti would come good and that it wouldn’t be long before they’d catch up with Vissier, Avanopoulos, and whoever the fuck had murdered Solentino and the rest of the crew.

‘How’s your stomach doing?’ Scarlett asked.

‘Better,’ he said.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘And my ring?’

Devereau scratched his chin. ‘No sign of it yet. It’s proving more stubborn than I’d have expected. In fact -’

Scarlett held up her hands. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘on a need to know basis, I’ve decided I don’t need to know. You can keep your bowel movements to yourself. Give me the ring when it finally appears.’

Devereau grinned at her although, secretly, he was regretting swallowing the damned thing at all. It had seemed like a good idea at the time and it helped to get them in with Solentino. It had been a rash move, however, and wasn’t something he’d be tempted to try again. He also realised that discussing his toilet needs wasn’t the way to appear to be the suave, sophisticated man that Scarlett deserved.

‘What is it you look for in a partner?’ he asked suddenly.

Scarlett flicked him a side look. ‘I take it,’ she said, with a sudden cool note, ‘that you’re referring to a romantic partner?’

Devereau bobbed his head. ‘I’m not asking because I’m fishing. I’m genuinely curious. You had a fling with that young copper in Supe Squad.’

‘Fred, you mean.’

‘Yep. He seems like a nice kid.’ Devereau pursed his mouth. ‘If you like that kind of thing.’ He paused. ‘But he and I have nothing in common. Do you have a type, Scarlett? Or you more of a pick and mix kind of woman?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘I simply like a buffet.’

‘Uh huh. I’m more of an a la carte kind of man.’

Scarlett snorted. ‘I bet you are.’ She met his eyes. ‘What are we talking about any more? I’m getting confused.’

Devereau kept his tone soft and non-combative. ‘Stop trying to change the subject.’

‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I like who I like at the time and that’s all there is to it.’ She turned away and busied herself with washing up the coffee pot.

Devereau gazed at her rigid back. Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he had in common with Police Constable Fred Hackert. Hackert was a bright-eyed, bushy tailed human male who would likely end up with a sweet wife, two point four chubby cheeked children and a house in the suburbs. Devereau was a growly, ex-criminal werewolf who worked best on his own. Neither of them were the sort of men who would be expected to want to settle down with a vampire. They were safe – as far as Scarlett was concerned – because in theory neither of them would want a long term relationship with someone like her. Theories were all very well, however. In practice, Devereau wanted to wake up next to Scarlett every day in his foreseeable future. From what he knew of Fred Hackert, the young policeman had wanted the same before she’d gently pushed him to the side. The trouble with Scarlett was that she under-estimated herself far too much. And for reasons known only to herself, she was terrified of commitment. She didn’t want to be caged by a man. But Devereau didn’t want to trap her. Neither did he want to put her on a pedestal. She wasn’t perfect and neither was he. He was convinced, however, that they were perfect for each other. What he wanted more than anything was to run wild with Scarlett by his side. He let out a long sigh. It didn’t appear a particularly likely outcome right now. More’s the tragic, heart-rending, stomach-churning pity.

The sound of the front door opening broke into his reverie. A few moments later, Nicolo Moretti appeared, striding through to greet them with an intensely satisfied expression on his face. Devereau felt automatically buoyed. It was clear he’d made headway. This was good. This was what they all needed.

‘All right!’ Moretti rubbed his palms together. ‘All right! I have news and you’re going to like it!’ He pointed to himself. ‘Who’s the man? Who is the man?’ He gazed at them both expectantly.

Devereau couldn’t help smiling. ‘You,’ he said drily. ‘You are the man.’

Moretti nodded with excited vigour. ‘I am the man.’ He beamed from ear to ear.

Both Devereau and Scarlett looked at him.

‘What?’ he asked blankly.

Scarlett raised an eyebrow. ‘What is the news then?’

Moretti jumped up onto the kitchen counter, his legs swinging in the air like a small child’s. ‘We’ve located Geraint Vissier. I’ve got eyes on his motorbike as we speak and I know which building he’s cowering in. He’s not far away.’

Devereau was already moving towards the door. ‘Where? Where is he?’

‘Holed up in a house on the edge of the city. The sort of place frequented by drug users and those wishing to keep away from the prying view of the Roman authorities. The police won’t know about it yet. These people do not usually talk. They are not snitches.’ Moretti bared his sharp teeth in satisfaction. ‘But I am not the police. They talk to me. Or at least some of them do.’ He looked at Devereau. ‘And before you go marching off at high speed, I also have information on the Greek.’

Devereau paused. ‘Go on.’

‘The Athens clans all know of him.’ Moretti took a piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it over. It was a photo of a dark haired man who certainly looked the part. He was muscular, heavily tattooed and his face was twisted into an ugly snarl. ‘Apparently,’ Moretti continued, ‘he is a particularly nasty piece of work although one of the Athens alphas told me they’d met him and didn’t think much of him. What is your British expression? A few sandwiches short of a picnic? The people I spoke to said that sums up what they know of Stefan Avanopoulos. Dangerously malleable. Their words, not mine.’ He shrugged. ‘In any case, I have called in a few favours and the Greek wolves are searching for him as we speak. They know how to track someone down. We’ll have him pinpointed by the end of the day. I am sure of it.’

‘We’re getting somewhere,’ Scarlett said. Her voice was quiet but there was a hard smile on her lips.

Devereau met her eyes. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘We are.’

* * *

It took longerto reach the house than Devereau would have wanted. Moretti was relaxed and joking the entire way, reassuring both him and Scarlett that Vissier wasn’t going anywhere and that there were werewolves from clan Lupo watching the place. Until he was looking the slimy Dutchman in the eye, however, Devereau wouldn’t be confident. They had to get to him and they had to find out everything he knew.

The afternoon sunlight was insipid by the time they got to the right street. The impressive buildings and architecture of the city centre had been replaced by uninspiring office blocks and apartment buildings. This wasn’t the sort of area that tourists frequented. Devereau instantly felt more comfortable. He knew places like this; he’d spent most of his life in them.

‘The house we want,’ Moretti murmured, ‘is over there.’ He gestured towards a ramshackle building. Half of its roof appeared to be missing. There was an old chimney stack, veering to an angle that even the Tower of Pisa would have balked at. All the windows, which were firmly closed, were lined with grime. Even if they had been sparkling clean, however, it would have been impossible to see inside. Most of them were covered from the inside with old newspaper. Devereau noted the young woman hanging around outside. She had thin arms and a pinched face, although she couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. The ravages of drugs like heroin and spice weren’t confined to London. He glanced past her and spotted the motorbike parked by the side of the pavement. Excellent.

Scarlett looked the building over. ‘It’s three storeys,’ she said, ‘and stretches quite far back. There must be a lot of rooms. I don’t suppose your intelligence includes where exactly Vissier is?’

Moretti shook his head. ‘Once it was established he was inside, I told my people to leave the place alone. I didn’t want to alert him in any way. Our best chance of grabbing him unharmed is to catch him by surprise. If you wanted him dead, it would be easy but I expect you’d like to talk to him first.’ Moretti cracked his knuckles. ‘But do not think that I will allow him to stroll away from here no matter what answers he provides. This bastard is threatening my city. Nobody does that and gets away with it.’

Devereau knew exactly how he felt. ‘We can’t become executioners and we can’t hurt him,’ he said nonetheless. ‘We need to know what he knows. All of it.’

‘Have no fear on that score,’ Moretti told him. ‘By the time we are done with Geraint Vissier, we will know everything.’ There was a steely ice behind the Italian’s eyes that Devereau hadn’t seen before, even when they’d first met. He nodded once and stepped out of the car. Vissier was within striking distance. They were practically breathing the same air.

Nicolo Moretti might indeed be well connected enough to get information about the current occupants of this place but there was no doubt in Devereau’s mind that Vissier also had to have close contacts. When they’d met over that gruesome lunch, there had been nothing about the Dutchman that had indicated he was a drug addict, or that he dabbled in such things. He obviously wasn’t a native to this city either. Someone had told him about this place. Vissier still had friends – and that meant he still had avenues of escape which were open to him. They would have to tread very carefully indeed.

A young werewolf bounded up to Moretti with her ponytail swinging. She muttered to him in a stream of low Italian. Then Moretti translated.

‘We have the house surrounded on all sides. If Vissier makes a run for it, he won’t get far. Besides, the man is a human, no? We are all supes. And I am the best supe of them all. He will not get away.’

‘You are wrong, Nicolo,’ Scarlett said. ‘You are a werewolf. Vampires are superior to werewolves in every way. You are not the best supe.’

‘I am.’

‘You are not. You may be the best wolf but I will not allow that you are the best supe.’

Moretti allowed his cheekbones to momentarily sprout fur. ‘Can you do this?’ he taunted.

‘Why would I want to?’ she replied.

Devereau hissed in irritation. He knew the light hearted banter was Scarlet and Moretti’s way to diffuse the tension of the situation and to convey their confidence that Vissier would soon be in their custody. But it still annoyed him. As childish as it was, he wanted to be the only damned supe that teased Scarlett like that.

‘Aw. The English wolf wants us to think he’s the best supe.’ Moretti reached across and chucked him under the chin.

Devereau gave him a hard frown. ‘Let’s focus, shall we?’ He marched ahead until he was level with the front door. The young woman loitering outside glanced at him with vague disinterest, dismissing him quickly when she decided he wasn’t someone who could help with her particular needs. Devereau noted the bruises and track marks on her arms and felt a wave of empathy that he knew she wouldn’t appreciate. She sniffed and turned away, starting to walk down the street and away from him with a curiously bow-legged gait. Devereau watched her retreat for a moment or two. Then he turned to the house.

‘Ready?’ Moretti asked, walking up with Scarlett.

He nodded. ‘I only want Vissier. Nobody else is to be hurt.’

‘Not a problem.’ Moretti whistled, raising one hand and circling the air with his index finger to indicate to his waiting wolves that they were ready. ‘Let’s go get’im.’

‘No.’ He set his jaw. ‘I should go in alone.’

‘You want to play sole hero, Englishman?’ Moretti asked.

‘It’s not about that.’ Devereau glanced at Scarlett’s scowl. ‘I know places like this,’ he said. ‘I know how to act in a manner which will not draw trouble or attention. The two of you, not to mention all those other werewolves, will stick out like a sore thumb. You’re more likely to cause problems rather than solve them. You don’t belong somewhere like here. I do.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Or at least I belong more than you do. We need Vissier to talk. We don’t need him injured.’

A muscle throbbed in Moretti’s jaw. ‘My werewolves would not hurt him unless I told them to.’

‘I know that,’ Devereau said calmly. ‘But Vissier might injure himself in an attempt to escape. There are others inside that building too. I can conduct myself in a way that won’t draw either their suspicion or their ire. Those people will be closer to me and my kind than they ever will be to you and yours. It’d be better if you stay out here in case Vissier does decide to run. In that case, it’s open season. But let me make the initial approach on my own.’ He met Moretti’s eyes. Both men knew he wasn’t asking but instructing. Fortunately, for once, the Italian didn’t let his own ego get in the way.

‘Very well,’ he bit out.

Scarlett folded her arms. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘But you know this is the best way.’

Her mouth tightened. ‘I still don’t like it.’

Devereau grinned at her. ‘Thank you, Scarlett.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Just don’t fuck this up.’