Licence To Howl by Helen Harper

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It wasall about using the right lure in the right way. There was only one thing which Devereau had that might work. It was a gamble and it might all come to naught. But he had nothing to lose. He swallowed down the last of his breakfast and made several phone calls. By the time he was finished and heard the burble from the television set in the next room, the news was already filtering through to the world at large.

Devereau wandered through. Dr Yara was watching the screen with wide eyes.

The newscaster’s expression was bright. ‘A spokesperson for British security services told us that the events which occurred in the early hours of this morning will serve as an important deterrent to anyone who thinks they can threaten the security of either our country or our European neighbours.’

He snorted to himself. Yeah. The PR machine was already in full swing. If he was right about Alina Bonnet, however, the real culprit behind all the bombs and threats was still at large.

‘Plans are already underway for an inquiry into the security failings which led to this point,’ the newscaster continued. ‘The Prime Minister has said that he will give it his full backing.’

There it was. If he wasn’t going to be pinpointed as the reason why the terrorists weren’t stopped earlier, then there was no doubt that any inquiry would land blame squarely at Sarah Greensmith’s feet instead. Somebody had to be the fall guy. Stefan Avanopoulos fitted that bill for the terrorists. Greensmith would play the same role for MI5. Devereau shook his head. The powers that be would allow themselves to believe that everything was over and done with and wrapped up in a neat little bow. He knew differently – and if he played his cards right, he’d prove that knowledge to the rest of the world.

‘You is angry,’ Dr Yara observed. She gestured to his hands. He glanced down, noting the fur which had sprouted across his skin.

‘Yes,’ Devereau said. ‘I’m angry.’ A ghost of a smile crossed his face. ‘But I’m not done yet either.’

* * *

The first phonecall came at midday.

‘I’ve got a buyer for you.’

Devereau’s hand tightened round the phone. ‘Go on.’

‘A Russian guy. He’s bought similar items in the past. He’ll give you two million in cash no questions asked.’

‘Not interested.’

‘It’s a good offer.’

‘Nope.’

‘You have something against Russians?’

He shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I’m picky.’

The speaker on the other end of the line sighed. ‘Suit yourself.’

By the end of the day, Devereau had fielded three more similar calls. There was an English businessman who was well known for purchasing expensive works of art with dubious histories who offered one point five. An Irish company were prepared to hand over one million and the deeds to a large house on the outskirts of Dublin. An upstart hereditary Lord with investments in various diamond mines put another two million on the table. Devereau politely declined them all.

‘You’re not making my life very easy.’

‘Easy is over-rated,’ Devereau answered.

‘If we could open bids up to supes, you’d make more money.’

‘No.’ He was adamant. ‘No supes. I told you already. I don’t want a single supe anywhere to hear so much as a whisper about what I’m selling.’

‘Everything I’ve brought you so far is a genuine offer. The buyers are known to me personally. You could be quids in.’

He remained unruffled. ‘Let’s wait for now. I’ll know the right offer when I hear it.’

The broker grumbled. ‘You didn’t used to cause me these many headaches.’

‘Bear with me. It’ll be worth it,’ Devereau promised.

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Are you sure you’re feeling alright? I don’t hear from you for months. Then when I do, you’re acting like some kind of lunatic. I know you turn furry these days but I didn’t think you’d turn into an idiot as well as a damned werewolf.’

‘There’s method to my madness.’

‘Whatever.’

He hung up. Devereau massaged the back of his neck. If he’d gotten into the business of stealing and selling magical rings before he’d become a werewolf, he’d have been a very rich man indeed. Regret twanged at him. As much as it pained him to decline so many lucrative offers, he had to be patient. It was early days. This might still work.

The last call came a few minutes after midnight. Dr Yara had long since loped off to her bed. Devereau was lying on the shabby sofa in the living room and dozing off himself. He wiped away the line of drool from the side of his mouth and answered.

‘Alright.’ The broker’s voice was heavy. ‘I know what you’re going to say but hear me out. I’ve got someone who’s willing to pay around one point five. I know we’ve had higher offers and this one is only for cryptocurrency but when it’s converted to sterling –’

He sat bolt upright. ‘Bitcoin?’

‘Yes. She said she can transfer it to any online account of your choosing. You might prefer to be old-fashioned and receive cold, hard cash. I’m the same. There’s a lot to be said for this internet shit though.’ From the way the broker spoke, he was unconvinced, despite his attempt to persuade Devereau otherwise.

‘Make the trade.’

There was a beat of silence. ‘You’re sure?’

A slow self-congratulatory smile spread across Devereau’s face. ‘I’ll be at the pub on Bell Street in the East End at midday tomorrow to hand it over.’

‘It’s almost the Winter Solstice. Don’t you want to wait another day and see for yourself if this daft ring even works?’

Devereau grinned. ‘Accept the offer, make the trade,’ he repeated. ‘This is exactly what I want.’

* * *

Devereau pushed openthe door to the grubby pub at two minutes past twelve. The bartender glanced up, his eyes widening in alarm as he registered who had just walked in. The white haired woman in the corner was already getting up to her feet.

‘Get out of here, you mangy dog,’ she hissed.

Devereau ignored her and strode up the bar. ‘Pint of beer,’ he ordered. There was no sign of Ronnie Hitchens. But then that was probably a good thing.

The bartender’s gaze flicked to the woman then back to him. ‘I don’t think –’

The pub door opened again. Devereau’s nostrils twitched but he didn’t turn round. ‘Just pour the drink,’ he growled. ‘And don’t try and slip anything in it this time.’

There was the click of high heels. A moment later, Alina Bonnet appeared by his side. ‘Well, well, well,’ she drawled. ‘This is an interesting establishment.’ She looked round, taking in the old woman and the bartender and obviously dismissing both of them as threats.

‘It might be a little less salubrious than what you’re used to,’ Devereau answered. ‘And it’s not the sort of place where someone as rich as you would want to spend their time.’ He watched the bartender as he placed the foaming drink in front of him. ‘But it has its charms. What would you like to drink?’

‘A glass of dry white wine.’

The bartender stared at her.

‘You don’t serve wine?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Prosecco?’

‘We’re not that kind of place.’

Alina sniffed. ‘Apparently. I’ll have a glass of water then. No ice.’

The bartender reached for a smudged glass and filled it up with tap water before putting it down in front of her. Both Alina and Devereau looked at it.

‘There’s something floating in that water,’ she said faintly. ‘Tell you what. I’ll go without.’ She sniffed and turned round, her eyes falling on a nearby table and chairs. ‘Shall we sit?’

Devereau gestured. ‘Ladies first.’

She did as he suggested. Devereau took the chair opposite and leaned back. He had to admit that she looked good. Her eyes were clear, her appearance was immaculate and, when he delicately sniffed the air, he could scent nothing beyond confident pleasure emanating from her. Alina Bonnet was not suffering from any sleepless nights or traces of guilt about what she’d done. Far from it.

‘If you know I’m rich, Mr Webb, then you know what I’ve done.’

Devereau didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’ve been following the news. I know what happened to Solentino. Given what he’d already implied about his upcoming plans, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened next.’ He met her gaze. ‘Does it bother you that I know?’

She crossed her legs. ‘Not particularly. You’ve not told that vampire of yours, have you?’

‘She’s not like us. She wouldn’t understand.’

Alina permitted herself a small smile. ‘I knew you of all people would get it. Christopher did too. It’s why he was so willing to bring you on board in the first place.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘The pursuit of wealth is a glorious thing.’

For the briefest moment, Devereau had a flashback to the Pantheon, and two young boys dressed covered in blood and dust and pain. ‘Indeed,’ he murmured. ‘Indeed.’

‘I tried to keep you out of it, you know. I persuaded Christopher to let you go so you wouldn’t be there when everything went down. It was thanks to me that you weren’t present.’ She licked her lips, enjoying the memory. ‘If you’d been in the apartment, you’d have met the same fate as he did. I liked you and I wanted to spare you that sort of ending.’

Possibly. But it was more likely the prospect of a werewolf and a vampire had been too much and she’d done what she could to keep both him and Scarlett out of the way. Alina had needed to control the situation. Two powerful supes would not have aided her cause in any way.

‘In that case,’ he answered aloud, ‘I should thank you.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You certainly should.’

He reached across the table and took her hand before lifting it to his lips. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, pressing his mouth to her skin with slow, deliberate languidity.

Alina couldn’t stop herself from shuddering in delight, although whether it was his open gratitude or the feeling of his lips on her hand, he wasn’t sure.

‘What you accomplished in that apartment,’ he said, ‘was so very impressive. Did you kill them all yourself?’

She laughed slightly. ‘Do you think I’m afraid of getting my hands dirty? Of course I did. At the end of the day, the only person I can truly trust is myself. Those idiots didn’t see it coming for a second. To them I was nothing more than Solentino’s bit of fluff. But I showed them all.’

‘You certainly did.’ Devereau injected the right amount of admiration into his voice. ‘And leaving your own blood at the scene was a particularly deft touch.’

‘That wasn’t just for you although it helped that your fangy friend had drunk from me earlier. I was painting a picture for the world to see. Christopher already had everything in place and ready to go, you see. It didn’t matter if he was alive or dead. Everything was set up and the rest of our people in Rome, Berlin, Paris and London were ready to go. They wanted to be paid and they didn’t care who paid them.’

‘Solentino didn’t die easily.’

‘I wanted everyone to think he’d been forced to give up the information that I already knew.’

Devereau watched her. He knew that wasn’t the real reason Solentino had been tortured. It was only the excuse. Maybe part of the reason had been to pay him back for the way he’d treated her but Devereau suspected that mostly Alina had just enjoyed it. The cold light in her eyes suggested it.

‘You let Vissier go.’

‘Gee was weak. Plus, I knew what he knew. There was no doubt that sooner or later, he would be arrested and he would give up every detail of our plans. I wanted every government to know I was coming for them. It was perfect misdirection and the best way to get what I wanted. Gee Vissier was under my control at every moment.’ She shrugged casually. ‘And I had a bit of a soft spot for him. I didn’t need him to die.’

‘What about Stefan Avanopoulos?’

Alina actually giggled. ‘Oh, he was so very pliable. I knew Bartan wouldn’t accept me taking over if Solentino died so I persuaded Avanopoulos to get on board instead. He killed Bartan for me and then stepped up with barely a moment’s pause. Stefan was so very helpful. And I needed someone to take the blame. I’d never get away with the money otherwise. It was really very easy to rig one more bomb up and get rid of Stefan and the others at the end.’

She really was very pleased with herself. ‘You planned for everything,’ Devereau said.

‘Everything apart from this.’ She gazed at him. ‘I’m supposed to be the only one left who knows the truth. But now there’s also you.’ She paused. ‘Do you have the Ring of All Seasons with you?’

‘Why do you want it now? You’ve achieved everything you wanted.’

‘I told you when we first met,’ she said almost dreamily, ‘that ring is power.’

Devereau raised his shoulders. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘here you go.’ He reached into his pocket and drew the ring out, placing it in the centre of the table between them.

Greed lit her face. ‘You’re a good man, Devereau Webb,’ Alina said. ‘And a very stupid one.’ Her hand dropped under the table, delving into the bag she’d left by her feet.

The air to Alina’s right shimmered. She barely had time to raise the gun to chest height when something smacked into her arm, forcing her to drop it.

‘That’s the second time I’ve been called stupid inside this pub,’ Devereau said, ‘and it’s not any more true on this occasion than it was last time.’

The air shimmered again, coalescing into the familiar shape of Tatton O’Brien. With near lightning speed, he bent down and scooped the gun up before backing away and inspecting it.

‘Fully loaded,’ he said. ‘With silver bullets. What was the plan, lovie? Put one of these babies in poor Devereau’s head, take out the barman and the old woman and run for the hills?’

Alina’s face twisted into a vicious snarl. Then she lunged towards the leprechaun, flipping the table and sending the Ring of All Seasons, Devereau’s barely touched pint and several sticky coasters flying in all directions. O’Brien laughed and danced out of her reach. Devereau spun and grabbed her by the shoulders, hauling her back. ‘Give it up, Alina. You’re done.’

‘Fuck you.’ She rammed her elbows into his midriff. Devereau gasped but didn’t let go. Then, however, she reached for her belt and, seemingly from nowhere, produced a knife she’d had concealed under her top. In one swift movement, she twisted the blade and arced it round, slicing deeply into Devereau’s forearm. His blood splattered across the sticky pub floor and he released her.

She twisted her head left then right, assessing the situation. ‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘Devereau fucking Webb. Who are you really?’

From the doorway at the back of the pub, the one which led down to the basement, a voice appeared. ‘That furry fucker’s one of us.’

They all turned. It was Ronnie Hitchens, holding a gun of his own. He was pointing it steadily towards Alina’s head.

She screamed in rage and ran at him. He loosed off a single shot. Alina screamed again as the bullet slammed into her upper arm, throwing her off balance. She wasn’t giving up yet, however. She staggered forward, still clutching the knife, and reached for the old woman to use her as a shield. ‘I’m walking out of here,’ she spat. ‘Lower your gun or this old biddy gets it.’ She wrapped her injured arm round the woman’s waist and pressed the blade against her throat.

Nobody moved. Alina glared at Ronnie and, with obvious reluctance, he lowered his gun. Then she swung her head towards O’Brien. He looked at Devereau.

‘Put it down,’ Devereau said quietly.

‘Yeah,’ Alina sniped. ‘Do what the wolf says.’

O’Brien’s eyes flashed but he too lowered the muzzle of the gun. Alina smiled nastily and began dragging the old woman to the door. The bartender twitched. Devereau shook his head at him.

‘Don’t,’ he said.

Alina smirked. Then, with the woman pressed tightly against her, she kicked the door open and disappeared.

‘Well, this is a fecking shitshow,’ O’Brien muttered.

Devereau grimaced. Then he sprinted out after Alina.

She hadn’t gotten very far. She was curled into a ball in the middle of the pavement. The white haired woman was holding the knife and frowning at it while two werewolves, both in animal form and both with their jaws snapping, flanked Alina on either side. The smaller wolf growled, her fur bristling.

‘It’s alright, Martina,’ Devereau murmured. ‘You can stand down.’

The young werewolf immediately relaxed.

‘Good work,’ Devereau said. ‘You didn’t let her get far at all.’ He peered down at Alina’s body. ‘You’ve not hurt her much, have you? We need her alive.’

The second werewolf blinked, transforming into his human form. ‘Wasn’t us, boss,’ Morty said. ‘It was the old lady that did that.’

The old lady in question glared at Morty and his now naked body. ‘For goodness sake,’ she said. ‘Put that away. This is a respectable neighbourhood and we have appearances to maintain.’

To Devereau’s genuine surprise, Morty blushed brick red and used his hand to cover his groin.

‘Are you alright, ma’am?’ Ronnie Hitchens asked, appearing in the doorway.

‘Of course I am,’ she snapped. ‘It’s a cold day in hell when someone like that gets the better of me.’ She stared at them. ‘Well, come on then! Get her inside before somebody sees! I’m quite sure the cavalry is already on its way.’

‘They’ve been called,’ Hitchens said, picking up Alina and backing into the pub. She was quite clearly out for the count.

Devereau scratched his head, still not entirely sure what had happened. ‘Uh …’

‘I suppose, young man, you thought you were being clever by bringing her here,’ the woman said to him. With some distaste, she dropped the knife to the ground. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘you were. It was a clever move. I heard the entire conversation.’ She held her hand out. ‘As you may have guessed, I work for the same outfit as you do. You can call me Em.’

‘M?’

She gritted her teeth. ‘Em. Short for Emily.’

Devereau nodded and tried to suppress his smirk. ‘Sure. Nice to meet you, M.’ Then he bowed. It seemed the right thing to do.