The Noose Of A New Moon (Wolfbrand Book 1) Read online

  THE NOOSE OF A NEW MOON

  By Helen Harper

  BOOK ONE OF THE WOLFBRAND SERIES

  Copyright © 2021 Helen Harper

  All rights reserved.

  BOOK COVER DESIGN BY YOCLA DESIGNS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Other titles by Helen Harper

  About the author

  Prologue

  She didn’t feel very well. Her skin was cold and clammy, and her whole body was shaking. It was like that time last year when she’d had the flu, except something about this felt worse. No, not something. Everything about this felt worse.

  She curled into a ball on the hard floor, wishing she had a blanket or something to hold for comfort. This wasn’t right. It didn’t take an adult to work that out.

  She could dimly hear footsteps approaching from the other end of the corridor. She felt herself stiffen. And then he was there, gazing at her from the other side of the metal bars with a smile on his face.

  ‘Angelica.’ He said the word as if it were a caress and it made her skin crawl. Every time he said her name, another part of her shrivelled up. The worst part was that he knew it. That was why he kept saying it.

  ‘Angelica. My angel.’ His eyes crinkled at the edges as he continued to smile. ‘You are my angel now, aren’t you?’ He pointed at her arm. It still hurt. ‘You have my mark on you. It proves you’re mine.’

  She didn’t move. All she could do was stare at him like a dumb animal.

  He turned away, gesturing to someone out of sight. A plate appeared, which he held up in front of her. She could smell it before she could see what was on it. Steak. Raw, thick bloody steak. Her mouth watered. God, she could probably eat a horse, let alone a single steak.

  ‘Angelica,’ he purred. ‘Are you hungry?’ He picked up a corner of the steak between his finger and thumb. A single drop of blood trickled onto the white plate. ‘I will feed you, Angelica. If you’re good.’

  She managed to unfurl her body and stand up on trembling legs. She reached one thin arm out through the bars. He jerked the meat away, dangling it just out of reach. ‘First,’ he said, ‘I want to see. Change. For me.’

  She shook her head. No.

  From the other side of her cell, someone shouted out, ‘Don’t do it! You don’t have to do it! You don’t—’ He didn’t get to finish his last sentence. His words were twisted into a high-pitched scream. A moment later he fell silent once more.

  The man in front of her continued to smile pleasantly. ‘You see, Angelica? You have to obey. If you don’t, it won’t be nice for you.’

  A sudden wash of crystal-clear understanding hit her. He could hurt her as much as he wanted, but she wasn’t his to command. He couldn’t do this to her. She wouldn’t let him. She raised her chin, defiance flickering in her eyes, and she uttered a single word. ‘No.’

  He wasn’t dismayed by her answer; if anything, it seemed to please him. He dropped the steak and ground it into the floor with his heel. He gestured again. ‘Bring him,’ he said.

  She tensed and tilted her head, listening. Oh no. She shook her head. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

  The man’s smile widened.

  The two men carrying her father dragged him into view. He had several bruises on his face and she could smell his blood, both from old wounds and new. When he saw her, he jerked free from his captors and flung himself against the bars. ‘Sweetheart! Are you alright? What have they done to you?’

  From behind her father’s back, the man raised a gun and pointed it at his head. ‘Angelica,’ he said. ‘What’s it to be?’

  He didn’t have to ask. The burning rage and bone-shaking fear had already taken over. She was no longer in control – it was. She snarled and her body twisted, then she snapped towards the bars that confined her, slamming into them again and again and again. There was only one thought in her mind. Kill.

  The man smiled down proudly at her tiny, quivering, werewolf body. ‘Good girl. Good girl, Angelica.’

  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 park.

  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.

  Thanks to their efforts in the area, crime was at an all-time low. Muggings, rapes, stabbings … they didn’t happen on the Shepherd’s turf. The police should be giving him a fucking medal. Three successive mayors and four different governments hadn’t been able to achieve what he’d done. His targets might feel like tragic victims but they only had to deal with the minor injustice of violence-free crime, unlike the people here who’d suffered generations of social injustice that affected their education, job prospects, housing and health. His people were the real victims.

  ‘For fuck’s sake
,’ he muttered. He strode over to the window and gazed out. It was barely seven in the morning and London was already wide awake. He glowered at the city laid out in front of him before dropping his gaze closer to home. There was a couple he didn’t recognise standing near the car park. Even from this distance, they looked far too smart and well-dressed to belong. The woman was brunette with long hair clipped back in a tight bun, while the man wore an immaculate blue suit and held himself too stiffly. They stuck out like a sore thumb.

  Devereau narrowed his eyes. No doubt they were more of the journalists Gaz had been talking about. He considered marching down to confront them and make it clear that they weren’t welcome. It was tempting, but it wouldn’t improve his current situation. He tore his eyes away.

  Fourteen storeys below his window, three people barely out of their teens were milling around on the path. He recognised them immediately. Unlike the journos, this lot had grown up here. He’d seen them change from cheeky kids to horny teenagers to young adults who cared about their community. Hell, last year one of them had baked him a bloody cake for his birthday. They were his people; he wasn’t going to abandon them just because every so often he turned furry. His tastes might have changed, but his motivation hadn’t.

  He watched the glum trio. It didn’t take an expert in body language to recognise how unhappy they were. Devereau unfastened the catch on the window and opened it slightly. Two weeks ago, he couldn’t have made out much more than the murmur of their voices from this distance but since he’d been bitten things had changed. No, not things. Everything had changed.

  ‘None of this is our fault,’ the dungaree-clad young woman complained.

  ‘Yeah,’ her friend muttered. ‘We’re being treated like animals just because he’s an animal.’

  ‘I saw him the other night, you know. He’s not an animal.’

  Devereau relaxed slightly.

  ‘He’s a monster.’

  He slammed the window shut and turned away.