Licence To Howl (Wolfbrand Book 2) Read online

  Licence To Howl

  Book 2 of the Wolfbrand series

  Helen Harper

  Copyright © 2021 by Helen Harper

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Yocla Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  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

  About the Author

  Also by Helen Harper

  Chapter One

  ‘Do I get a sporty car with an ejector seat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about a watch that shoots poison darts? Do I get one of those?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A pen with a hidden microphone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A gun?’

  Sarah Greensmith stared hard at him. ‘Mr Webb,’ she said heavily, ‘this is not a film and you are not James Bond. I am not M. There is no Q. And you are not a sex symbol.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’ Devereau linked his hands behind his head and offered her an easy grin. ‘Martini,’ he said, ‘shaken, not stirred.’

  Greensmith rolled her eyes and muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath while a pair of Lycra clad joggers bounced past them. Her eyes tracked them until they disappeared out of view. Devereau paid them little attention. He wasn’t stupid; he knew they met in places like this rather than any official MI5 buildings because nobody wanted to acknowledge that he was now working for the British government. He was a werewolf, and an ex-criminal. He wasn’t the type of recruit that tended to do much for PR.

  ‘What about training?’ he inquired.

  ‘You don’t get any training either.’

  He raised an eyebrow, surprised for the first time. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘We need you to be you. It’s why we have recruited you in the first place. Any training we provide will take the sheen off Devereau Webb, career criminal and lonely supe. It would make you look like a stooge. The less training you have, the more genuine you appear. We can’t allow anyone to gain even the faintest inkling that you are not anything other than what you present yourself to be.’

  ‘A drop dead gorgeous crime lord with a fondness for the full moon?’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘Don’t make me regret hiring you.’

  Devereau had the distinct impression that she was already regretting it. ‘What happens if I’m captured by an evil mastermind and tortured to force me to reveal everything I know?’

  Greensmith held up two fingers. ‘First of all,’ she told him, ‘you won’t know anything. Second, in that scenario it wouldn’t matter how much training we gave you. Everybody talks under torture. That’s why it’s so effective.’

  He watched her delve into the bag which sat beside her on the park bench. She started rummaging through it. ‘Suddenly,’ he said, ‘I’m no longer so sure that I want to be part of MI5.’

  ‘Too late. You’ve already signed on the dotted line.’ Her expression cleared as she found what she was looking for. ‘Here it is.’ She slid over a large brown envelope. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  For the first time, Sarah Greensmith smiled. ‘Your first assignment.’ She pointed at the envelope. ‘Information has reached us that a certain Member of Parliament has been compromised as a result of an evening he recently spent with a sex worker.’

  Devereau shrugged. ‘So? I imagine that sort of thing happens all the time.’

  ‘This particular MP has considerable dealings with the Ministry of Defence and he’s party to a great deal of sensitive data. Our tip off tells us that he’s being blackmailed by a gang out of South East London as a result of his dalliance. Your job is to either confirm or deny the allegations.’

  ‘And put a stop to the blackmail?’

  ‘No. All you have to do is find out whether it’s true or not. We will take care of the rest.’

  Devereau opened the envelope flap and took out the papers within. ‘Alexander Carruthers,’ he read aloud. The enclosed photograph was of a pompous looking man in his fifties. He had ruddy cheeks and appeared to be wearing a cravat. He looked like the very definition of an Eton educated British politician.

  ‘That’s the MP,’ Greensmith said.

  ‘Anything on the sex worker?’

  ‘She’s not important. We’re confident that she’s not part of the blackmail and is unaware that it’s taking place.’

  Devereau hesitated. Then he glanced through the rest of the papers. ‘The Wasps?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what the gang calls themselves.’

  ‘They sound like an amateur football team.’ His lip curled in disdain.

  ‘Well, if you manage to infiltrate them and discern the truth of the matter, then you can tell them that for yourself.’ She sniffed. ‘This is an important matter. There is the potential that the safety of our country is being compromised by this gang. They present a very real threat and we are counting on you to help us out.’ She fixed him with a steely-eyed stare. ‘Can we count on you?’

  ‘In spades.’ He winked at her. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I certainly hope not.’ She stood up and prepared to leave. ‘That will be all for now, Mr Webb.’

  He doffed an imaginary cap at her. ‘Cheers, Moneypenny.’

  Three hours later Devereau Webb swaggered into the grimy pub on the corner of Bell Street and took up position at the bar. Initially, the bartender, a short brown haired man with a wiry build and corded muscles visible on his sleeveless arms, barely glanced at him. Never one to be described as a shrinking violet, Devereau cleared his throat. ‘Pint of beer, mate.’

  ‘Not your mate,’ the bartender replied. Then he glanced up and took a proper look at his latest customer. It took less than a second for the man to pale dramatically. ‘You’re Devereau Webb.’

  Devereau didn’t smile and didn’t offer an autograph. ‘Get me what I asked for.’ He leaned slightly over the counter and permitted the faintest shadow of lupine whiskers to emerge around his jaw.

  The bartender swallowed and grabbed an empty glass. Devereau grunted in satisfaction as he filled it with amber liquid. In truth, he would never normally be so rude. In his experience, you caught far more flies with honey than vinegar. However, he’d spent the last hour or so reading what Greensmith had given him and then scoping out the pub from a safe distance. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this less than salubrious establishment wasn’t the sort of place where punters were expected to mind their Ps and Qs. If he was going to get anywhere fast with his first mission, he had to fit in. Play-acting as a grizzled werewolf with a nasty temper wouldn’t be hard, especially not with the full moon barely two days away. He’d only been a werewolf for four months but that had been plenty of time to discover how the lunar changes affected his mood, especially when he was working on an empty stomach.

  He took off his coat, draping it on a nearby bar stool. Devereau grabbed the sticky, faux leather bound menu sitting on the bar top next to him and scanned its contents. It was highly doubtful that the kitchen here had passed any food hygiene requirements. It was more likely, in fact, that any inspectors had been intimidated into giving the pub a pass. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers and Devereau had a façade to maintain. He shrugged to himself and barked again at the bartender as soon as the pint was presented to him.

  ‘Five of those burgers,’ he ordered. ‘No salad. No sauce. No buns.’ He paused. He liked all those extra components but he was trying to make an impression. In fact, he might as well go all out. ‘No cooking either,’ he added. ‘Just give me the patties on a plate.’

  ‘Raw?’

  Devereau tilted his head. ‘Did I,’ he inquired silkily, ‘or did I not say no cooking?’

  The barman took a step back, colliding with several stacked glasses as he did so. ‘Five raw burgers,’ he muttered. ‘Coming right up.’

  Devereau reached for his wallet but the man shook his head. ‘On the house.’

  ‘Are you trying to suggest that I don’t have the means to pay for my own food and drinks?’ Devereau asked.

  The bartender’s eyes widened. ‘N – n – no. I meant no offence. I’m sorry. I - ‘

  ‘Relax.’ He smirked. ‘I’m only playing with you.’

  The bartender stared at him mutely. Satisfied that he’d done enough for now and rather impressed with himself so far, Devereau lifted his glass and turned round to survey the rest of the
pub while he took several long gulps of the beer. There weren’t many customers. He glanced at the two middle aged geezers in the corner who were pretending not to look at him. Both wore high vis jackets and stained clothes that spoke of hard labour, probably somewhere on a nearby building site. To their right, there was a spotty kid playing the bandit machine with intent concentration and jangling a collection of coins in his right hand. And finally there was a white haired elderly lady in the corner with a gin and tonic on the table in front of her. She was watching him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Fancy a little of what you see, darling?’ Devereau called, splaying his arms out for her supposed delectation.

  She bared her teeth at him. He bared his own teeth back – and his were considerably sharper.

  ‘You threatening me mum?’

  Devereau glanced towards the source of the strongly accented voice. It was a man in perhaps his forties, wearing a flat cap and a shabby tweed suit, and looking for all the world like he’d just stepped off the stage as an extra in Oliver. Devereau knew a thing or two about carefully cultivated images. He also knew from Sarah Greensmith’s information that this was Ronnie Hitchens, the owner of this grubby establishment and de-facto leader of the Wasps. Well, he pondered, that had been even faster than he’d thought.

  He masked his thoughts and snorted. ‘I think she’s the one threatening me.’

  Hitchens looked over. Then, surprisingly, he grinned. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s probably right.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ma! Stop staring at the supe! You’re freaking him out!’

  The old woman glared. ‘You let all sorts of riff-raff in here, Ronnie.’ She pursed her lips in disgust and turned away.

  Devereau took an overly casual sip of his beer. ‘You run this place?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Hitchens looked him up and down. ‘Whatchoo doing here? We don’t usually get the likes of you walking through those doors.’

  ‘I was in the area and I fancied a pint,’ Devereau told him. Then, with a hint of a challenge in his voice, he added, ‘Is that a problem?’

  Ronnie Hitchens held his hands up. ‘No problem at all. I don’t care what or who you are. Your money’s as good as the next man’s.’

  The old woman coughed.

  ‘Or woman’s,’ Hitchens said quickly.

  ‘Here’s your food,’ the bartender said, sliding a plate across the bar top towards Devereau before stepping hastily away.

  Devereau nodded in brief acknowledgment and, using his fingers, picked up the nearest beef patty and took a large bite.

  If Hitchens was disturbed by his choice of meal, he didn’t show it. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, ‘man to man. Why’d you do it?’

  Devereau swallowed his mouthful. ‘Do what?’

  ‘You were the Shepherd. You had a good thing going. Why’d you ruin it by becoming a supe?’

  ‘You know who I am?’

  Hitchens met his eyes. ‘Everyone knows who you are.’

  Devereau reached for a second burger. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘I felt like a new challenge.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Or maybe,’ Devereau continued, ‘I wanted to feel what it was like to have some real power.’

  Hitchens’ eyes gleamed. ‘You’ve got power?’

  Hardly any. Not yet anyway. Devereau smiled. ‘Lots.’

  Hitchins wasn’t giving up yet. ‘I heard your old lot chucked you out. That the Flock don’t want a Shepherd who’s also a wolf.’

  ‘Some people don’t know what’s good for them.’

  Hitchins chuckled. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Ain’t that the truth indeed.’ And then, with a right hook so swift that Devereau didn’t see it coming, he punched him in the side of the face. Almost simultaneously, something hard and heavy hit the back of Devereau’s head. The half eaten patty slid from his hand and landed on the dirty floor. A moment later he joined it, his knees buckling. He groaned from the bursts of pain on both sides of his skull while Ronnie Hitchens bent down, his face looming over him. ‘You ain’t got that much power at all,’ he commented. ‘And you definitely don’t know what’s good for you either.’

  Devereau blinked. His vision was blurring. He stared at the feet of the two labourers who were directly in front of him and tried to focus, in a vain bid to hold onto the last slip of consciousness left to him. All he needed to do was call on his wolf and then Ronnie fucking Hitchens would see what he was really about. He reached for the animal inside him, attempting to stir it into action yet again. But as the two pairs of feet became indistinct and he tasted the unpleasant metallic edge on his tongue, he knew he was already out of time.

  The water which splashed in his face was icy cold. Devereau choked and spluttered, gasping for air. He jerked his arms, in an unconscious bid to wipe the water from his face. Unfortunately, however, his hands appeared to be bound fast behind him. He shifted his body. There was rope round his waist and chest, tying him to the very chair he was sat upon. At least his legs and feet appeared to be free.

  ‘Wakey wakey! Rise and shine!’

  Devereau shook his head to rid himself of the dribbling water, sending a shower of droplets into the face of Ronnie Hitchens, who was smiling unpleasantly towards him. Hitchens took out a spotted handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his skin with it.

  ‘Attacking a werewolf is not only dangerous,’ Devereau hissed, realising from the smell that he’d been shoved into a small back room of the same pub, ‘but downright foolish. You’re going to regret this.’

  ‘We shall see about that,’ Hitchens replied calmly. ‘It’s not as if you have a clan at your back who will spring into action on your behalf. You’re a lone wolf. You don’t have a pack of your own. Even the humans who once followed you have fallen by the wayside.’ Hitchens dropped the handkerchief unceremoniously on the floor. ‘So unless you’re planning to break free and rip my throat out, I reckon I’ll be fine and dandy.’

  Right now that was exactly what Devereau was planning. When he reached for his wolf again, however, nothing happened. And he could still taste something unpleasant on his tongue. This was not supposed to happen.

  As if he knew what he was trying – and failing – to do, Ronnie Hitchens smirked. Then he grabbed a nearby chair and swung it round, perching himself on it back to front with his legs straddling the seat and his arms draped casually over the chair’s back. ‘So now that you know you’re not going anywhere, why don’t you answer a few of my questions?’

  ‘You’ve not asked any yet,’ Devereau growled.

  Hitchins fixed him with a cold eyed stare. ‘Why’d you come into my pub?’

  ‘I wanted a drink.’

  He lifted one arm and smacked Devereau around the face. It wasn’t a particularly hard knock but it was unpleasant all the same. ‘Try again.’

  ‘The warm inviting exterior drew me in.’

  Hitchins hit him again, this time with slightly more force. Devereau felt his teeth rattle. He spat out a glob of blood onto the floor. Ick.

  ‘You might think you’re being clever but it won’t help your cause,’ Hitchens murmured. ‘For one final time, why did you come here?’

  Devereau exhaled. ‘You are under the delusion that I’m friend-less and there’s no-one at my back but I can assure you that’s not actually the case. Clan or no clan, there are plenty of supes who owe me favours. Not just wolves either. There are several vampires who will do just about anything for me.’

  Hitchens sighed. ‘I didn’t ask for idle threats. I asked for an explanation as to why you’re here.’

  ‘And,’ Devereau retorted, ‘I’m giving you one. You’re not patient enough to listen to all of it. A few days ago, one of the vampires who’s in my debt came to me with a proposition. She had come into some information regarding your little operation here. She knew that I was looking for a new group to work with and she suggested that the Wasps here might be a good bet. I’m no longer so sure about that.’