Page 16 of Licence To Howl
Two wolves appeared on the rooftops to his left. Three similarly shaggy heads emerged on the roofs to his right. He glanced over his shoulder and noted the five werewolves standing abreast across the width of the road before returning his gaze to the front. There were four at ground level up ahead.
The werewolves began to close in. Their heads and shoulders were dipped low, not in submission but in full stalking mode. In a matter of seconds, they’d dropped a net around him, making it difficult – but not impossible - to escape. Outnumbered or not, Devereau wasn’t planning to run. He wanted to exactly know why his Italian counterparts had decided to make an enemy of him before he decided what he was going to do next.
He remained in place as they drew closer and closer, watching as their breaths clouded in the cold air. Not one of the approaching werewolves took their eyes away from him for so much as a moment. At least half had drawn their lips back over their teeth and he could see the raised hackles along the spine of several of them.
Devereau adjusted his cuffs and smiled. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’
The only answer he received were a few low key growls. Then, however, he heard the rumble of an approaching car. None of the werewolves reacted to the noise, indicating that it was expected. Devereau felt the brief jab of familiar, tense pain in between his shoulder blades. A moment later a brick red Ferrari that screamed ostentatious extravagance appeared from round the corner.
It rolled up towards the line of werewolves facing Devereau. Then the engine turned off and the driver’s door opened. And yet, nobody appeared.
Devereau rolled his eyes. Talk about deliberately attempting a grand entrance. He made a show of yawning – and then smirked when one of the nearby werewolves also yawned. The action forced the hand of the Ferrarri’s occupant and, finally, a man stepped out.
Whoever he was, he smelled, looked and acted alpha. He was taller than Devereau and possessed a more muscular build. He wasn’t like the male model who’d been at the auction earlier that night, however. Regardless of the show he was putting on, the muscles belonging to this man were born for action, not Instagram. His dark hair was wavy, curling round the nape of his neck and his moustache, which would look ridiculous on anyone else, gave him a surprising air of machismo. He reminded Devereau of someone although he couldn’t for the life of him think who.
As soon as he stepped forward, the werewolves facing Devereau stepped back, parting like the damned Red Sea. Devereau folded his arms and waited for the Italian alpha to come to him. When he was close enough for Devereau to see both the curls of a dark tattoo edging out from under the sleeves of his tailored blue shirt and the scars which etched across one side of his tanned face, he came to a halt. Then he raised one hand in front of him and stared hard at the heavy gold watch encircling his wrist.
‘I paid twelve thousand euros for this watch,’ he declared in accented English. ‘It has a lifetime guarantee and it’s all but brand new. And yet,’ he shook his wrist, ‘it already appears to be broken. Perhaps I should have purchased a Swatch instead.’ He looked over at Devereau. ‘Do you know why I think it’s broken?’
Was this really necessary? Devereau sighed and shrugged.
‘I think,’ he continued, ‘my expensive watch is broken because I am Nicolo Moretti. I am the alpha of Lupo. And I know with absolute certainty that as the alpha of Rome’s one and only werewolf clan, any visitors to my city who claim an ethnic kinship with me will always do me the courtesy of calling on me within the first seven hours of their arrival. No wolf would dare to insult us by doing otherwise.’ He raised his eyebrows at Devereau. ‘You landed at Fiumicono airport at three twenty in the afternoon. My watch tells me that it is now almost one o’clock in the morning. But that must be wrong because you would not dishonour me or my clan by waiting ten hours to come and pay your respects.’ His gaze hardened. ‘Would you?’
Ohhhh. As someone who used to have his own little fiefdom in London, Devereau understood the importance of both respecting someone’s turf and playing by the rules. Moretti’s response was heavy-handed but Devereau could grasp the reasons why. A little understanding went a long way.
‘Let me guess,’ he said, ‘you live at Piazza Armerina?’
Moretti gesticulated expansively. ‘You see?’ he called out to the other werewolves. ‘You see? Who was it who suggested that Signore Webb did not know us? He knows where we live. He knows who we are.’ Moretti’s mouth tightened and he glanced again at Devereau. ‘So? Explain yourself, Signore Webb.’
Devereau dropped his shoulders by a fraction of an inch and relaxed his muscles. If appeared defensive, he would merely encourage aggression. Easy does it, Dev, he warned himself. Don’t be a prick. ‘I must be honest,’ he said, meeting Moretti’s narrowed gaze, ‘I did not know of you.’ Before the Italian alpha could say anything to interrupt, he continued, ‘and that is on me. I should have taken the time to find out what the situation is here in Rome before I arrived. Several people mentioned Piazza Armerina. I foolishly assumed it was a tourist attraction and did not ask about it in more detail.’ He swooped into a bow. ‘I humbly offer my respects and apologies to the alpha of the Lupo clan.’
‘Pretty words,’ Moretti sneered. ‘But they do not make up for the insult.’
This dance was not unfamiliar to Devereau. ‘What reparations can I make that would satisfy you then?’
Moretti closed his eyes. His cheekbones sprouted fur and the shape of his mouth and jaw altered. He bared his lupine fangs at Devereau for a fleeting moment that was designed for nothing other than intimidation. Then he returned his features to human. ‘Submit to me.’ He opened his eyes again and a sheen of yellow rolled across his irises. ‘Submit to me and succumb to clan Lupo.’
In other words, allow himself to be forced into Moretti’s clan as a wholly subservient and low ranking wolf. As if. Devereau hadn’t attempted to join any of the four London clans. He certainly wouldn’t join this one, no matter how delightful Rome seemed to be. ‘I’m not going to do that.’
Moretti appeared unsurprised. ‘Then,’ he said, with an unconcerned shrug, ‘you die.’
Almost immediately the circle of werewolves began to press in. Devereau hissed under his breath. ‘Is this really necessary?’ he asked. An instant later, one of the nearest wolves launched herself at his head. Devereau raised an arm and blocked her attack in the nick of time. She landed on the ground with a surprised whine, her legs splayed awkwardly across the tarmac.
Moretti didn’t so much as look at her. ‘I have heard that it took four bites to turn you, Signore Webb. I have heard that nobody has seen as werewolf of your size and power in generations.’
Devereau permitted himself a tiny smile. ‘You heard right.’
‘This is not London, Signore.’ Moretti regarded him coolly. ‘When your people were crawling out of the Thames on their bellies, Rome was being built by wolves. I am sure you have heard of Romulus and Remus. The power of the wolf is in this city’s arteries. It has been this way for three thousand years. You might think you are strong. But you have not seen what the werewolves of Rome are capable of yet. In fact, you will soon learn that –’
Devereau didn’t get the chance to find out what he was about to learn. Moretti was interrupted by the sudden wail of a siren. It was followed by the blue flashing lights of several police cars.
‘Porco cazzo,’ Moretti spat. He glared at his own werewolves in disgust. They all cowered in response. Clearly, someone hadn’t done a good enough job as lookout.
‘I guess,’ Devereau said conversationally, ‘London’s not the only city where the authorities don’t get on well with supes.’
Moretti glanced at him. ‘They’re all fucking idiots,’ he said with a flash of unexpected honesty, before he turned to greet the uniformed policeman who had exited the first car and was striding towards them. ‘Sostituto Commisario Venti!’ he beamed. ‘Come va?’
Venti launched into a stream of irritated Italian. Devereau watched Moretti’s expression. Whatever the irate copper was saying, it obviously wasn’t going down very well. So much for Roman authorities giving Italian supes a free pass then.
