Page 9 of Licence To Howl
Gulping in one last breath of heady Roman air, Devereau turned and headed into the hotel. It was grander than he’d been expecting. His gaze roved over the mahogany and brass fittings, polished to within an inch of their lives, and then he strode up to the front desk.
‘Ciao.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Webb,’ the receptionist replied in perfect English. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
Devereau tried not to look too surprised. He’d expended his entire knowledge of Italian in his greeting so it was something of an embarrassing relief that the dark haired woman knew who he was and was speaking to him in his own native tongue. This was clearly a hotel that expended considerable effort on customer service. She didn’t appear nervous of him. Another tick in Rome’s favour. If everyone he came across over the next few days treated werewolves with this sort of relaxed attitude, he might enjoy himself. Hell, he might emigrate. ‘I’m pleased to hear that.’
‘Would you like to check in?’
‘I would indeed.’ He handed her his passport.
The receptionist gave him a professional smile and began to tap at her keyboard with her manicured nails. ‘Your room is on the twelfth floor. Breakfast is served from between six and ten in the morning in the Blue Room opposite the lifts. The bar is open all day until midnight. Would you like a map of the local area?’
It wouldn’t do any harm. ‘Sure.’
She reached into a nearby drawer and lifted out a folded wad of glossy paper. Deftly opening it up to reveal a simple map, she pointed out the hotel. ‘We are here,’ she said. She moved her finger. ‘The Colosseum is here. The Trevi fountain is here and St Peter’s Basilica is here. And here,’ she added importantly, ‘is the Piazza Armerina.’
The what? ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Here is your key. Enjoy your stay.’
Devereau smiled, flashing his teeth. ‘I certainly will.’
* * *
He checkedhis appearance in the mirror before he left his hotel room. Devereau wasn’t typically a suit sort of man but the situation – and the environment - seemed to call for smarter attire than his usual jeans. The last time he’d worn this particular dark grey suit had been at a friend’s wedding. He adjusted his cuff links and fiddled with the collar of his pristine white shirt. Then he gazed for a moment at his reflection. His dirty blond hair was just the right side of ruffled and the line of stubble around his jaw was neat enough to appear deliberate rather than lazy. He looked the part.
‘So why,’ he asked himself aloud, ‘do you feel nervous?’
Gallingly, he already knew the answer to his question. He was in unfamiliar territory in every sense of the word. It wasn’t only about Italy. For the first time in his life, he was on the side of law and order. His own country had put their trust in him. It shocked him how much he wanted to do well.
‘You have nothing to prove,’ he told his reflection. ‘You’re Devereau Webb. You’ve got this.’ He permitted a tiny lupine growl to rumble from deep within his chest. ‘You’ve so got this.’ Devereau brushed away an invisible speck of lint from his shoulder. Then he headed out.
There was a warm buzz of chatter in the bar, and a considerable number of people milling around. They certainly couldn’t all be hotel guests. Presumably they were here for the auction which was due to start shortly. Devereau caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a Peroni before picking up a nearby catalogue and flicking through it. There were only nine lots and they all appeared to be jewellery. He cast a professional eye over the offerings. The fifth lot was a diamond necklace that would be easily broken down. Although the settings were elaborate, the cut of each stone was surprisingly pedestrian. Each of the separate jewels could be sold separately and no-one would be any the wiser. In fact he knew of several dealers who would give him a very good price for it and who would act quickly enough to avoid even the whisper of detection. He smiled slightly. Old habits died hard.
‘You look,’ murmured a female voice, ‘like something has caught your eye.’
He glanced up, his eyes meeting those of a brown haired woman. She was half a foot taller than he was and had the sort of smooth complexion and alluring perfume that spoke of considerable wealth. He didn’t need to touch the pearls round her neck to know that they were real and there was no doubt in his mind that the jade green dress she was wearing, and which perfectly matched the colour of her eyes, was from some sort of expensive fashion designer.
‘Let’s say,’ he said, ‘that I have a professional interest in pretty jewellery.’
The woman’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘I have heard that about you.’ She extended her hand towards him. ‘My name is Alina.’
‘Devereau.’
Her smile grew. ‘I know. I’ve seen your name in the news. You made quite the sensation when you turned into a wolf the first time. I would ask you for a demonstration but I don’t think the hotel management would be very happy.’
He smiled back at her. ‘Probably not. Although people here seem far more relaxed about werewolves than they do in London.’
‘I imagine they are.’ She nodded towards the auction catalogue. ‘So will you be putting a bid in?’
‘For the necklace? I doubt it. I know you won’t be bidding for it either.’
Her eyebrows quirked upwards. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘It doesn’t look like your style.’ He flipped through the pages until he reached details of second last lot. ‘I reckon you’re here for this,’ he said, displaying the well lit photo of a delicate bracelet. ‘It seems much more your thing.’
Alina’s eyes danced. She leaned in more closely and lowered her voice. ‘Guess again,’ she whispered.
