Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4) by Helen Harper (top non fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

‘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.

‘Boss?’ Gaz asked. He twisted fingers together and looked anxious.

‘How many people have come forward so far?’

Gaz swallowed. ‘Come forward?’

‘To be bitten,’ he growled. ‘To be turned.’

Gaz paled slightly. ‘I thought the law