God, Win wanted his pipe. If only to have something to do with the restless energy that came over him when he was on the chase. “It’s like this. Jones can hypnotize a person with his eyes in some capacity. If his jewelry is anything to go on, he is fond of serpents. And he escaped his prison during an earthquake. All of which are in keeping with Apep’s talents.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets, excitement making him edgy. “He has the arrogance of a god, not a demon. Jones said the SOS ought to revere him. That gods have tried to defeat him and have failed. I think he yearns to announce who and what he is, but he fears it as well. Because he believes in the power of his name. And I wonder…”
“If he is Apep?” Archer’s mouth twisted. “It is rather far-fetched.”
“It is. He could be any number of demons.” But he knew he was correct; the knowledge hummed in his bones. More so, he knew there was a way to prove it if only he could figure out how. He turned and studied the drawing of Ra and Apep, depicted as a cat and a snake doing battle.
He glanced down at the scrolls once more as a memory hit him. “Is Apep’s name here?” Quickly he scanned the symbols, his heart racing ahead of him. “There.” He pointed to a familiar grouping. “Is that it?”
Archer peered down. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Son of a bitch.” Win grasped the back of his neck with both hands. “He wore his bloody name on his lapel. In the painting.” He pictured Jones’s smug grin immortalized in oils and laughed.
Archer grinned too. “I’ll put the name on the scarab.”
“I’m grasping at straws, and we all know it,” Win said. “There is still the matter of the bargain. But any small thing can help.”
“Since you have that under control, Lane,” Ian interrupted, “I’ve a favor to ask of you.”
“Is this what you came to talk to me about before?” Irritation at the interruption still rode high and colored Win’s tone.
Ian coughed, not meeting Win’s eyes. “Yes. It’s about Talent.” Ian’s voice was only moderately under control when he spoke again. “Put him to use on this case again. As soon as you can.”
“You think he’s ready?”
“He has to be.” Ian raked a hand through his overlong hair. “If he does not find a way to vent his rage, he will be lost.”
Just as Win had been lost before coming back to Poppy. Wincing, he squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I wish I could be of better help to him, but I don’t know—” His hand fell to his side, and he stared at the papyrus before him. “They all have a weakness.”
“Bloody hell, Lane,” said Ian. “What are you going on about now?”
Something surged within Win’s chest. He did not want to examine the emotion for fear of chasing the fragile feeling away, but it felt much like hope. Fighting a grin, he turned to Ian. “Where is Talent now?”
Ian’s eyes narrowed as he searched Winston’s face. “In his room at Ranulf House. Why?”
Win could not answer. Instead he clasped Ian in a hard hug, pounding the lycan’s back with one fist. “You’re bloody brilliant, Ranulf.”
“Well, yes,” Ian said as Win let him go and headed toward the door. “But would you mind telling me what brilliance I imparted this go round?”
Chapter Forty
Talent sat in a worn-down leather armchair the color of dried tobacco. He did not greet Winston as he walked into the room, nor did he appear to even notice. Winston knew better. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled near. Talent stared out of the tall window, and the grey London light fell hard on his face, highlighting the lines of fatigue, and the tributaries of pain recently wrought upon him. The only movement in him at all was the quick motion of his hand as he flipped an object over and under each finger before repeating the action.
Win stepped closer. The object was a cross. A crude thing made of iron, it was no more than three inches long. Whether Talent noted Win’s study of the cross, or he’d simply grown tired of fiddling with it, was unclear, but he stopped and covered the thing with his hand.
“I might wonder if you’ve come to gape.” Talent turned then, and the coldness in his gaze chilled. “Only I suspect you’ve been