“Ah,” Win stepped lightly down the center stairs, “but he is reputed to be an art collector. As was the demon Isley.”
Talent’s nostrils pinched as though scenting something foul. “Bloody demons. I hate dealing with them.”
“You can always go back to your room.” Win fought a smile as he glanced at the library door where the footman had told him Colonel Alden was taking a solitary drink. Winston tapped a finger against his walking stick and considered how best to approach the man. He looked Talent over. “How good a dog can you be?”
The corners of Talent’s eyes creased. “You’re attempting to flush a supernatural out, Inspector?”
“I gather most supernaturals would detect a shifter in their midst as opposed to a mere dog?”
Something dark flickered over Talent’s eyes then was gone. “Not all. But a demon ought to.”
“Then we’ll be sure to pay close attention to the colonel’s reaction.”
Winston expected Talent to find some privacy to change, but the man merely glanced about and, finding the corridor they’d stopped in empty, turned back to Winston with a devilish grin. The air about Talent suddenly shimmered, or perhaps it was Talent himself that shimmered. Whatever the case, it happened in the blink of an eye, too quickly for Winston to study. One moment Talent stood before him, the next an enormous dog looked up at him, panting as if it were laughing. By its side lay a pile of clothes and Talent’s boots.
Winston eyed the grey, shaggy beast with appreciation. “A wolfhound, eh? Cheeky.” He gathered up the clothes and stuffed them behind a potted palm. “Come along then, Felix.”
A low growl had him glancing down. “Too bad,” he said. “I’m keeping the name. Always wanted a dog named Felix.”
Winston entered a large library that looked much like any other manor library, filled with the ubiquitous leather couches and imposing portraits of ancestors past. It smelled of books and wood polish.
A man sat, half hidden by the wings of the red leather armchair he occupied. Blue coils of smoke drifted in lazy tendrils just above the chair. When the scent of tobacco hit Winston, he tensed. Jones’s cigarettes. Was it Jones?
The occupant of the chair stirred, and the firelight caught the reflection of one polished steel arm. Curious.
“Good evening, sir,” Win said as he came farther into the room.
The man gave a small start then leaned forward. Alert eyes watched Winston from beneath a set of white brows.
“Evening.” The man tapped out a line of ash in the crystal tray by his side. The action brought Win’s attention back to his false arm, which started at the elbow. From there, a true work of metal art was attached in the form of a forearm and hand, currently resting upon the leather arm of the chair. “Impressive beast you have there.”
Winston had almost forgotten about Talent. “He is my most loyal companion.”
Talent thumped rather hard against his leg on the way to find a patch of warm sunlight on the gleaming oak floor. He settled down with a grunt and promptly lowered his head.
“Lovely breed,” said the man. “Rare, though. I know of a Captain Graham who is attempting to revive it.”
“Admirable work,” Winston said.
The man’s keen gaze raked over Win’s face. “Hell of a set of scars.” The man said it with appreciation rather than disgust. “Didn’t think there were many wolves left to hunt. Seems you found one, though.”
Winston blinked. Strangely enough, most people did not ascribe his scars to a wolf attack. Most assumed they were the work of knives. “In this instance, it was a case of the wolf hunting me.”
“Good thing you had the dog.”
Winston ignored Talent’s amused huff and took a seat on the couch perpendicular to the man. “Are you Colonel Alden, sir?”
The man’s massive frame twitched just a bit. “Yes. And you are?” Not defensive, but cautious.
“Mr. Snow of London. In my earlier days, I was an Inspector First Class of the Criminal Investigation Division.” The lie flowed from his lips like wine from a bottle.
Colonel Alden made a sound of amusement. “Mouthful of a title, young man.” He sat impossibly straighter, his legs braced before him. “How can I help you?”
Winston had expected to ease into his interrogation. If only all the people he questioned were so accommodating. However, he would not mistake accommodation for truthfulness.
“I’ve been working on a case, by way of helping out a friend. I have heard