Ned followed Visconti into the breakfast room, wondering if he was stuck in some bizarre dream. His stomach growling at the delicious aromas from the sideboard convinced him he wasn’t.

He thanked the maid who brought him a cup of tea and filled a plate with eggs, kidney and bacon, then glanced at Visconti, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Thank you, Mary. We can take it from here,” he told the girl. 

Once she had left, Ned summoned the nerve to say, “You must be joking, sir. I’ve known Inspector Blackwood for five years. He always struck me as the kind of Puritan who would have happily burned witches at the stake in olden times. Or even anyone who missed a Sunday service.”

Visconti chuckled and spread butter over a piece of toast.

“The greatest trick the devil ever played was to convince the world he doesn’t exist.”

Ned’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “The devil?”

“Don’t be so literal, sergeant. I am just saying we didn’t survive this long by advertising what we are. You pass witches and other supernatural creatures in London every day. And yet in this day and age, people will bend backwards to find a ‘natural explanation’ for any magic they witness with their own eyes.”

“Other supernatural creatures?” Ned repeated weakly.

“Mostly harmless. One could even make a case that you are one of them. Not a witch, but not a regular human either. Just like the Shadow.”

“So the killer is not … one of yours?”

Visconti took a thoughtful sip of coffee and explained, “Witches and warlocks have innate magic. A Shadow, however, is a magic void. A bit like you. But while you destroy any magic that touches you, a Shadow absorbs it and learns how to use it.”

“How do you just absorb … magic?” Ned asked, still stumbling over the word.

“I am not quite sure. No one has seen a Shadow in Europe for centuries. I’m afraid my predecessors were very keen on hunting them to extinction in less civilised times.”

Ned watched him carefully, then asked, “And people like me?”

“Struck down on sight,” Visconti confirmed.

“What luck we live in more civilised times then. Which doesn’t mean you won’t kill me if I prove a danger to your godson,” Ned guessed.

“I hope that will not be necessary,” the old man said calmly.  

Ned wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know more, but the decision was taken from him when St Clair came in, followed by the cat strutting behind him. He headed towards the sideboard with suspiciously red ears while the cranky feline jumped on the chair next to Ned. He tried to push it off, but all it got him was a hiss and sharp claws digging into his bruised wrist.

“What did Blackwood say?” Visconti asked cheerfully.

St Clair put a kipper on a plate and sighed. “He confirmed that Sergeant Kelly was with him on night duty when Lilly got killed, then proceeded to give me an earful about impulsive young men with too much imagination.”

Ned knew that lecture all too well and couldn’t suppress a flicker of sympathy. St Clair put the kipper in front of the cat, saw Ned’s scratched hand and muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you apologising for the cat or yourself?” Ned asked dryly.

“It is useless to apologise for Molly. She never regrets anything. Unlike me.”

Ned held his gaze for a moment, then realised that was all the apology he could expect. It didn’t matter anyway.  It wasn’t like words could make anything better.

“If you are done keeping me prisoner here, could you direct me towards the train station?” he finally asked.

“I could, but the line is blocked. The train we took last night barely made it here and is now stuck in Canterbury because of the snow”, St Clair said.

Seeing Ned’s sceptical expression, he opened the French windows to prove his point. The snow covering the garden below the terrace outside was piled up almost four feet high.

“If I hadn’t helped clear the line, we would have stayed stuck in Croydon,” he pointed out.

“Really? I would have thought you don’t even know which side of a shovel is which.”

St Clair moved his hands. The light blinded Ned for a moment, then silently swept through the snow, pushing it aside until a broad path appeared, surrounded by enormous white walls.  

Visconti shook his head and uttered an impatient sounding Italian phrase, which made his godson finally close the windows again.

“You have my word that you can leave as soon as it is possible, Sergeant. But despite the unusual circumstances, I wonder if you would consider a professional proposal that could benefit all of us,” Visconti told Ned.

“Why? You already have a policeman among your … people to help you find the killer,” Ned asked suspiciously.

“It is not your skills as a policeman I want.  I need someone to protect my godson, and your immunity to magic makes you uniquely qualified.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid!” St Clair protested.

“I agree,” Ned said.

St Clair blinked in surprise. “You do?”

“Yes. You need a jailer. And a padded cell.”

Visconti looked from one to the other like an exasperated teacher stuck with unruly children.

“I understand you are upset with Jamie, Sergeant, as you have every right to be. But you may be missing the point here. There is a rogue magic creature out there. It will continue to steal powers one by one, committing dozens more murders until it is strong enough to go for Jamie as the prime target.”

Ned glanced at St Clair, who sat across from him and kept his eyes down, shoving his eggs from one end of the plate to another.

“What makes him the prime target?” he asked unwillingly.

“He is a warlock.”

“I thought that was just a male witch,” Ned said.

“It isn’t. A witch – male or female - only has one kind of power. Some command fire, others water. Some can influence the mind, others the body. But in a warlock, all these powers and more are combined.”

“So, he is like a full set of living weapons?” Ned asked uncomfortably.

Visconti’s expression turned pained at the description, but he didn’t protest.

 “In a way. All that power can corrupt the best of men. I know that you don’t have the highest opinion of my godson right now, but he comes from a long line of witches and was raised to use magic responsibly.”

“He was?” Ned asked sceptically.

St Clair blinked innocently and smiled his angelic smile.

“I don’t remember using magic to take you out, sergeant.”

Visconti cleared his throat and continued as if he had not been interrupted. “That creature, however, has no such scruples. If worst comes to worst, it can make your Queen’s heart stop from across the street and sway the minds of the powerful who rule the Empire. Few will even notice what is happening. But you will.”

Ned swallowed nervously. “If your witches can do all that, they already get away with anything anyway.”

A shadow fell over the old man’s face, and for a moment, he looked like a vengeful pagan god.

“The High Warlocks have kept order among our kind for centuries. Those who break our laws face my wrath. But if it takes Jamie, all it needs to do is to hide until I am dead. After that, there will be no one left on this continent to stop it.”