The carriage they took from the train station came to a halt in front of a four-storey brick townhouse in Mayfair. The street was almost empty, with only a few servants running errands and shovelling snow into the gutter.

Ned noticed a boy watching them from across the road. Street children were not an unusual sight anywhere in London, but this one was better dressed than most and stood unnaturally still. Something about him seemed faintly familiar. He tried to get a better look at the boy’s face, but then Visconti slipped on the frozen pavement and distracted him. Ned steadied him, then turned around again. The child was already gone.

With a strange sense of foreboding, he followed Visconti and St Clair up a short staircase that led to the main entrance, with its large oxblood-coloured door. The crest above it showed a black shield with a silver raven rising from a stone, a sword in its talons. There was something so forbidding about it that Ned almost envied Harrington, who took the servant’s stair to the simpler entrance below street level.

St Clair frowned at the door as if expecting it to open on its own. Eventually, it did. A liveried footman flung it open unceremoniously, looking slightly out of breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but a scream from somewhere inside the house made him flinch.

“What is going on?” St Clair asked, pushing past the nervous man.

The footman closed the door behind them and wrung his hands.

“I don’t know, my lord. Mr Singh is ill, but his lordship wouldn’t let the doctor see him,” he said, then turned to Visconti. “He threw him out and tried to call you, sir. Then he locked himself in the study with Mr Singh.”

Visconti nodded gravely and hurried after St Clair, who was already running towards the noise. With no time to hesitate, Ned followed them to the back of the house.

“Father!” St Clair called out, banging at the door.

It swung open, and Lord Ravenstone ushered them in before he closed it again and turned the key. From the corner of his eye, Ned noticed that Ravenstone was bleeding and dishevelled, but he froze when he saw the horrible sight in front of him.

A large man was tied to the grate of the unlit fireplace, his brown skin flushed with strain, his dark hair wet with sweat. His broad shoulders tensed against the restraints with such strength that Ned almost believed he would actually rip the heavy iron out of the stone hearth.

“Jas! No!” St Clair cried out and hurried forward.

The word broke Ned’s stupor. He pulled St Clair back and held on to his arm when he whirled around in fury at Ravenstone, who was leaning against the door.

“Is this how you treat your servants?”

“Don’t you dare call him a servant,” the man growled. “Who are you, anyway?”

“That can wait, Father. What happened to Jas?” St Clair asked urgently, while Visconti carefully approached the tied man.

 Ravenstone ran a hand through his receding hair and pulled himself together.  “He came home about an hour ago, completely disoriented. The only thing he said was that he was sorry and that Lilly was calling for him to come to her. I thought he was drunk at first, but then… then he went for the gun in my desk.”

They all glanced at the disarray of papers and books around the desk.

Ravenstone’s voice shook a little as he went on, “It took four of us to restrain him. It’s like he’s possessed.” 

Another roar echoed through the roar as if to prove his point. Ned watched in horror when a strange shadow rose behind Singh and formed into the shape of a tiger. Visconti jumped back.

“He’s losing control of his magic.”

St Clair cursed, but Ned only had eyes for the shadow behind the tied man. It turned into a grey mass and took the shape of an elephant. Singh screamed again, and the iron started giving way as he pulled against his restraints.

Visconti lit up like a kaleidoscope and shouted, “Jamie, get over here. You two – out!”

“You can’t hurt him, Gio! I swear I’ll…”, Ravenstone protested.

“Damn it, Henry! If you want him alive, get out and let me concentrate!”

Ravenstone hesitated for a moment, then unlocked the door. Half-blinded by the magic spreading around the room, Ned followed him out.

A group of servants stood outside, whispering to each other. Ned suddenly had full sympathy with St Clair’s complaints about his London staff being too nosy.

Ravenstone pulled himself up to his not very considerable height and somehow still managed to look down his nose at his servants.

“Someone slipped drugs into Mr Singh’s drink in one of those Soho establishments. Let that be a warning to you next time you go out,” he said, sounding perfectly calm.

One of the maids gasped and covered her mouth in shock, while the older woman behind her muttered something about “bloody foreigners” under her breath. The muttering stopped as Harrington approached in his measured stride, his travel cloak still on. He pinned the other servants down with a look that would have made a general proud.

“You may go back to your duties,” he said firmly.

They dispersed under his watchful eye. Ravenstone nodded his thanks to the butler, then locked the door from the outside.

“You can’t just lock them in,” Ned protested.

“For Christ’s sake, man, they are warlocks. They don’t need keys,” Ravenstone growled and pushed him across the corridor.

Ned gritted his teeth and followed him into a small parlour. His lordship reached for a decanter at the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy, which he downed as if it were water. Then he glanced at Ned, poured another glass and offered it to him before he refilled his own.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Edward Kelly, sir,” Ned replied automatically and barely stopped himself from saluting.

The Earl of Ravenstone looked as though he had just been in a pub fight in Cheapside with his bleeding temple, scratched cheeks, and unbuttoned waistcoat, but the authority in his voice and posture was unmistakable.

Ned took a small sip to settle his nerves as Ravenstone frowned at him.

“Kelly? Are you that Irish constable who told Blackwood to interrogate me and then called him a coward?”

“Sergeant Detective, sir. But otherwise correct,” Ned said.

Ravenstone’s mouth twitched in something akin to amusement. “I see. And Jamie recruited you to help him with this Shadow mess?”

“It would be more correct to say that he drugged me and abducted me, sir,” Ned replied with a straight face.

A fit of coughing shook Ravenstone’s whole body as the brandy went the wrong way. Ned decided it was inappropriate to clap an earl on the back, even if it was to save him from choking.

The petty satisfaction he felt disappeared when a blood-curdling scream tore through the house again, followed by a series of dull noises as if someone was throwing furniture around.

“Jesus Christ, spare him,” Ravenstone gasped, still fighting for breath while his face lost all colour.

“Is he a friend of yours?” Ned asked cautiously, feeling helpless at the sight of the man’s naked desperation.

Ravenstone closed his eyes as the cries of pain began again.

“He is my son.”