At the sound of something landing on his desk, Jim stopped polishing the magnifying glass in his hand. A newspaper required his attention. The Police News. It was a welcome break to a slow morning at the office of Penderry's Bizarre magazine. He investigated the bringer of the newspaper through the sparkling lens. His friend and colleague, Alfred Westman, stood in front of the desk, flanked by his dog and his servant, Blinks.

"Freddie, good to see you, old boy." Delighted, Jim peered out of the office door, looking for the receptionist. "Rosa, bring some tea, would you?"

"Never mind the tea." Westman bent and jabbed the newspaper headline with his finger. "Straight off the press this morning. What have you been up to now?"

Jim leaned forward to get a good look at the paper. Animal attack in Hyde Park, announced the headline. The police illustration of the alleged incident was rather unflattering. A black ink sketch depicted the terrified victims and himself pointing a rifle at a rabid dog.

"That is shocking. It wasn't a rabid dog. The police have it all wrong as usual."

Westman went to the mildewed back wall and pinned the headline on a cork board. "According to Blinks, you were in a gas balloon?"

"A balloon ride, yes."

"You came upon a helpless group of travellers, then shot and pursued a werewolf across Hyde Park?"

"Correct."

"And rounded off your little spree by crashing the balloon in a tree?"

"That's right. Shame about the crash, of course. Turns out, a gas balloon is not the best way to catch a werewolf. Oh, don't look at me like that. The balloon is still in one piece, more or less. I'm going to pay for the repair."

Westman came back to the desk. "Hang the balloon. I'm more concerned about your passenger. Is she still in one piece?"

"Nicola?"

His eyebrows cinched. "I thought her name was Nancy?"

Confound it.

"That's what I said. Nancy. Of course she's still in one piece. But I got the impression she never wants to see me again."

"I don't blame her. If you insist on endangering a girl to impress her, you could at least have the common decency to remember her name."

He laughed. "I wasn't trying to impress anyone."

Westman shook his head. "It's prudent to-"

"Keep business and private affairs separate. Yes, yes. Can I help it if I'm always prepared for a paranormal encounter? You know as well as I, monster hunting is more than just a job. It's a way of life for us."

Westman gave a cynical smile. "We're not monster hunters, Jim. We're investigative journalists."

Jim grinned. "You can call it what you like."

Freddie Westman was the best monster hunter he knew – other than himself, naturally – and Jim was proud to work alongside him.

At that moment, the receptionist arrived with their tea.

"Thank you, Rosa," said Westman.

The printing presses in the building next-door stirred to life, and the dull thrum of machinery seeped through the wall. The receptionist left and Jim turned to Westman.

"It isn't all bad. I saved some lives last night."

"Yes, Blinks told me everything."

Westman's Border Collie leaned against Blinks' leg and whined.

"So I see." Jim poured out three hot drinks and raised his chipped teacup for a toast. "Thank you, Blinks."

The servant gave an apologetic shrug.

Westman flicked his coat tails aside and sat in a nearby desk chair. "What happened to the werewolf?"

Jim sighed into his cup. "We lost it. The trail ended at the Serpentine."

"The lake?" He sat back and sipped his tea. "I suggest we go there and explore on foot."

"A jolly good idea. While we're there, I'd like to speak to McKusky, the park ranger. I sent the girls and their injured driver to his lodge last night. He might have news about the werewolf. I wounded it with at least one shot, I'm certain, but it may have survived."

"Then it could still be out there somewhere." Westman set his cup on its saucer. "And if that's the case, it's only a matter of time before it attacks again."

***

Jim led the way through Hyde Park, guiding Westman to the site of the attack. Their soles crunched over freshly laid snow, joined by McKusky's heavy-booted tread. Last night's events still resonated like a dream, but in daylight the threat didn't seem so alarming. If only that were the case. Jim knew precisely how real and dangerous the creature was. That's why they'd come prepared. Blinks lumbered after, carrying their equipment in a bag. Westman's dog, Jack, stopped to sniff the frosty tree roots.

"This must be the spot," said Jim.

A length of orange cotton fluttered in the breeze, tangled in a hawthorn bush at the side of the road.

He freed it and examined the embroidered edge. "This belongs to the Indian girl from last night."

"They were lucky you showed up when you did," said McKusky. "The driver will be all right. But things could've been very nasty indeed. I went out after they left and searched the park but I couldn't find the creature."

"It will be impossible to find it now." Westman nudged the snow with his shoe. "Snowfall overnight has covered all the tracks."

McKusky hummed in agreement and adjusted the rifle strap on his shoulder. "The beast is long gone. Our only hope is waiting until it attacks again."

Although Jim had encountered werewolves in the past, McKusky was far better acquainted with the subject.

Jim folded the scarf and stuffed it into his pocket. "You'd know better than anyone, McKusky. You and your mysterious vigilante friends, The London Shadows, keeping the people safe from things that go bump in the night."

McKusky tensed and glanced into the bare trees. "Keep your voice down."

"There's nobody here but us."

"Nobody you can see," said McKusky. "Look, I'm willing to exchange information because we've helped each other in the past. But you need to understand something. The people you're talking about, the London Shadows, some of them are well-known faces in society. Very well known. We take protecting folk from the supernatural seriously. And sometimes we have to fight fire with fire if you take my meaning. It wouldn't do for word to get out about the organisation, not with reputations to consider."

Jim clapped him on the arm. "Don't worry, your secret society is safe with us. We just need a bit of information about werewolves."

McKusky sniffed. "Pay well does it, this magazine of yours?"

Jim sensed McKusky didn't appreciate their magazine profiting from the sensationalism of a werewolf. After all, these were the monsters McKusky and his colleagues strove to deal with quickly and quietly.

Jim shrugged. "Can't complain. It's a living."

"Well, who am I to stand between a man and his livelihood?" McKusky sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Fact from fiction. We're all familiar with the folklore. Men cursed to become wolves on a full moon. Out-of-control monsters with an appetite for flesh, and an aversion to silver."

McKusky's mouth lifted at one corner. "I'll tell you what we've learned. Lycanthropy is a condition passed down through the generations, parent to child. Some believe it was the work of a witch, two hundred years ago, the daughter of a silver merchant. She travelled the world with her father, cursing anyone who dared to double cross them. Fellow traders, less-than-honest tax collectors, nobility, pirates and thieves. She hexed them and their future descendants."

"So it was black magic?"

"Like I said, it's a theory." McKusky squinted through a flurry of icy flakes. "You've heard the saying a wolf in sheep's clothing? Well, the girl was tired of seeing her father tricked and robbed. So she exposed the scoundrels for the wolves they were. The spell doomed them to share their souls with a wolf, forever fighting the urge to change form and hunt. But contrary to the old tales, they're not all wild killers."

"In my experience they're nothing but hostile."

"Well, some let the beast's aggression take control, granted, and end up facing the wrong end of a shotgun, like last night. But we've encountered others that cling to that human part of their soul. Unfortunately, the moon calls to their nocturnal side, tempting them to shapeshift. They become stronger and faster, and their instincts are heightened." McKusky stroked his jaw and peered around the park. "You said the tracks stopped by the river?"

"That's right."

"Did you know they can't touch bodies of water in their dangerous form?"

"No. How intriguing." Jim rubbed his hands for warmth.

"I've put the word out and my people will be vigilant," said McKusky. "But we need to consider the possibility that it wasn't a mindless attack. Until we've learned more, we should assume there may have been a purpose behind it, and the victims may still be in danger."

Jim took a pencil and notebook from his coat pocket. "Alright. Do you remember their names?"

"Yes. I was there when they gave their details to the police. There were four people involved. The driver of the cab, Bert Long from Whitechapel. He had a nasty scratch on his leg, but I patched him up. Two young women, just arrived from India, an English girl and her Indian companion. They were on their way to an uncle's house in Hammersmith." He gave Jim the addresses.

Jim tapped the pencil on his chin. "What was the blonde girl's name again?"

"Terrible with names, aren't you?" said Westman.

Jim remembered and grinned. "Miss Spencer."

McKusky nodded. "Miss Berenice Spencer. And there was a young man from Knightsbridge, going by the name of Orson Carte."

Jim squinted and inclined his ear. "Pardon me, horse and...?"

"Orson Carte," McKusky repeated loudly. "But he wasn't present. Apparently, when the werewolf attacked, he abandoned everyone and stole away in the cab. Everyone in London knows the Carte family. Lord Carte and his wife founded the London Dog Fancy Club. They hold the championship here in the park every year. Orson Carte is their son."

"Well, he should be easy to track down, then."

They started back to the carriage and McKusky asked, "Are you going to call on Carte?"

"We'll interview everyone for the magazine," said Westman. "But more importantly, we'll protect them if necessary."

Jim tucked away his notebook. "That's right. Penderry's Bizarre may keep us in Darjeeling and cravats, but we're not in this business to profit from monster attacks. I say the best way to keep the public safe is to let them know what's out there."

McKusky regarded them down the length of his nose, then the corner of his mouth curled upward in approval. "Of course, whether the public believe the dangers or not is another matter."

With a nod, he bid them good luck and headed back to his lodge, leaving them at the carriage.

Westman's gaze slid to Jim and his eyebrows tilted with amusement. "Darjeeling and cravats?"

"What, you prefer Earl Grey?"

Blinks climbed to the driver's box and picked up the reins. "Where now, sir?"

Westman smiled and shook his head, opening the carriage door. "Knightsbridge is close by. I suggest we pay Mr Carte a visit."