Excerpt from The Dog Who Could Fly by Damien Lewis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Robert moved forward at a crouch, sticking to the cover of the trees to keep himself hidden from any watchful eyes. Skirting a rickety outhouse, he reached the back door, a wooden affair whose glass panes must have been blown out during the shelling. Robert reached through the broken glass, felt a key still in the lock, turned it, and with one hand eased open the door. With his other he drew his revolver, and with that thrust before him he moved into the dark interior.

A smell hit him immediately, one of a damp and airless neglect and of fireplaces long unlit. He didn't doubt for one moment that this place was deserted. He was in what was clearly the living room, with a long wooden dining table pushed against one wall and a stone fireplace opposite. He ran his free hand along the tabletop and brought it away coated in a thick film of dust. Plaster had fallen in chunks from the ceiling, a result of the repeated shelling.

He glanced at the grate and the ashes lying there were cold and black from where rain and snow had made their way down the unlit chimney. He crossed the room and turned left into what was obviously the kitchen. A wide fireplace was stacked high with thick oaken logs, piled up beside an iron stove. A blackened pot lay atop the stove, and Robert half expected it to be full of a moldering stew. It seemed that whoever had lived here had left the place in a terrible hurry.

Above him, the feeble winter light filtered in through a hole blasted clean through the roof, broken slates framing its jagged edges and scattered across the floor. For an instant Robert stood completely still and listened. As a boy growing up in his native Bohemia, he had spent many an hour tracking animals in the forests and mountains. He knew well the value of pausing to listen and to wait, just in case there was anything that chose to break cover and so disturb the silence. Thankfully, he could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart and the faint whistle of the wind through broken tiles.

He turned to leave, content that this was a safe enough place to hole up in while he tried to deal with Pierre's injuries. They were in dire need of shelter, for there would be no real movement possible until nightfall. The wide expanse of snow that lay between their position and the safety of the French lines was completely devoid of cover, and if they tried to cross it in daylight, he and Pierre would be done for.

As he reentered the living room Robert paused for a moment, tuning his ears to the sounds of the house above him, from what had to be the bedrooms. It was then that he froze. Faintly, almost imperceptibly, he'd caught the most unexpected and worrying of noises. For an instant he told himself that his ears had to be playing tricks on him, but as he strained to hear he caught the noise again.

From behind him came the distinct and eerie suggestion of snuffling. It was such an unexpected noise to have detected here, in this ghost house deep in no-man's-land, that it sent shivers up his spine. It sounded almost as if someone—some being—was back there in the kitchen and gently snoring. He turned soundlessly, and with his pistol thrust before him he retraced his steps, tracking the ghostly noise.

As far as he could tell it seemed to be coming from beneath an upturned chair set to one side of the kitchen stove, beside a pile of rubble. Robert cocked the pistol and fixed the sound with the cold steel of the barrel. Keeping his finger tight on the trigger, he took a step toward the chair. As he neared it the snuffling stopped completely, almost as if someone had woken up and was holding his or her breath so as not to be discovered.

"Get your hands up!" Robert growled. "Now! Or else! Show yourself?! Come out from hiding!"

There wasn't the faintest suggestion of an answer or any response. As he swept the corner of the room with his weapon Robert detected the barest hint of a yawn, followed by the recommencement of the snuffling sound. There was no doubt about it: behind that upturned chair was a living presence, one that was failing to respond to his challenge.

Excerpted from The Dog Who Could Fly by Damien Lewis. Copyright © 2014 by Damien Lewis. Excerpted by permission of Atria/Emily Bestler Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.