Only a Monster (13 page)

“
Tell
him,” she begged Aaron. Surely an Oliver would listen to another Oliver.

“Aaron?” The man looked Aaron up and down, mouth twisted in a sneer. “Does the head of our house know that his son is slumming at the Serpentine Inn with a Hunt? Or have
you fallen even further than we'd imagined?”

Aaron's hand shook slightly as he went to adjust his shirt cuffs. He seemed to remember the state he was in—jacketless and still soaked, his shirt painted to his chest. He lowered his hands.

The man opened his mouth to speak again, but Joan interrupted. “For God's sake,
listen
to me!” she said. The clawing feeling had risen to her throat. Nothing mattered but what Nick was going to do. “You need to listen to me! You need to tell everyone that a human is coming—a human who kills monsters!”

The man jerked his sleeve from Joan's grip. He straightened his own cuffs. “Get this mad bitch out of my way,” he said to Aaron evenly.

“Aaron, tell him!” Joan said. But to her shock, Aaron took her shoulder and pulled her firmly aside so that the man could pass.

Joan was vaguely aware of Aaron corralling her up a short staircase.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Let go of me! We have to go after him! We have to go back down there!”

And then they were in a suite with big windows looking out onto the stormy street.

Aaron slammed the door behind them, and Joan rounded on him. “You didn't even help me!” she said. “Why did you drag me away? We have to warn him!”

“It doesn't work like that!” Aaron said.

“Of course it works like that!” Joan said. “If we warn people, they can stop Nick! Everything will go back to how it was! We won't even have stolen that time. Everything will be undone.”

“God, you are so fucking . . .” Aaron's voice went hoarse. “So fucking
raw
. We can't change what happened, Joan!”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“The timeline protects itself,” Aaron said. “It corrects itself.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Those letters you sent will be lost or misdelivered. Victor will ignore what you said. No matter what you do or who you tell, that massacre will happen.”

Joan shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, you're wrong.”

“You can't stop your family from dying,” Aaron said. “You just can't.”

“You're wrong, you're wrong!” Joan barely knew what she was saying. She felt as though she were choking. “You didn't even talk to that man downstairs! You could have convinced him!”

“Can't you feel I'm telling the truth?” Aaron said. “You must be able to feel it—the resistance of the timeline. It's all around us.”

Joan couldn't feel anything. “We came here to help them!” she said. “That's the whole reason we came back!”

“That's the reason
you
came back!”

“What are you talking about?” Joan demanded. “What are you . . .” But their conversations were coming back to her. Aaron had never said that he'd help her undo the massacre, she realized
slowly. It was Joan who'd talked about saving their families. She stared at him. “No.”

“We had to run,” Aaron said. “If we'd stayed there, we'd have died. Would you have left just to flee?”

“I don't believe you,” she whispered. She couldn't. “We have to undo it. We—we stole so much time.” More than sixty years of human life between them. “We have to undo it together.”

“Well, we can't,” Aaron said, “because it doesn't work like that.” And the words were cold, but he sounded as upset as Joan felt. He turned and stalked to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Joan stared out the window onto the monster street below. Rain was still pouring down. The cobblestones were shiny and black. Aaron had to be wrong. He had to be. This couldn't be how it was—Joan's family dead, those people in the Pit . . . Joan couldn't really have shortened their lives.

Through the window, movement caught her eye. Across the street, the post office door was opening. A man stepped out into the rain, carrying a sack of mail. Joan's breath stopped.

The man hefted the bag, clearly struggling with it in the wet. Then he took a step and vanished, bag and all.

Now
, Joan thought. She knelt on the window seat, trying to get a better look.
Now.
Aaron had been wrong. Those letters would be delivered. And it would be all over
now
.

Five seconds passed. Ten seconds. Joan was still kneeling on the window seat in her wet clothes. Twenty seconds.

There was something on the ground where the man had been standing. Joan pressed closer to the window, trying to see through the streaming rain. There were two things. Two white envelopes.

You must be able to feel it
, Aaron had said.
The resistance of the timeline. It's all around us.
Now, in the back of Joan's mind, the word
resistance
snagged. With the same sense with which she'd felt the yearning of time travel, she could feel something in the world. Aaron had made it sound like a natural force. A resistance. But Joan's sense of it was more of a great beast stirring. Something that when pushed would push back.

As rain continued to fall, Joan watched the two envelopes slowly take on water. She watched them discolor and distort with the weight of it. Then she watched them fall apart until they were no more than pulp in the gutter.

On the street, monsters continued to appear and disappear. They ran from the rain in their top hats and hooped skirts, in their nineties grunge and eighties hair.

As Joan watched, Aaron's expression came back to her. She remembered how he'd looked at her as they'd stood in the rain—with that awful, old, weary expression.

“
Joan!
” Aaron whispered in her ear.

Joan startled awake. It took her a second to get her bearings. She hadn't even realized she was falling asleep. She was curled up on the window seat. There was a blanket over her now. It was night outside. The only light in the room was the jumping colors of a television.

“What's that noise?” Aaron whispered.

Joan tried to gather her thoughts. She was disoriented and confused. Something was playing on the TV. Music. “
Totoro
?”

“No. I mean, yes, but—” Aaron stalked away and pressed a button on the remote. The music continued. Aaron mashed at the remote. “Urgh—” He bent down and wrenched the plug from the back of the television.

The room was suddenly silent and dark.

And then Joan heard it too—a
click-click-click
of someone picking a lock. In the moonlight, the doorknob bobbled. And then Joan was awake. She was very awake.

She scrambled up, pointing at the wobbling doorknob. Aaron's eyes widened in understanding.

There was a heavy vase by the door. Joan lifted it, tensed and ready. Aaron picked up a cushion from the sofa and positioned himself on the other side of the door.

What the—?
Joan mouthed at him. What was he going to do with a cushion? Smother the intruder?

Aaron mimed an
I don't know
. He looked around for something to replace it with.

But it was too late. The lock snicked. The door opened. Joan hurled the vase.

“Whoa!” The person dodged and the porcelain smashed against the corridor wall. “Well, hello to you too, Joan.”

Joan stared at familiar green eyes. A familiar cloud of dark hair. “Ruth?”

“We should probably hug,” Ruth said, in her wry way.

Joan threw herself at her, and then she just lost it for a while. When she finally drew back, she'd left a damp patch on Ruth's shoulder bigger than her whole face. Ruth looked at it and wrinkled her nose.

Joan laughed shakily. “Shut up.”

Ruth examined the room, stopping as she reached Aaron. “Why are you here with an Oliver?” she said to Joan. There was a funny note in her voice.

“Oh.” Joan found Aaron staring back at Ruth, narrow-eyed as a cat. “Aaron, this is my cousin Ruth,” she said uncomfortably. “Aaron and I escaped together,” she said to Ruth. “And you. I thought . . .” She couldn't say it. She'd seen the knife thrust into Ruth's gut.

“I know.” Ruth loosened up slightly. “You just went all tragedy over my jacket.”

Joan felt like she was a kind word from going all tragedy again. She butted her head into Ruth's shoulder. She was
alive
. “How'd you find us?” Joan managed.

“Couple of people owed me.” Ruth touched Joan's hair with her fingertips—gently, the way you might touch a painting. “God, look at you. I heard rumors you'd escaped. I hoped.”

“You found us so quickly, though.”

“Quickly?” Ruth said. Her forehead creased. “Joan, I've been searching for you for nearly two years.”

There was a puckered scar at the base of Ruth's rib cage where she'd been stabbed. Her hair was longer than it had been yesterday. And there were other differences, now that Joan knew to look. She seemed tired, and there was a jadedness in her eyes that hadn't been there before. She'd been in this time long enough to look the part: black jacket and black jeans, a slash of bright red lipstick.

“Two years . . . ,” Joan said. The crevasse of Ruth's scar was deep; she must have been so close to death. “But how—”

“We can talk later,” Ruth said. “Right now, we need to go.”

“Go?” Joan said. From downstairs, voices rose, raucous and drunk. Ruth's eyes flicked to the door. That was different too. Ruth was usually brazenly confident, but this version of her seemed as watchful as an animal. “Go where?” Joan said.

“Somewhere with fewer eyes and ears. Get your things.”

“I don't have things.” Joan let Ruth tug her into the corridor.

Ruth put up her arm to bar Aaron from following. “Not you,” she said.

Aaron seemed more resigned than surprised. “Goodbye, Joan.”

Joan pushed Ruth's arm down. “He has to come with us!”

Ruth shook her head. “I know you escaped together, but you don't know the Olivers. They're all ruthless. This one would throw you to the wolves if he thought it would please his family to see you torn apart.”

But Joan thought about how watchful Ruth seemed. “Why are you worried about eyes and ears?” she said. “What are you afraid of?” When Ruth didn't answer, she said: “If you don't think this place is safe, then he has to come with us.”

From downstairs, voices rose again. Ruth flinched, head turning toward the staircase.

As Joan turned too, she caught Aaron watching her with the same wary, uncomprehending expression he'd had in the maze. As if he couldn't understand her at all.

“Ruth,” Joan said. “If we need to go, then let's go.”

Ruth shook her head again. But she beckoned to both of them. “I'll be keeping
my
eyes on
you
,” she said to Aaron.

Outside, it was still raining. Old-fashioned streetlamps made the cobblestones shine. Joan hadn't really noticed the discomfort of her wet clothes earlier, but now her jeans chafed as she jogged with Ruth down one street and then another. Her T-shirt was cold and tacky.

Joan had expected Ruth to take them out of the complex, but to her surprise Ruth led them to the covered market. Aaron seemed surprised too. “The inn wasn't safe, but
this
is safe?” he said with disdain.

Ruth glared at him. “How long have
you
been at this? If
you know so much, why don't you just fuck off and take care of yourself?”

Aaron glared back. He opened his mouth to answer. Joan interjected before he could. “I thought you said we had to be careful of eyes and ears,” she said to Ruth.

That made Ruth glance around again with that new wariness she had. She sped up. “Come on,” she said. “This way.”

Ruth took them up a winding iron staircase. Joan looked down onto the market as they climbed. It was a different market at night. The racks of clothes were gone, and there were tarps over the goods tables. In their place, more food stalls had opened. The air was fragrant with onions and sausages, fried spices, fresh donuts with hot jam. People sat around on low plastic stools, eating and drinking and talking. It reminded Joan of the food markets in Malaysia.

Ruth led them across a landing with a wrought-iron balustrade and an open view of the market below. There were gilded features within the black of the balustrade: curling vines and leaves.

“I didn't know there was a hotel up here,” Aaron said.

“There isn't,” Ruth said. “These are the stall owners' quarters. I found an empty one.”

“
Found?
” Aaron said. “You mean you're squatting?”

Ruth slipped a couple of tools from her pocket and picked open the last door on the landing in three deft clicks. “You're welcome, Your Majesty,” she said to him, sweeping her hand toward the open door.

“You Hunts,” Aaron said, but he stalked into the room.

Joan followed him in. Without lights, she couldn't see much. A semicircular window took up most of the wall overlooking the street. It was divided into hinged panes: stained glass, like the windows at the inn. Joan made out the design: ravens in a leafless tree.

Aaron pushed open one of the panes, cutting the tree's branches. Joan craned. The inn was several streets away: not visible from here. She couldn't see much at all through the streaming rain.

“Close that,” Ruth said. She waited for Aaron to do it. “Lights on,” she said, and the room illuminated.

It was a studio flat with its own bathroom: A rumpled bed, partitioned away by a bookshelf. A kitchenette with a breakfast table. A white sofa and matching armchair. A coffee table.

The main feature was a carpet, which filled the whole space. The design reminded Joan of a medieval tapestry, except that the colors were more vibrant than anything she'd seen in a museum—bright reds and midnight blues. There were woven images of monstrous creatures attacking humans: people consumed by dragon fire; people with serpents wrapped around them like rope. It occurred to Joan that she'd seen similar portrayals, in galleries, of humans slaying dragons and other fantastic creatures. Both kinds of images made her stomach squirm.

Joan watched Ruth lock the door and check that all the hinged windows were firmly closed. That wasn't like Ruth. She wasn't paranoid like that.

Joan looked around. At home, Ruth left stuff lying everywhere, but there was barely any sign of her here. Just a mug and a plate on the breakfast table. Nothing of her own.

There was so much that Joan wanted to ask her.
How did Bertie and Uncle Gus and Aunt Ada die?
And
Why didn't you ever tell me about monsters—about what monsters really were?
But those were family conversations. They couldn't talk like that in front of Aaron. She had other questions too.
What's happened to you in the last two years?
And
Why do you look like you're still on the run?

She chose the one that seemed easiest. “What are you afraid of?”

Ruth pushed a hand through her curls. Wet with rain, they brushed her shoulders. “How long has it been for you?” she asked. “Since the attack?”

“We escaped last night,” Joan said.

Ruth made a soft, shocked sound. “Last night?” She came over to where Joan was leaning on the back of the sofa.

Joan nodded, trying not to get all emotional again. She'd thought that Ruth had died last night. She'd thought that all the Hunts were gone. It was hard to let herself believe that Ruth was really here.

Ruth poked at Joan's foot with her own. She'd done that all the time when they were little—just to be annoying. This time, though, it was almost unbearably comforting. Joan was so grateful that Ruth was alive.

“You were overheard saying some things at the inn,” Ruth said. “Things that aren't safe to talk about.”

“You mean about the massacre?” Joan said, and once again Ruth's eyes flicked to the door as if afraid they might be overheard even here. It was disconcerting. The Ruth she knew was never afraid of anything. But Joan was beginning to understand that this wasn't the Ruth she knew. Not exactly.

“Why isn't it safe?” Aaron said. He was leaning against the wall by the door, as if he hadn't quite decided whether to stay or go.

Ruth didn't answer. The suspicion she seemed to carry with her now was stark on her face.

“Oh, I don't trust you either, poppet,” Aaron said.

“Call me that again,” Ruth dared him, and Aaron smiled at her, all teeth.

Joan was dismayed. She'd known that their families loathed each other, but she hadn't expected Ruth and Aaron to be at each other's throats so quickly.

“I know who you are,” Ruth said to him. She made it sound like an accusation. “Your father is the head of the Oliver family. I know all about you.”

Aaron lounged against the wall, a picture of casual arrogance.
A lot of people know who I am
, his expression said.

“You're Edmund Oliver's youngest son,” Ruth said. “The only Oliver son. You should have been the next head of the Oliver family, but you were removed from the line of succession.”

The phrasing was odd:
Edmund Oliver's youngest son. The only Oliver son
. There was no chance for Joan to ask about it, though, because Aaron was already talking.

“Gosh,” Aaron said. “You do know all about me. And I don't
know anything about you. No, that's quite all right,” he said as Ruth's mouth opened. “I don't care to know.”

“What'd you do that was slimy enough to get disinherited from the Olivers?” Ruth said to Aaron. “Here I thought your family didn't have any standards.”

“Stop it,” Joan told them.

Aaron glared at Ruth. “Coming from someone whose family is full of thieves and liars,” he said.

Joan had a flash of standing in the Gilt Room, surrounded by Olivers sneering at her. “
Stop
it!” she said. “Just stop! Both of you!” There must have been something in her voice, because they both blinked at her. “We can't
be
like this.”

“Like what?” Aaron said. “Like Olivers and Hunts in a room together?”

“
Yes.
” Joan pushed away from the sofa and went to the kitchenette across the room. She filled the kettle. “Yesterday, there was a feud between us. Today, there isn't.”

Ruth's laugh was bitter. “Joan, it doesn't work like that. . . . Olivers are nasty, sneering, human-hating snakes! You don't know what they're like!”

Joan did know. She glanced at Aaron, but he avoided her eyes. When he spoke, he sounded subdued. “The enmity between our families spans a thousand years,” he said. “It's not going to end tonight.”

“Olivers can't be trusted,” Ruth said.

Aaron's voice sharpened. “
Hunts
can't be trusted,” he said. “Olivers keep our word. Hunts are liars. Hunts—”

“
Stop
,” Joan said again. “Just
stop
.” The counter was cold
against her back. She looked from Ruth to Aaron. They were barely three paces apart, neither looking at the other. “You're both still thinking like you did before the massacre,” she said, frustrated. “But everything's different now!”

“It isn't!” Ruth said.

“God, Ruth, it is! Nick killed our families!
Both
of our families! He didn't care which one we were from. Don't you remember? There were only two sides that night: us and him.”

Aaron and Ruth just stood there, staring at her. Joan wanted to shake them.

“Don't you see?” she said. “The three of us might be the only people who survived the massacre. We might be the only ones who know what happened. The only ones who can stop him.”

She didn't say the rest: they were the only ones who could save their families. She'd lose it if Aaron argued with her about that right now.

There was a long silence. It stretched and stretched. Behind Joan, the kettle bubbled and spat and then switched itself off. From downstairs, she could hear the sounds of the market: people talking, sellers calling.

And still Ruth and Aaron stood there, not looking at each other, not looking at Joan. Joan's heart began to sink. The hatred between their families ran too deep.

Then Ruth spoke abruptly. “We weren't the only survivors.”