Page 6 of Once a Villain
Jamie interrupted her. “I saw Guy Fawkes’s head on the turrets once. In 1606.”
“What?” Joan said, thrown.
“Plague year,” Ruth said, sounding strained. Her gaze was down as if she was inspecting her shoes, but Joan had the feeling that her attention was on something else.
In Joan’s peripheral vision, a red uniform appeared. A guard, almost in touching distance. Fear rushed through her. Had they overheard anything incriminating? Maybe not—the rain was still roaring down.
“It was a mis-jump,” Jamie said to Ruth, trying to sound conversational. “One of my first dates with Tom....” His voiceshook. “We—We were aiming for 1597—we wanted to seeA Midsummer Night’s Dreamat the Globe.”
The guard kept walking on, and then his uniform was swallowed by the rain.
“He’s out of earshot,” Joan said, and Jamie slumped, relieved.
“That’s why I never go to see original Shakespeares,” Aaron muttered. “One wrong jump, and you’re covered in black lumps, trying to explain yourself to the NHS.”
“That’sthe drawback, is it?” Nick murmured, and Aaron blinked at him as if he’d only just realized they’d been talking about expending human life.
“Another near miss,” Ruth muttered. “We have to get off the streets. Our luck won’t hold.”
Joan nodded, but for the first time she wondered if itwasjust luck. Surely if Eleanor had circulated their descriptions, the guards would have stopped them by now. They were a distinctive group. But... what if Eleanordidn’tknow they’d escaped? What if she didn’t have the guards out searching for them?
In her mind’s eye, Joan saw again the last moments of their battle. As the world had transformed around them, Eleanor’s power had battered at Joan’s shield, and in the final seconds that shield had cracked. Maybe Eleanor believed it had failed completely.
As they turned the corner, Joan was jolted from her thoughts. Her too-smooth 1920s shoe caught the slick edge of an Argent disk. She skidded, but she didn’t fall—Aaron’s hand was suddenly tight on her elbow.
“Thanks,” she said, a little mortified, her heart stuttering.She bet Aaron had never fallen in his life. He was almost preternaturally poised. Even the rain had just served to artistically style him; he could have stepped off this street and straight into a photo shoot forVogue. Joan pushed her own clumped hair from her face. She suspected that she looked like a wet cat.
At least the rain was finally slowing. Or maybe Joan had just gotten used to it, because everyone else was still hunched. She lifted her face; she could barely feel the falling drops. She couldn’t feel the wind swirling through her skirt.
The realization hit her like a gut punch. Her senses were blunting; she was heading for a fade-out. She took a breath, trying not to panic. She couldn’t stop here. People would notice them if they were loitering.Focus, she told herself. She clenched her fists hard, like Aaron had taught her, concentrating on the bite of her fingernails.
Aaron frowned as if he’d seen something in her expression, and Joan realized he was still touching her. “Everything all right?” he asked.
Half-unconsciously, Joan focused on him instead—on his warm grip, the press of his fingers on her bare skin. As she did, the rain began to patter properly. She breathed out, profoundly relieved. The fade-out had ended. “Yeah,” she said. “Just lost my balance.” She had this under control. She was fine.
Aaron gave her a long look before gently releasing her.
By the time they got to Covent Garden, night was falling. The road was slick with rain, gutters puddled and gleaming under the streetlights. This area should have been full of fancy touristshops and pubs, but the buildings were dilapidated, their bricks chipped and paint peeling. Iron bars shuttered the windows.
A few coffee shops were still open. They passed one now—a blare of noise and light in the darkness:Jacobine’s Coffee Shop. Cheapest for miles.A man staggered drunkenly out, and opened his trousers to urinate against the wall.
“Oh, for—” Aaron hopped into the road to avoid the trickle as it crawled into the gutter. “This is beyond the pale,” he muttered. “Why is Covent Garden so vile?”
“You’re talking about my family’s territory,” Jamie said mildly.
Aaron lifted his head, surprised. His fine features rearranged into rare contrition. “Sorry. I do like...” He paused for a good few seconds. “I like the opera house.”
Someone less even-tempered might have been insulted, but Jamie seemed faintly amused. “I’ve always liked Kensington Gardens,” he offered in return.
“I mean, they’re not in the same category, but—”
Nick cleared his throat, interrupting him. “We need to get inside.” He was a few paces behind them, surveying the street, the buildings around them. Windows. Doors. Alleyway entrances.
Wind gusted, turning frigid as it filtered through Joan’s still-wet dress. “Did you see something?” The road was empty now; the drunk man had stumbled back into the coffee shop.
“I just have a bad feeling,” Nick said. “Like guards are coming.”
Joan exchanged a look with Ruth. Gran had always taught them to trust their instincts.
