Page 41 of Only a Monster

Joan startled when Aaron touched her elbow. ‘No, thank you,’ Aaron said to the woman. To Joan he said: ‘Why don’t we go back to the inn.’ Joan almost imagined something gentle in his voice.

Joan’s unease grew as she opened the door out into the rain again, until the feeling was thick and heavy in her stomach. Until it was so strong that she had to stop in the middle of that strange, hidden, trafficless street, with the rain pouring down on her.

‘Joan,’ Aaron said. To her surprise, he walked out from under the eave to join her. His white shirt turned sodden, sticking to his skin. She could see the edge of a dark tattoo just where his hip started.

‘Is that post office a scam?’ Joan said. ‘Is that why you laughed at me?’

‘I didn’t,’ Aaron said. ‘I didn’t laugh at you. And it’s not a scam. The post office sends messages to different times.’

‘Then . . . how long do we have to wait?’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Aaron said. The gentleness was back in his voice. ‘We have a room upstairs. We can dry off up there.’

Joan’s hair felt heavy and cold down her back. The bandage was a clear outline around her waist. She knew why she was standing out here. The rain was soothingly relentless. She didn’t know why Aaron was standing with her. He was thoroughly drenched now too. She hadn’t known him long, but she knew that he liked to look ordered and in control.

‘If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?’ she said.

Water dripped from Aaron’s darkened hair, his shirtsleeves, the cuffs of his trousers. ‘Yes.’

‘Will those letters save our families?’

The tired pity in his eyes made Joan’s throat close up. He shook his head. The sound of the rain drowned out his voice so that his answer was only a shape on his lips. ‘No.’

The unease inside her felt like a clawing animal. Her throat felt so tight she could barely speak. She forced out the next words. ‘Then how do we save them?’

The pity in Aaron’s face deepened into something awful and weary and old. And Joan suddenly didn’t want him to answer. She was already shaking her head when he did.

‘Nothing you do will save them,’ he said.

‘No,’ Joan said. No. That didn’t make sense. There were a thousand things she could do now that she was here in this time. She could warn Gran face-to-face. Or she could hire a law firm to deliver messages to herself and her family, to every one of Gran’s addresses, every year. She had years and years to find ways to stop that night from happening.

Nick wouldn’t catch anyone by surprise. No one would die. That made sense.

‘Joan . . .’ Aaron said.

But Joan suddenly couldn’t bear his presence. ‘No!’ she said. She turned and ran, skidding and slipping on the wet cobblestones.

She could hear him calling after her, but she didn’t want to hear anything else he said. He was a liar. He’d left her to die last night. He was as cruel as his father.

She wrenched open the door to the inn, peripherally aware of everyone turning to stare at her. She supposed she must look a fright—soaked to the skin and wild. She scanned the room, searching for familiar eyes. For the Hunt family look. For silver-tongued fox charms and tattoos. For any sign of her own family. There were dozens and dozens of people in here. One of them had to be a Hunt.

All she needed was to find Gran’s younger self in this time—to find any Hunt in this time. She just needed to tell them face-to-face. No letters, no middlemen. That would stop all this.

She headed to where the innkeeper was standing behind a glossy wooden bar. He was sipping coffee, eyes on his patrons. Joan had the impression of a benevolent mayor.

‘I need to find someone from the Hunt family,’ Joan said.

The innkeeper gave her a long look. ‘The Hunts don’t like to be found.’

Joan fumbled for the cash in her pocket and put a transparent-and-gold note on the bar. The one that said 50. ‘Dorothy Hunt,’ she said. That was Gran’s name.

‘Some people shouldn’t be found.’

Joan put another 50 down. ‘Any Hunt will do,’ she said, ‘but if Dorothy is in this time, then I want to talk to her.’

The innkeeper made a sound at the back of his throat that might have been disapproval, but when Joan looked down, the cash was gone.

Joan had hoped that the clawing feeling inside her would be eased by that, but if anything, it worsened it. She scanned the room yet again. She knew it was stupid to keep checking, but—

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