Page 42 of Only a Monster

She saw the tattoo first—a delicate mermaid curled around a man’s wrist. She lifted her eyes to his face.

She’d only seen him once before, but he was shockingly familiar. He’d been in his fifties when he’d died in the garden at Holland House. Now he was in his early twenties, and he had a round boyish face, a smirky mouth, and blond hair that was already thinning.

For a long moment, the overlaid image was more real than the inn. She could see it all. The dark garden at Holland House. The maze ahead of her. This man lying on his side, eyes open, one arm flung out, his mermaid tattoo stark against his pale wrist. The scent of crushed flowers seemed to fill the inn.

He’d been there. She could warn him.

There was a gust of cold wet spray as the door opened and closed.

Joan was distantly aware of Aaron saying her name urgently, but she was already moving.

The man looked up as Joan approached him, his curious expression turning to distaste as he took in Joan’s bracelet: the gold fox charm with its little silver tongue.

‘I—I know.’ Joan raised her hands placatingly. ‘I know I’m a Hunt. I know you’re an Oliver. But listen to me. Please. Something terrible is going to happen. But we can stop it.’

The man pushed his chair away. Joan grabbed at his sleeve as he stood. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Listen to me. Listen. A human is going to be born. He’s going to kill so many people. He’s going to kill you!’

Just like in the post office, she found herself thinking now, now, last night will be undone now as she told him the details of the date, the place, the time, all the people who would die.

And just like at the post office, nothing changed at the end of it.

She was doing this all wrong. She could feel it. She was saying the wrong things. She could feel herself breaking unspoken rules, conventions she didn’t understand. But she couldn’t stop. She was sure that if she just said the right thing in the right way—if she could make him understand—then everything would be fixed.

There was a change in the quality of the light. Joan knew without looking that Aaron had stepped into the space behind her. She had the feeling that he was blocking her from the view of other patrons.

‘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.’

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