Page 12 of Only a Monster

‘Don’t!’ Joan said, shocked. She flung up a hand, as if she could belatedly stop Nick from being hit. Someone gripped her shoulder and dragged her back. Joan clutched desperately at Nick’s hand, but couldn’t hold on as she was pulled away. There was blood on Nick’s mouth: a horrible smear of red.

Joan’s voice had drawn the attention of the vulture-faced man. Lucien. He closed the gap between them and grabbed her chin. There was a scuffle between Nick and two men. Lucien ignored it, forcing Joan’s chin up. ‘This girl is one of us,’ he said.

‘A monster?’ one of the others asked.

Nick stopped struggling and stared, his dark eyes huge. ‘A monster?’ He sounded bewildered. ‘What?’

‘I’m not—’ Joan started to say, but Lucien squeezed her face, making her gasp.

‘Don’t try to deny it,’ Lucien said. ‘I can see what you are. I have the Oliver power. You’re a monster and your little friend here is human.’ As he spoke, his eyes narrowed as if he’d noticed something else. Some prickling instinct made Joan follow his gaze down to her bracelet. It was a simple gold chain with a small charm—a gold fox with a silver tongue. Gran had given it to her years ago. The Hunt family symbol, she’d said.

Lucien’s mouth twisted. ‘Search them,’ he said roughly.

Two men did, with efficiency. One of them found Joan’s phone. Joan wrenched it away while he was still fumbling for it. She typed fast to Ruth: Olivers at hh. But as she tried to hit send, the man tore the phone from her. He crossed the room in a stride, opened a window, and dropped the phone out. There was a distant smash of glass in the courtyard below. Beside Joan, Nick managed to reach the corded phone on the desk, but then that was torn away too.

And then their arms were caught and they were muscled out of the library. Joan fought, the heels of her sneakers skidding and squealing against the wooden floor. ‘Let us go!’ She could hear the rising panic in her voice. ‘Leave us alone! Let us go!’

They were dragged into the Gilt Room—two rooms over from the library, and the most ornate room in the house, a jewellery box of red velvet and oil paintings with gilded frames and gleaming gold leaf.

At least three dozen people had gathered, as though for a cocktail party. All of them turned to stare as Joan and Nick were hustled in. Joan was humiliatingly aware of her flushed, sweaty face. Her hair had loosened from its tie. Nick was dishevelled too. There was blood on his mouth, and the struggle had rucked up his hair.

In contrast, the glamour of the Gilt Room fit the Olivers like a glove. They lounged casually on the velvet chairs and leaned against the blue-and-gold wainscoted walls as though it all belonged to them.

The most intimidating of them all was a blond man standing alone by the great marble fireplace—unlit in this warm weather. With a shock, Joan realised she’d seen him before. His portrait was in the library—the cold-eyed man in Regency-era hunting clothes. In real life, he was imposingly tall, with the same long face as Lucien. But where Lucien’s face was vulture-like, this man’s features were handsome and refined.

Joan looked at Nick. He hadn’t recognised the man as being from the portrait—of course he hadn’t. He didn’t know that these people had stepped into this house from another time. Joan wished that she were still holding Nick’s hand. She wanted to signal to Nick to run. But where could they run to? There were Olivers everywhere.

‘Edmund,’ Lucien said to the cold-eyed man.

The man beckoned to Lucien without speaking. His posture was as arrogant as a king’s.

‘We found them in the library,’ Lucien said. He pushed Joan and Nick forward. ‘They say they’re volunteers here. But look.’ He dragged up Joan’s wrist to show Edmund her bracelet with its silver-tongued fox charm. ‘The girl’s a Hunt.’

The word Hunt rippled around the room in tones of distaste. As Joan followed the ripple, she saw a boy her own age, golden-haired and haughty. He was standing by one of the arched windows. Hunt, he mouthed at her with contempt.

‘A Hunt,’ Edmund echoed. His family might have been roused, but his own voice was very cold. He examined Joan from his great height, as though examining a specimen. ‘Half-human, half-monster,’ he said to her musingly. ‘If your mother were an Oliver, you’d have been voided in the womb. But the Hunts have such tolerance for abominations.’

Joan stared up at him, shaken. People had said things all her life about her being half-Chinese and half-English. But Edmund’s flat tone and cold expression had somehow been as frightening as an overt threat. She had the feeling he wouldn’t blink before killing her.

‘What should we do with them?’ Lucien said. ‘The boy saw us arrive.’

He’d said that in the library too. As though Nick was a problem that would have to be dealt with. Joan scanned for an escape route, trying not to be too obvious.

Edmund’s heavy hand landed on her shoulder, making her jump. He bent to examine her. ‘You travelled for the first time,’ he said to her. ‘Recently, I think.’ He bent closer—close enough that Joan could see the colour of his eyes: the light grey of clouds on a gloomy day. For a long moment, she was caught in his gaze, like prey in the sights of a predator.

In the dim light of the chandeliers, she might have been the only person close enough to see his eyes widen. ‘It’s true, then,’ he murmured. ‘The Hunts have been keeping secrets.’

‘What do you mean?’ Joan whispered. What secrets?

‘Edmund?’ Lucien said. ‘The boy.’

Edmund was still staring at Joan. He straightened slowly. To Joan’s dismay, his attention turned to Nick. ‘You saw us arrive, boy?’ he said.

‘No!’ Joan blurted. Edmund’s expression was just like it had been in the painting: predatory. She thought about that image of the dead animal under his foot. ‘He didn’t!’ Joan said.

But Nick had already started to answer too. ‘I—I saw everyone appear out of the air.’

Joan felt a sick swoop in the pit of her stomach. You must never tell anyone about monsters, Gran had said. But what happened to humans who found out?

---