Page 13 of Only a Monster

Exits. There were five doors leading out of the Gilt Room—two doors to the east, two to the west, and one directly ahead. But Olivers were blocking every one of them.

‘Dear me,’ Edmund said to Nick. ‘Everyone appearing from the air . . . That must have been awfully frightening.’ The words were warm, but his eyes were still a predator’s. ‘You must be wondering who we are.’ He lowered his voice, as if divulging a secret. ‘We’re monsters,’ he whispered. ‘We steal life from humans like you.’

‘Monsters?’ Nick whispered back.

He was so vulnerable, and he didn’t know it. A human, in a room full of people who could steal his life from him with a touch. Joan couldn’t bear it.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Edmund said to Nick. ‘You’re thinking that monsters don’t exist. But of course you’d think that. Any human who learns the truth of our existence is killed.’

Cold dread washed over Joan. She threw herself toward Nick, but Lucien wrenched her back. ‘No!’ She fought Lucien desperately. ‘Let him go! You can’t hurt him!’ This couldn’t be happening. Nick shouldn’t even have been here—he was only here because she’d come to see him so late. And now . . . She sucked in a panicked breath. Were they going to kill him? They couldn’t.

Nick was struggling too, head rearing like a spooked horse as Olivers closed in on him. ‘Joan!’ he shouted. ‘Joan!’ He managed to throw off one man, but a second slammed a casual fist into his jaw.

Nick slumped, knees sagging; the blow had knocked him unconscious. Olivers grabbed his arms, preventing him from slipping to the floor. Someone shoved his head down so that it lolled, baring his pale neck.

You touched him here, Gran had said.

‘No!’ Joan gasped. No, no, no. There was a knife in Lucien’s belt. It looked ornamental; the handle was shaped like a mermaid—silver with blue enamel eyes. Without letting herself think about it, Joan threw her weight back against Lucien. He shoved her away instinctively.

Edmund made an irritated sound. ‘Control her,’ he told Lucien.

Lucien flushed and reached for her. But it was too late. Joan had the knife. She thrust it toward Lucien and was relieved when he backed up and Edmund did too, their hands rising. It seemed that monsters were as afraid of a blade as humans.

‘Let him go!’ Joan told the men holding Nick. But she couldn’t fight them all. She took a step toward Edmund instead. ‘Let him go.’ She was surprised by the menace in her own voice. And she meant it. If they killed Nick, she’d hurt them—as many of them as she could before she was overpowered.

Edmund’s eyebrows went up. ‘Dear me,’ he said dryly. ‘You seem fond of the human boy. I suppose that perversion must run in the family.’ Joan gripped the knife tighter. Edmund looked at Lucien. ‘Careless of you, brother, to lose your knife to a girl.’

Lucien’s gloomy face seemed to belong more to one of the wall paintings than to a living man. He took his time answering, and when he did, it was with an irritated drawl. ‘She’s hardly a threat. One knife against forty people.’

Joan judged the distance between herself and Edmund. He’d backed away from the fireplace, too far away for Joan to lunge at. Everyone had moved away from her. Now what was she going to do? Nick was unconscious. She tried not to let panic overwhelm her, but her heart felt like a hammer in her chest. She needed to think.

‘One knife against forty?’ Edmund repeated to Lucien. ‘Well. That sounds rather unsporting.’

‘Unsporting?’ Lucien said, puzzled.

‘One blade against another would be fairer, don’t you think?’ Edmund said.

When Edmund lifted his hand to indicate the sword above the fireplace, Joan went light-headed with fear. She’d dusted that sword a dozen times. According to the tour guides, it was a replica of one that had belonged to the house’s namesake, the first Earl of Holland. He’d been executed for his allegiance to Charles I.

‘What am I to do with that?’ Lucien sounded puzzled.

‘Well, I suspect we can’t kill her by touching her,’ Edmund said. ‘I would say there’s too much monster in her for that.’ His eyes were bright, belying his even tone, and Joan wondered if she might be sick.

‘This is tedious,’ another voice said suddenly. Joan was surprised to see that it was the blond boy. The one who’d mouthed Hunt with disgust. He was standing alone in an arched recess. Behind him, a window rose to the full height of the arch. The recess was deep enough to hold a comfortable armchair, but the boy had avoided it. ‘Should we not just let them go?’ the boy said to Edmund. ‘Half-human or not, the girl is wearing the Hunt mark. They’ve claimed her as one of them. It hardly seems worth escalating matters for sport.’

He wasn’t alone in his objection. The other Olivers were shifting their weight, uncomfortable too—it seemed that only Edmund had a taste for blood.

‘Aaron, this is a surprise,’ Edmund said mildly to the boy. ‘Are you actually expressing an opinion?’

There was a long silence. Long enough for Joan to hope that the boy—Aaron—would help her and Nick. That he’d stop this. But in the end it was Edmund who spoke again. ‘Leave.’

‘Father—’

‘We’ll speak of this in the morning,’ Edmund said.

There was a dark flush on Aaron’s cheeks, but he hesitated.

‘Help us!’ Joan begged Aaron. He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Please. You can’t let him do this. He’s going to kill us!’

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