Page 14 of Only a Monster

‘Aaron,’ Edmund said softly. His tone made Joan think of a snake sliding over grass.

Aaron dropped his head. Then, to Joan’s despair, he turned and walked out of the room.

Joan turned back to Edmund. ‘Why are you doing this?’ Because Nick had seen them arrive? Because Joan was a Hunt, and the two families hated each other?

‘Why?’ Edmund’s eyes were as cold and grey as stone. ‘Because it will leaven my evening.’ But for some reason, Joan flashed back to the way his eyes had widened when he’d peered down at her. The Hunts have been keeping secrets, he’d said. ‘And because you should never have been born.’ This was said with sincerity and loathing.

Metal scraped. Joan jerked her eyes back toward the fireplace. Lucien had pulled the sword from its bracket. Silver flashed as he drew the blade. He thrust it into the air, the blade moving faster than Joan’s eyes could follow. It was clear that he knew how to use it.

Joan gripped the knife. This couldn’t be happening. A few feet away, Nick was slumped unconscious, held up between two men. His familiar body was limp, as if he were dead already. Just a little while ago, they’d kissed. This couldn’t be happening.

‘Do it,’ Edmund said to Lucien. The impatience in his voice made Joan shudder. She wondered how much it would hurt when Lucien stabbed her. Would it be like when you cut yourself, and nothing hurt at all for a few seconds? Would she be dead before the pain came? Maybe Nick wouldn’t feel anything either. Maybe he’d be unconscious for it all.

Joan didn’t really believe that, though. Edmund seemed the type who enjoyed seeing other people suffer.

‘You don’t have to do what he says,’ she told Lucien. In her head, the words had felt steady, but out loud, her voice dipped in and out like a faulty speaker. ‘You know this is wrong.’ Lucien didn’t respond to her, so Joan turned to the rest of the family. ‘You can’t just watch us die,’ she said desperately. But everyone was avoiding her eyes.

‘Enough hesitation, Lucien,’ Edmund said. ‘End this. Or do you need someone to knock her out too?’

Lucien flushed dark red. He turned to Joan. He raised his sword and prowled toward her. Joan’s hands went cold and numb.

She stumbled back. Velvet chairs scraped behind her as people got out of the way. ‘This is murder!’ she said.

‘Quiet!’ Lucien snapped at her. He thrust the sword. Joan dove back, shocked when she avoided the blow. But she wasn’t fast enough to dodge the next. The blade caught her side. The pain struck a moment later. She heard herself make a stunned sound. Blood began to seep, thick and wet.

Joan slashed desperately at Lucien. He punched her wrist with his fist, an agonising slam, weighted with his sword. Joan grunted in pain and the knife flew from her hand.

The sharp edge of the sword came again. Joan dodged, and only just evaded it.

The next blow was too fast. Joan had one clear thought as the blade raced toward her. She was going to die. She flinched.

But the blow didn’t come.

Joan looked up slowly. There was someone standing between her and Lucien.

It was Nick. He held Lucien’s wrist in the cage of his fist, as if he’d caught Lucien’s arm mid-strike. Joan stared.

Nick tilted his hand sharply, and Lucien’s sword fell. Nick caught the hilt before it could hit the floor. Then, in one smooth movement, he thrust the sword into Lucien’s chest, matter-of-fact.

Lucien’s eyes went wide with disbelief. Blood bloomed across his shirt. Nick withdrew the sword and plunged it again, and Lucien slumped to the floor, very still. Nick wrenched the sword out again.

In the aftermath, all Joan could hear were her own loud breaths. In, out; in, out—the way Nick had stabbed Lucien with the sword. The room was silent. The whole thing had happened in seconds—so fast that Lucien hadn’t even cried out.

Nick turned to Joan. ‘Are you all right?’ he said to her. His dark-eyed gaze was focused on her, ignoring the threat of the Olivers, as if she were the only person in the room. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘What?’ Joan stared at him. I grabbed a knife. I wanted to rescue you, she imagined blurting absurdly. And then her focus sharpened and she couldn’t take her eyes off Nick’s face. He looked just like he always did—square-jawed and broad-shouldered and earnest. Open as a tin of peas, Gran would have said.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Nick said. ‘I shouldn’t have let that happen. I didn’t expect them to knock me out.’

Joan looked over his shoulder. The two men who’d been holding him were lying on the floor, as still as Lucien. ‘How did you—’ she started and then stopped. She didn’t know how to keep going. Were those men dead too? Had Nick just killed three men?

‘He did hurt you.’ Nick stepped closer to look at where Lucien had sliced into her side.

Joan stumbled back from him instinctively. The movement caused a flare of pain that made her breathe in, sharp. Nick’s weight shifted toward her as if he wanted to step closer. He was holding the sword loosely by his side. His shirtsleeves were still rolled up, and she flashed back to him holding the dusting cloth in that same way. She couldn’t stop staring at him. She’d spent every other day with Nick for weeks. She knew him. Didn’t she?

‘I think Lucien was a proper swordsman,’ she said disbelievingly. A trained swordsman.

Nick regarded her. ‘He was very good,’ he agreed.

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