Page 47 of Only a Monster

‘Someone is hunting down anyone who escaped,’ Ruth said. ‘Someone is silencing anyone who tries to tell the tale of it. You spoke about the massacre in public today. You can’t ever do that again.’

Joan made tea. The ordinary ritual of it was comforting. Beside her, Ruth reached into the air, taking out food she’d bought at the market—pies and mushy peas, still piping hot. The Hunt family power. And that was comforting too. At Gran’s place, everyone had had stashes of food like that—except Joan, of course. Her Hunt power had faded over the years.

As Ruth reached for another pie, Joan found herself suddenly remembering what Gran had said last night. Someday soon, you’ll come into a power. Not the Hunt power. Another. What had Gran meant by that? But that memory was quickly chased by another memory—Gran’s blood seeping all over Joan’s hands. Gran’s harsh breaths rattling in and out. Joan heard her own breath hitch.

‘Joan?’ Ruth said, jolting Joan out of it.

‘Yeah.’ Joan wasn’t there, she reminded herself. She was here.

Ruth reached back into the air and retrieved a knob of ginger—freshly peeled. Joan blinked at it. ‘For your tea,’ Ruth said. She dropped it carefully into one of the mugs. ‘I know you like ginger in your tea.’

Joan took a deep breath and let it out. ‘I’m so happy you’re here,’ she whispered.

Ruth didn’t quite smile, but for a moment that new hard look in her eyes softened to fondness. ‘I’m glad I found you.’

Joan brought the teapot and mugs over to the coffee table. Ruth laid out pies. ‘Bacon and egg,’ she said. ‘Steak and ale, steak and kidney, cheddar and leek.’ She unloaded tubs of mushy peas too, and chips with gravy.

Ruth and Joan squeezed onto the sofa together. Aaron took the armchair. For a little while, they all just sat there, looking at the dark window, drinking too-hot tea, and eating.

Aaron drank his tea black and unsweetened. Ruth dropped three sugar cubes into her mug. She hovered her hand over the rising steam. Joan’s heart tightened at the familiarity of the gesture—Ruth always did that when she felt cold.

Aaron broke the silence first. ‘The attack isn’t recorded in the Oliver histories.’ He lowered his mug to the table, hand shaking a little. Joan remembered what else he’d said: his father’s death hadn’t matched the records either. ‘This is all wrong,’ he said. ‘None of this is supposed to be happening.’ He’d said that last night too. This night is all wrong.

‘It’s not just the Oliver records,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ve seen other families’ records of that night. They all say the same thing.’

‘You’ve seen other families’ records?’ Aaron sounded a little shocked.

‘Listen to what I’m saying,’ Ruth said. ‘They all say the same thing. Not just the same false events, but recorded with the same words. I’ve seen it in the Hunt records, the Hathaway records, the Patel records.’

This night is all wrong. The families each recorded all the events of history, but Nick’s attack wasn’t in any of them. There was only one explanation. Someone had concealed the attack. ‘You think the records have been tampered with,’ Joan said.

Aaron shook his head. ‘That isn’t possible. Only the family archivists record events. And they would never collaborate.’

‘I know,’ Ruth said.

Aaron’s grey eyes were wide. ‘The family histories must be perfect. Because if they’re not, doubt could be cast on every recorded event.’

‘I know,’ Ruth said again.

‘If we can’t trust the records, then we can’t trust anything.’ Aaron’s voice was rising. ‘Any event could be wrong. Any death. There’d be no way to know what’s going to happen on any given day.’

‘You mean like being human?’ Joan said.

Aaron stared at her. ‘Yes.’ He sounded taken aback. His eyes were a little wild. ‘It would be as bad as being human.’

It’s not so bad, Joan wanted to tell him, but she could see that he wouldn’t be able to hear it. He seemed shaken by the prospect of an unpredictable future. It was the opposite for Joan. The thought of an unchangeable future written in a book was a claustrophobic horror.

She leaned over to put her own mug down. Her wound pulled as she stretched, a fresh reminder that Nick’s attack had only been last night for her and Aaron.

‘Who’s doing this?’ she asked Ruth. Someone was falsifying records. Someone was hunting down survivors. ‘Who’s trying to cover up the attack?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ruth said.

Joan remembered the disbelief in Gran’s voice last night. I was supposed to have so much more time to prepare you. Joan closed her eyes. She remembered how Gran had gasped in pain. She remembered the sound Ruth had made when she’d been stabbed. Her own breath hitched as she pictured that deep, twisting wound under Ruth’s rib cage. ‘I thought you were dead,’ she whispered to Ruth.

Ruth ducked her head. ‘When I saw you at Holland House that night, I—’ Her voice cracked. ‘I’d thought you were already dead. All the others were dying or dead when I found them. Bertie . . . Uncle Gus. Aunt Ada. Gran.’

Joan took a long, shuddering breath. You messaged for help, Ruth had told her that night. And I called everyone else.

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