Page 17 of Never a Hero

Nick broke the silence first. ‘Where to from here?’ he whispered.

‘We need to find my gran,’ Joan whispered back. The problem was, the Hunts were impossible to find at the best of times—they gave Joan new addresses and new phone numbers every year, sometimes every few months. Joan sometimes wondered if they were running from something.

She ran a hand over her mouth, thinking. How could she get a message to Gran? Maybe at a monster inn—she knew of one in Covent Garden …

At the thought, a memory came to her. The Hunts were thieves and forgers and fences. Growing up, Joan had never been allowed into the shadier parts of the family trade, but she’d heard things. If anything goes wrong, Gran had always said, get to the Wyvern Inn at the Queenhithe Dock. We have friends there.

‘Have you ever heard of the Queenhithe Dock?’ Joan whispered to Nick now.

‘Queenhithe near Blackfriars?’ Nick said. ‘I think there is an old dock there.’

That had to be it. ‘My family in London can help us,’ Joan whispered. ‘But these people will have eyes everywhere. Checkpoints on roads …’ She’d seen a search like this before.

‘And our phones aren’t working,’ Nick murmured. ‘No ride-share.’

‘They’ll be all over,’ Joan whispered. ‘Bletchley. Wolverton.’

Nick lifted his head. ‘What about Bedford?’

‘Bedford?’ Joan repeated. That was a whole other town, half an hour away by car—and not in the direction of London. ‘Why would we …’ She trailed off as she saw his thought process. ‘It’s a different train line.’

With any luck, the searchers’ attention would be on the route from Milton Keynes to Euston. They wouldn’t be looking at Bedford to Blackfriars at all.

Joan kept playing out the scenario. She and Nick had been dragged forward into spring, and the sun had set maybe half an hour ago. That would make it around nine or ten o’clock right now. About eight hours until dawn. If they stayed on foot, it would be a long walk to Bedford. And then an hour or two on the train to London … but they could do most of it under cover of night.

She nodded. ‘All right, let’s go,’ she whispered. ‘Best keep moving.’ She started on the path again, but behind her, there was silence. Nick hadn’t followed her. She turned back to him.

‘Please,’ Nick said. ‘Just tell me what’s going on.’

Joan’s stomach dropped. He stood in the shadow of the laurels, a broad-shouldered shape in the darkness. The moon offered a little light, but not enough for Joan to make out his expression. ‘We can’t talk yet,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t safe.’

Nick glanced around. They were alone here—no cars, no lights from surveillance cameras. They could spare a minute, Joan knew.

‘Nick.’ Joan could hear the strain in her own voice. It was so hard to be this close to him. She could feel the familiar pull of him. It wasn’t just how her body reacted to him—it was how she felt every time she looked at him. Like she’d come home, and she never wanted to leave. ‘You need to trust me,’ she whispered. ‘We have to go.’

He was silent for a long moment. ‘You know … you keep saying my name,’ he said. ‘We didn’t properly introduce ourselves yesterday, though.’

‘What do you mean?’ Introduce themselves? They’d talked yesterday and again at the bakery.

‘I don’t know your name,’ he said.

It hurt like someone had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart. She’d been talking to him—thinking about him—as someone she knew; she’d forgotten that he’d only just met her. Soul mates, Jamie had once said of them. And now … I don’t know your name.

‘I’m—’ Joan’s voice failed her for a moment. ‘My name is Joan.’

He tilted his head, maybe hearing the emotion in her voice and not knowing what to make of it. ‘I’m Nick,’ he said. ‘Nick Ward.’

Joan couldn’t look away from his shadowed face. She remembered the first time they’d actually met. He’d walked into the library at Holland House—a boy with dark hair and kind eyes.

For weeks, they’d shared early-morning conversations, just the two of them in the quiet of the house. She remembered his huffed laugh against her mouth when they’d kissed.

I don’t know your name.

‘Joan …’ Nick said. It was careful and intentional—the way you’d say a name new to you. Joan hoped that it was too dark for him to see her face clearly. ‘This afternoon, I went for a walk to the shops,’ he said, ‘and then the whole world stopped making sense. I saw people appear out of thin air. A man froze my body. A girl died.’ A harsh hiss of air at that. ‘And when I went home, my family was gone. My house wasn’t mine anymore. And you said you could explain.’

A girl died. Margie had died. Joan folded her arms around herself, trying to keep it together. She couldn’t believe this was happening. And Nick was looking at her like she could explain it all.

She couldn’t, though. He’d been a monster slayer in the previous timeline—a legend, whispered about in stories. If Joan said the wrong thing, she could put him on that path again. And last time, that path had led to her family dying.

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