Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(100)

‘You’re locked in that cell,’ Nick said. ‘You need human time to travel. And I won’t let any human in there with you.’

Joan braced herself. She wasn’t sure what she more afraid of—this next bit working or it not working.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I do need human time to travel. But I’ve had a hunch about something since I woke up in here.’ She could hear the fear in her voice now. ‘I’m not just half-monster. I’m half-human too.’

Nick’s eyes widened in realisation.

Joan reached up to touch her own neck.

‘Joan, don’t!’ The words sounded torn from his throat. Joan wondered if he even knew he’d said them.

Joan wrenched time from herself. Distantly, she could hear Nick fumbling with the key. But the loudest sound was her own screaming. When she’d taken time from people, they hadn’t seemed to feel it, but this was like tearing into her own flesh. She fell to her knees in agony. How much time had she taken from herself? She had no idea.

The door burst open. Joan let herself look at Nick for a fraction of a second longer than she should have. She’d always yearn for him, she knew. Just like the need to travel was always in the background, so was her need for him.

She gave in to the other yearning.





TWENTY-THREE




The cell was dark and very cold. Joan crouched where she’d fallen, grief overwhelming the relief of escape. It wasn’t that she’d lost Nick, she told herself. She’d never had him, not in this timeline, not after what had been done to him. Not after what he’d done to her.

She felt around in the dark. There was no resistance from the shackle. Joan was relieved. She’d been afraid it would come with her.

She took a tentative crawling step, and her shoulder hit the wall, making her grunt. She felt bruised all over.

She had a flash then of Nick shouting to her: Don’t. What had he meant? Don’t what? Don’t take time from yourself? More likely Don’t escape. She remembered what else he’d said. I should have done my duty a long time ago.

Joan swallowed back tears. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness now. The far wall was still iron bars and a door. Joan touched her hair. No more bobby pins. The one she’d been using was in another time. She was going to have to pull the wire from her bra.

But when she went over to look at the lock, the door swung open at her touch. It wasn’t locked. Wasn’t even properly shut.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, a warning bell sounded. This wasn’t right. Nick would have posted a guard here.

When had she landed?

She half expected alarms to go off as she stepped out of the cell. But there was no sound. She walked down the corridor, through the old staff room, up the short flight of stairs.

As she surfaced into the house, a dry dust smell hit her, along with the more usual notes of wood and wool. The silence was eerie.

Joan’s apprehension grew as she walked. The first room she came to was completely unfamiliar.

It took her a while to understand that it was the Breakfast Room. There should have been a roped-off dining table, with a replica Georgian breakfast: plum cakes and buttered toast and jam. But all the furniture was gone. The great tapestries of Bacchus and Venus had been stripped from the walls.

The house was still grand, of course, even naked: the walls were flocked velvet; the ceiling was a geometric marvel of gold and white. But with no one here, the grandeur had a feeling of impending dereliction. A house like this needed a staff to maintain it. Without them, the house would fall apart.

Through the bay windows, the sun was setting. Joan had a shuddering feeling of déjà vu, remembering the last time she’d stood at bay windows here, looking out onto the falling night.

How far had she travelled? If she walked out of the grounds, what would she see? Had she travelled a year? Five years? Ten? For all she knew, she’d stolen all the life she had left from herself. She could drop dead before her next breath.

She really, really couldn’t think about that.

The house seemed empty, but that didn’t mean that the grounds were unpatrolled. The library had a decent view of the surroundings, and from the colour of the sky, there were about twenty minutes of light left.

Joan made her way through the China Room. That had been stripped too. The curator, Murray, had been so proud of the Holland House china collection—all those paper-thin cups with matching rose patterns.

Gran had died two rooms away.

Joan’s breath hitched. She forced herself up the stairs. On the next floor, the door to the Yellow Drawing Room was open. The Gilt Room was visible just beyond. No Olivers this time. No Nick. Just two empty rooms.

Joan opened the library door. For a split second, she expected it to look just as it had when she’d left it: shelves of leather-bound books. Reading chairs.

But, of course, whoever had stripped the house had been here too. Only the bones were left: a long corridor of empty shelves. The ceiling was still a deep evening blue, speckled with gold stars. Joan had always loved it.

Through the window, the Dutch Garden was weedy and overgrown. The only movement was the wind in the leaves. The house seemed abandoned. Joan drew a finger through the dust on the windowsill.

The last time she’d been in this room, Nick had been here too. They’d sat together in this same dusk light. Then he’d touched her cheek, and they’d kissed.