Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(12)

In contrast, the glamour of the Gilt Room fit the Olivers like a glove. They lounged casually on the velvet chairs and leaned against the blue-and-gold wainscoted walls as though it all belonged to them.

The most intimidating of them all was a blond man standing alone by the great marble fireplace—unlit in this warm weather. With a shock, Joan realised she’d seen him before. His portrait was in the library—the cold-eyed man in Regency-era hunting clothes. In real life, he was imposingly tall, with the same long face as Lucien. But where Lucien’s face was vulture-like, this man’s features were handsome and refined.

Joan looked at Nick. He hadn’t recognised the man as being from the portrait—of course he hadn’t. He didn’t know that these people had stepped into this house from another time. Joan wished that she were still holding Nick’s hand. She wanted to signal to Nick to run. But where could they run to? There were Olivers everywhere.

‘Edmund,’ Lucien said to the cold-eyed man.

The man beckoned to Lucien without speaking. His posture was as arrogant as a king’s.

‘We found them in the library,’ Lucien said. He pushed Joan and Nick forward. ‘They say they’re volunteers here. But look.’ He dragged up Joan’s wrist to show Edmund her bracelet with its silver-tongued fox charm. ‘The girl’s a Hunt.’

The word Hunt rippled around the room in tones of distaste. As Joan followed the ripple, she saw a boy her own age, golden-haired and haughty. He was standing by one of the arched windows. Hunt, he mouthed at her with contempt.

‘A Hunt,’ Edmund echoed. His family might have been roused, but his own voice was very cold. He examined Joan from his great height, as though examining a specimen. ‘Half-human, half-monster,’ he said to her musingly. ‘If your mother were an Oliver, you’d have been voided in the womb. But the Hunts have such tolerance for abominations.’

Joan stared up at him, shaken. People had said things all her life about her being half-Chinese and half-English. But Edmund’s flat tone and cold expression had somehow been as frightening as an overt threat. She had the feeling he wouldn’t blink before killing her.

‘What should we do with them?’ Lucien said. ‘The boy saw us arrive.’

He’d said that in the library too. As though Nick was a problem that would have to be dealt with. Joan scanned for an escape route, trying not to be too obvious.

Edmund’s heavy hand landed on her shoulder, making her jump. He bent to examine her. ‘You travelled for the first time,’ he said to her. ‘Recently, I think.’ He bent closer—close enough that Joan could see the colour of his eyes: the light grey of clouds on a gloomy day. For a long moment, she was caught in his gaze, like prey in the sights of a predator.

In the dim light of the chandeliers, she might have been the only person close enough to see his eyes widen. ‘It’s true, then,’ he murmured. ‘The Hunts have been keeping secrets.’

‘What do you mean?’ Joan whispered. What secrets?

‘Edmund?’ Lucien said. ‘The boy.’

Edmund was still staring at Joan. He straightened slowly. To Joan’s dismay, his attention turned to Nick. ‘You saw us arrive, boy?’ he said.

‘No!’ Joan blurted. Edmund’s expression was just like it had been in the painting: predatory. She thought about that image of the dead animal under his foot. ‘He didn’t!’ Joan said.

But Nick had already started to answer too. ‘I—I saw everyone appear out of the air.’

Joan felt a sick swoop in the pit of her stomach. You must never tell anyone about monsters, Gran had said. But what happened to humans who found out?

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.