Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(13)

You touched him here, Gran had said.

‘No!’ Joan gasped. No, no, no. There was a knife in Lucien’s belt. It looked ornamental; the handle was shaped like a mermaid—silver with blue enamel eyes. Without letting herself think about it, Joan threw her weight back against Lucien. He shoved her away instinctively.

Edmund made an irritated sound. ‘Control her,’ he told Lucien.

Lucien flushed and reached for her. But it was too late. Joan had the knife. She thrust it toward Lucien and was relieved when he backed up and Edmund did too, their hands rising. It seemed that monsters were as afraid of a blade as humans.

‘Let him go!’ Joan told the men holding Nick. But she couldn’t fight them all. She took a step toward Edmund instead. ‘Let him go.’ She was surprised by the menace in her own voice. And she meant it. If they killed Nick, she’d hurt them—as many of them as she could before she was overpowered.

Edmund’s eyebrows went up. ‘Dear me,’ he said dryly. ‘You seem fond of the human boy. I suppose that perversion must run in the family.’ Joan gripped the knife tighter. Edmund looked at Lucien. ‘Careless of you, brother, to lose your knife to a girl.’

Lucien’s gloomy face seemed to belong more to one of the wall paintings than to a living man. He took his time answering, and when he did, it was with an irritated drawl. ‘She’s hardly a threat. One knife against forty people.’

Joan judged the distance between herself and Edmund. He’d backed away from the fireplace, too far away for Joan to lunge at. Everyone had moved away from her. Now what was she going to do? Nick was unconscious. She tried not to let panic overwhelm her, but her heart felt like a hammer in her chest. She needed to think.

‘One knife against forty?’ Edmund repeated to Lucien. ‘Well. That sounds rather unsporting.’

‘Unsporting?’ Lucien said, puzzled.

‘One blade against another would be fairer, don’t you think?’ Edmund said.

When Edmund lifted his hand to indicate the sword above the fireplace, Joan went light-headed with fear. She’d dusted that sword a dozen times. According to the tour guides, it was a replica of one that had belonged to the house’s namesake, the first Earl of Holland. He’d been executed for his allegiance to Charles I.

‘What am I to do with that?’ Lucien sounded puzzled.

‘Well, I suspect we can’t kill her by touching her,’ Edmund said. ‘I would say there’s too much monster in her for that.’ His eyes were bright, belying his even tone, and Joan wondered if she might be sick.

‘This is tedious,’ another voice said suddenly. Joan was surprised to see that it was the blond boy. The one who’d mouthed Hunt with disgust. He was standing alone in an arched recess. Behind him, a window rose to the full height of the arch. The recess was deep enough to hold a comfortable armchair, but the boy had avoided it. ‘Should we not just let them go?’ the boy said to Edmund. ‘Half-human or not, the girl is wearing the Hunt mark. They’ve claimed her as one of them. It hardly seems worth escalating matters for sport.’

He wasn’t alone in his objection. The other Olivers were shifting their weight, uncomfortable too—it seemed that only Edmund had a taste for blood.

‘Aaron, this is a surprise,’ Edmund said mildly to the boy. ‘Are you actually expressing an opinion?’

There was a long silence. Long enough for Joan to hope that the boy—Aaron—would help her and Nick. That he’d stop this. But in the end it was Edmund who spoke again. ‘Leave.’

‘Father—’

‘We’ll speak of this in the morning,’ Edmund said.

There was a dark flush on Aaron’s cheeks, but he hesitated.

‘Help us!’ Joan begged Aaron. He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Please. You can’t let him do this. He’s going to kill us!’

‘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.