Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(14)

Joan didn’t really believe that, though. Edmund seemed the type who enjoyed seeing other people suffer.

‘You don’t have to do what he says,’ she told Lucien. In her head, the words had felt steady, but out loud, her voice dipped in and out like a faulty speaker. ‘You know this is wrong.’ Lucien didn’t respond to her, so Joan turned to the rest of the family. ‘You can’t just watch us die,’ she said desperately. But everyone was avoiding her eyes.

‘Enough hesitation, Lucien,’ Edmund said. ‘End this. Or do you need someone to knock her out too?’

Lucien flushed dark red. He turned to Joan. He raised his sword and prowled toward her. Joan’s hands went cold and numb.

She stumbled back. Velvet chairs scraped behind her as people got out of the way. ‘This is murder!’ she said.

‘Quiet!’ Lucien snapped at her. He thrust the sword. Joan dove back, shocked when she avoided the blow. But she wasn’t fast enough to dodge the next. The blade caught her side. The pain struck a moment later. She heard herself make a stunned sound. Blood began to seep, thick and wet.

Joan slashed desperately at Lucien. He punched her wrist with his fist, an agonising slam, weighted with his sword. Joan grunted in pain and the knife flew from her hand.

The sharp edge of the sword came again. Joan dodged, and only just evaded it.

The next blow was too fast. Joan had one clear thought as the blade raced toward her. She was going to die. She flinched.

But the blow didn’t come.

Joan looked up slowly. There was someone standing between her and Lucien.

It was Nick. He held Lucien’s wrist in the cage of his fist, as if he’d caught Lucien’s arm mid-strike. Joan stared.

Nick tilted his hand sharply, and Lucien’s sword fell. Nick caught the hilt before it could hit the floor. Then, in one smooth movement, he thrust the sword into Lucien’s chest, matter-of-fact.

Lucien’s eyes went wide with disbelief. Blood bloomed across his shirt. Nick withdrew the sword and plunged it again, and Lucien slumped to the floor, very still. Nick wrenched the sword out again.

In the aftermath, all Joan could hear were her own loud breaths. In, out; in, out—the way Nick had stabbed Lucien with the sword. The room was silent. The whole thing had happened in seconds—so fast that Lucien hadn’t even cried out.

Nick turned to Joan. ‘Are you all right?’ he said to her. His dark-eyed gaze was focused on her, ignoring the threat of the Olivers, as if she were the only person in the room. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘What?’ Joan stared at him. I grabbed a knife. I wanted to rescue you, she imagined blurting absurdly. And then her focus sharpened and she couldn’t take her eyes off Nick’s face. He looked just like he always did—square-jawed and broad-shouldered and earnest. Open as a tin of peas, Gran would have said.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Nick said. ‘I shouldn’t have let that happen. I didn’t expect them to knock me out.’

Joan looked over his shoulder. The two men who’d been holding him were lying on the floor, as still as Lucien. ‘How did you—’ she started and then stopped. She didn’t know how to keep going. Were those men dead too? Had Nick just killed three men?

‘He did hurt you.’ Nick stepped closer to look at where Lucien had sliced into her side.

Joan stumbled back from him instinctively. The movement caused a flare of pain that made her breathe in, sharp. Nick’s weight shifted toward her as if he wanted to step closer. He was holding the sword loosely by his side. His shirtsleeves were still rolled up, and she flashed back to him holding the dusting cloth in that same way. She couldn’t stop staring at him. She’d spent every other day with Nick for weeks. She knew him. Didn’t she?

‘I think Lucien was a proper swordsman,’ she said disbelievingly. A trained swordsman.

Nick regarded her. ‘He was very good,’ he agreed.

‘You killed him,’ Joan said. ‘Nick, you killed him.’ She could hear the bewilderment in her own voice. ‘You took his sword from him and you killed him.’

‘He was very good,’ Nick said again. ‘But I was trained from childhood.’

‘Trained to do what?’

‘To kill monsters.’

Joan stumbled back another step. Humans didn’t know about monsters. No one was trained to kill them. She could feel all the Olivers staring. Your hot nerd, Ruth had called Nick when Joan had talked about him. Your history nerd. Your crush from work.

‘Who are you?’ Joan said.

‘Try not to move,’ Nick said. His weight shifted again as though he wanted to step closer to her but was afraid she might run. ‘You’re bleeding, Joan.’

Joan couldn’t stop staring at him. ‘Who are you?’ she repeated.

He didn’t answer her. And as Joan stared into his steady eyes, a memory came to her. A sweltering summer night when she and Ruth couldn’t sleep.

Tell us a bedtime story, Ruth had said to Gran. Tell us a story about the human hero.

Joan backed up another step. The heel of her foot caught on something. She looked down. It was Lucien’s shoe. That was an angle you didn’t usually see of a person, she thought stupidly. The bottom of their shoes.

She imagined Lucien standing up and brushing the dust from his trousers. She imagined him taking the sword from Nick. But he didn’t move. He was as still and blank-faced as a doll. A minute ago he’d been trying to kill her. And now there was nothing behind his eyes. There was blood all over his chest. An image flashed into Joan’s mind of the whole Oliver household slumped on the floor like dolls.