Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(37)

‘If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?’ she said.

Water dripped from Aaron’s darkened hair, his shirtsleeves, the cuffs of his trousers. ‘Yes.’

‘Will those letters save our families?’

The tired pity in his eyes made Joan’s throat close up. He shook his head. The sound of the rain drowned out his voice so that his answer was only a shape on his lips. ‘No.’

The unease inside her felt like a clawing animal. Her throat felt so tight she could barely speak. She forced out the next words. ‘Then how do we save them?’

The pity in Aaron’s face deepened into something awful and weary and old. And Joan suddenly didn’t want him to answer. She was already shaking her head when he did.

‘Nothing you do will save them,’ he said.

‘No,’ Joan said. No. That didn’t make sense. There were a thousand things she could do now that she was here in this time. She could warn Gran face-to-face. Or she could hire a law firm to deliver messages to herself and her family, to every one of Gran’s addresses, every year. She had years and years to find ways to stop that night from happening.

Nick wouldn’t catch anyone by surprise. No one would die. That made sense.

‘Joan . . .’ Aaron said.

But Joan suddenly couldn’t bear his presence. ‘No!’ she said. She turned and ran, skidding and slipping on the wet cobblestones.

She could hear him calling after her, but she didn’t want to hear anything else he said. He was a liar. He’d left her to die last night. He was as cruel as his father.

She wrenched open the door to the inn, peripherally aware of everyone turning to stare at her. She supposed she must look a fright—soaked to the skin and wild. She scanned the room, searching for familiar eyes. For the Hunt family look. For silver-tongued fox charms and tattoos. For any sign of her own family. There were dozens and dozens of people in here. One of them had to be a Hunt.

All she needed was to find Gran’s younger self in this time—to find any Hunt in this time. She just needed to tell them face-to-face. No letters, no middlemen. That would stop all this.

She headed to where the innkeeper was standing behind a glossy wooden bar. He was sipping coffee, eyes on his patrons. Joan had the impression of a benevolent mayor.

‘I need to find someone from the Hunt family,’ Joan said.

The innkeeper gave her a long look. ‘The Hunts don’t like to be found.’

Joan fumbled for the cash in her pocket and put a transparent-and-gold note on the bar. The one that said 50. ‘Dorothy Hunt,’ she said. That was Gran’s name.

‘Some people shouldn’t be found.’

Joan put another 50 down. ‘Any Hunt will do,’ she said, ‘but if Dorothy is in this time, then I want to talk to her.’

The innkeeper made a sound at the back of his throat that might have been disapproval, but when Joan looked down, the cash was gone.

Joan had hoped that the clawing feeling inside her would be eased by that, but if anything, it worsened it. She scanned the room yet again. She knew it was stupid to keep checking, but—

She saw the tattoo first—a delicate mermaid curled around a man’s wrist. She lifted her eyes to his face.

She’d only seen him once before, but he was shockingly familiar. He’d been in his fifties when he’d died in the garden at Holland House. Now he was in his early twenties, and he had a round boyish face, a smirky mouth, and blond hair that was already thinning.

For a long moment, the overlaid image was more real than the inn. She could see it all. The dark garden at Holland House. The maze ahead of her. This man lying on his side, eyes open, one arm flung out, his mermaid tattoo stark against his pale wrist. The scent of crushed flowers seemed to fill the inn.

He’d been there. She could warn him.

There was a gust of cold wet spray as the door opened and closed.

Joan was distantly aware of Aaron saying her name urgently, but she was already moving.

The man looked up as Joan approached him, his curious expression turning to distaste as he took in Joan’s bracelet: the gold fox charm with its little silver tongue.

‘I—I know.’ Joan raised her hands placatingly. ‘I know I’m a Hunt. I know you’re an Oliver. But listen to me. Please. Something terrible is going to happen. But we can stop it.’

The man pushed his chair away. Joan grabbed at his sleeve as he stood. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Listen to me. Listen. A human is going to be born. He’s going to kill so many people. He’s going to kill you!’

Just like in the post office, she found herself thinking now, now, last night will be undone now as she told him the details of the date, the place, the time, all the people who would die.

And just like at the post office, nothing changed at the end of it.

She was doing this all wrong. She could feel it. She was saying the wrong things. She could feel herself breaking unspoken rules, conventions she didn’t understand. But she couldn’t stop. She was sure that if she just said the right thing in the right way—if she could make him understand—then everything would be fixed.

There was a change in the quality of the light. Joan knew without looking that Aaron had stepped into the space behind her. She had the feeling that he was blocking her from the view of other patrons.

‘Tell him,’ she begged Aaron. Surely an Oliver would listen to another Oliver.