Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(40)

‘Ruth,’ Joan said. ‘If we need to go, then let’s go.’

Ruth shook her head again. But she beckoned to both of them. ‘I’ll be keeping my eyes on you,’ she said to Aaron.

Outside, it was still raining. Old-fashioned streetlamps made the cobblestones shine. Joan hadn’t really noticed the discomfort of her wet clothes earlier, but now her jeans chafed as she jogged with Ruth down one street and then another. Her T-shirt was cold and tacky.

Joan had expected Ruth to take them out of the complex, but to her surprise Ruth led them to the covered market. Aaron seemed surprised too. ‘The inn wasn’t safe, but this is safe?’ he said with disdain.

Ruth glared at him. ‘How long have you been at this? If you know so much, why don’t you just fuck off and take care of yourself?’

Aaron glared back. He opened his mouth to answer. Joan interjected before he could. ‘I thought you said we had to be careful of eyes and ears,’ she said to Ruth.

That made Ruth glance around again with that new wariness she had. She sped up. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This way.’

Ruth took them up a winding iron staircase. Joan looked down onto the market as they climbed. It was a different market at night. The racks of clothes were gone, and there were tarps over the goods tables. In their place, more food stalls had opened. The air was fragrant with onions and sausages, fried spices, fresh donuts with hot jam. People sat around on low plastic stools, eating and drinking and talking. It reminded Joan of the food markets in Malaysia.

Ruth led them across a landing with a wrought-iron balustrade and an open view of the market below. There were gilded features within the black of the balustrade: curling vines and leaves.

‘I didn’t know there was a hotel up here,’ Aaron said.

‘There isn’t,’ Ruth said. ‘These are the stall owners’ quarters. I found an empty one.’

‘Found?’ Aaron said. ‘You mean you’re squatting?’

Ruth slipped a couple of tools from her pocket and picked open the last door on the landing in three deft clicks. ‘You’re welcome, Your Majesty,’ she said to him, sweeping her hand toward the open door.

‘You Hunts,’ Aaron said, but he stalked into the room.

Joan followed him in. Without lights, she couldn’t see much. A semicircular window took up most of the wall overlooking the street. It was divided into hinged panes: stained glass, like the windows at the inn. Joan made out the design: ravens in a leafless tree.

Aaron pushed open one of the panes, cutting the tree’s branches. Joan craned. The inn was several streets away: not visible from here. She couldn’t see much at all through the streaming rain.

‘Close that,’ Ruth said. She waited for Aaron to do it. ‘Lights on,’ she said, and the room illuminated.

It was a studio flat with its own bathroom: A rumpled bed, partitioned away by a bookshelf. A kitchenette with a breakfast table. A white sofa and matching armchair. A coffee table.

The main feature was a carpet, which filled the whole space. The design reminded Joan of a medieval tapestry, except that the colours were more vibrant than anything she’d seen in a museum—bright reds and midnight blues. There were woven images of monstrous creatures attacking humans: people consumed by dragon fire; people with serpents wrapped around them like rope. It occurred to Joan that she’d seen similar portrayals, in galleries, of humans slaying dragons and other fantastic creatures. Both kinds of images made her stomach squirm.

Joan watched Ruth lock the door and check that all the hinged windows were firmly closed. That wasn’t like Ruth. She wasn’t paranoid like that.

Joan looked around. At home, Ruth left stuff lying everywhere, but there was barely any sign of her here. Just a mug and a plate on the breakfast table. Nothing of her own.

There was so much that Joan wanted to ask her. How did Bertie and Uncle Gus and Aunt Ada die? And Why didn’t you ever tell me about monsters—about what monsters really were? But those were family conversations. They couldn’t talk like that in front of Aaron. She had other questions too. What’s happened to you in the last two years? And Why do you look like you’re still on the run?

She chose the one that seemed easiest. ‘What are you afraid of?’

Ruth pushed a hand through her curls. Wet with rain, they brushed her shoulders. ‘How long has it been for you?’ she asked. ‘Since the attack?’

‘We escaped last night,’ Joan said.

Ruth made a soft, shocked sound. ‘Last night?’ She came over to where Joan was leaning on the back of the sofa.

Joan nodded, trying not to get all emotional again. She’d thought that Ruth had died last night. She’d thought that all the Hunts were gone. It was hard to let herself believe that Ruth was really here.

Ruth poked at Joan’s foot with her own. She’d done that all the time when they were little—just to be annoying. This time, though, it was almost unbearably comforting. Joan was so grateful that Ruth was alive.

‘You were overheard saying some things at the inn,’ Ruth said. ‘Things that aren’t safe to talk about.’

‘You mean about the massacre?’ Joan said, and once again Ruth’s eyes flicked to the door as if afraid they might be overheard even here. It was disconcerting. The Ruth she knew was never afraid of anything. But Joan was beginning to understand that this wasn’t the Ruth she knew. Not exactly.