Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(41)

‘Why isn’t it safe?’ Aaron said. He was leaning against the wall by the door, as if he hadn’t quite decided whether to stay or go.

Ruth didn’t answer. The suspicion she seemed to carry with her now was stark on her face.

‘Oh, I don’t trust you either, poppet,’ Aaron said.

‘Call me that again,’ Ruth dared him, and Aaron smiled at her, all teeth.

Joan was dismayed. She’d known that their families loathed each other, but she hadn’t expected Ruth and Aaron to be at each other’s throats so quickly.

‘I know who you are,’ Ruth said to him. She made it sound like an accusation. ‘Your father is the head of the Oliver family. I know all about you.’

Aaron lounged against the wall, a picture of casual arrogance. A lot of people know who I am, his expression said.

‘You’re Edmund Oliver’s youngest son,’ Ruth said. ‘The only Oliver son. You should have been the next head of the Oliver family, but you were removed from the line of succession.’

The phrasing was odd: Edmund Oliver’s youngest son. The only Oliver son. There was no chance for Joan to ask about it, though, because Aaron was already talking.

‘Gosh,’ Aaron said. ‘You do know all about me. And I don’t know anything about you. No, that’s quite all right,’ he said as Ruth’s mouth opened. ‘I don’t care to know.’

‘What’d you do that was slimy enough to get disinherited from the Olivers?’ Ruth said to Aaron. ‘Here I thought your family didn’t have any standards.’

‘Stop it,’ Joan told them.

Aaron glared at Ruth. ‘Coming from someone whose family is full of thieves and liars,’ he said.

Joan had a flash of standing in the Gilt Room, surrounded by Olivers sneering at her. ‘Stop it!’ she said. ‘Just stop! Both of you!’ There must have been something in her voice, because they both blinked at her. ‘We can’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’ Aaron said. ‘Like Olivers and Hunts in a room together?’

‘Yes.’ Joan pushed away from the sofa and went to the kitchenette across the room. She filled the kettle. ‘Yesterday, there was a feud between us. Today, there isn’t.’

Ruth’s laugh was bitter. ‘Joan, it doesn’t work like that. . . . Olivers are nasty, sneering, human-hating snakes! You don’t know what they’re like!’

Joan did know. She glanced at Aaron, but he avoided her eyes. When he spoke, he sounded subdued. ‘The enmity between our families spans a thousand years,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to end tonight.’

‘Olivers can’t be trusted,’ Ruth said.

Aaron’s voice sharpened. ‘Hunts can’t be trusted,’ he said. ‘Olivers keep our word. Hunts are liars. Hunts—’

‘Stop,’ Joan said again. ‘Just stop.’ The counter was cold against her back. She looked from Ruth to Aaron. They were barely three paces apart, neither looking at the other. ‘You’re both still thinking like you did before the massacre,’ she said, frustrated. ‘But everything’s different now!’

‘It isn’t!’ Ruth said.

‘God, Ruth, it is! Nick killed our families! Both of our families! He didn’t care which one we were from. Don’t you remember? There were only two sides that night: us and him.’

Aaron and Ruth just stood there, staring at her. Joan wanted to shake them.

‘Don’t you see?’ she said. ‘The three of us might be the only people who survived the massacre. We might be the only ones who know what happened. The only ones who can stop him.’

She didn’t say the rest: they were the only ones who could save their families. She’d lose it if Aaron argued with her about that right now.

There was a long silence. It stretched and stretched. Behind Joan, the kettle bubbled and spat and then switched itself off. From downstairs, she could hear the sounds of the market: people talking, sellers calling.

And still Ruth and Aaron stood there, not looking at each other, not looking at Joan. Joan’s heart began to sink. The hatred between their families ran too deep.

Then Ruth spoke abruptly. ‘We weren’t the only survivors.’

‘What?’ Aaron said. There was hope in his voice, but Joan could see how Ruth was gripping the back of the sofa, her knuckles white.

‘We weren’t the only survivors,’ Ruth said. ‘But you’re the only ones I’ve found alive.’ She glanced at the door again. And this time, Joan felt a chill start to spread through her.

‘What do you mean?’ Aaron said.

‘Someone is hunting down anyone who escaped,’ Ruth said. ‘Someone is silencing anyone who tries to tell the tale of it. You spoke about the massacre in public today. You can’t ever do that again.’

Joan made tea. The ordinary ritual of it was comforting. Beside her, Ruth reached into the air, taking out food she’d bought at the market—pies and mushy peas, still piping hot. The Hunt family power. And that was comforting too. At Gran’s place, everyone had had stashes of food like that—except Joan, of course. Her Hunt power had faded over the years.

As Ruth reached for another pie, Joan found herself suddenly remembering what Gran had said last night. Someday soon, you’ll come into a power. Not the Hunt power. Another. What had Gran meant by that? But that memory was quickly chased by another memory—Gran’s blood seeping all over Joan’s hands. Gran’s harsh breaths rattling in and out. Joan heard her own breath hitch.