Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(89)

‘What is this?’ Aaron said. ‘He’s the hero. Why isn’t he fighting back?’

Joan was beginning to understand, and it was more horrifying than she wanted to believe. When Nick appeared again, she crawled closer to him.

This time, he was on his knees, shaking. The chair was on its side, rope still tied to its arms. Nick seemed to have escaped it, but he hadn’t gone far—he was kneeling by a dark-haired woman and man on the floor. His parents, Joan guessed. They were dead. They had the same stillness that Lucien had had, that Gran had had.

Where before Joan had tried to run, now she couldn’t get close enough. Nick’s expression was a mix of disbelief and devastation. Joan knew exactly how terrible that moment felt.

At the sound of footsteps, Nick scrabbled up, grabbing for a knife on the kitchen counter.

‘Now that’s what I like to see,’ the monster said. ‘Some initiative.’

Nick backed up, the knife shaking in his hand. Throw the knife, Joan willed him, and then wondered at herself. Whose side was she on?

‘Look at you,’ the man said, sounding amused. ‘Armed with a knife. And here I am with only my bare hands.’ He held them up in mockery, as though Nick were arresting him. He was still advancing. ‘But then, I killed them with my bare hands, didn’t I?’

‘You—you just touched them,’ Nick said uncertainly. ‘You touched their necks. And they fell.’

‘That’s right,’ the man said. ‘Because I’m a monster.’

‘A monster?’ Nick still sounded confused.

‘I stole your parents’ time from them,’ the man said. ‘All that they had left in them. Just like I’ve stolen from hundreds of people before them. Just like I’m going to steal your life from you.’

‘You’re not well,’ Nick said. The man was within arm’s reach of Nick now, close enough for Nick to stab him. ‘You’re not a monster,’ Nick said in that serious way Joan was so familiar with. ‘You’re a human, and you’re sick. You need help.’

‘Stop,’ the woman’s voice said.

Once again, Nick froze. And then Joan was sure. She breathed out slowly.

The monster turned again to the woman out of frame. ‘With respect, must we use this boy? How many times have we killed his parents? He’s always so virtuous afterward.’ He spat the word virtuous as though it were a curse. ‘Perhaps a different human . . .’ ‘This is the boy,’ the woman said. ‘Not in spite of his virtuousness, but because of it. When we break him, that quality will turn into righteous fury.’ The glee in her voice made Joan want to scream. ‘Now do it again.’





210


Nick was in the chair, voice hoarse. ‘You don’t have to do this. You—’

‘Stop. Again.’





1100


There were more bodies on the kitchen floor. Joan couldn’t bear to look at them this time. You have so many siblings, the man had said to Nick.

Nick had talked about his family; he’d said that they’d all lived crowded together in a tiny flat. He’d never liked talking about himself, but he’d talked to Joan.

And now Nick had his knife to the man’s throat. ‘Why?’ His voice sounded raw. He was sobbing.

‘Because I’m a monster,’ the man said. ‘They weren’t the first and they won’t be the last.’

To Joan’s shock, Nick shoved the knife into the monster’s neck. As he fell, Nick’s knees seemed to give way too. He made an agonised sound in the back of his throat that Joan would never forget as long as she lived.

‘No,’ the woman’s voice said. ‘Again.’





1922


The kitchen was gone. Nick was standing on a street corner. He was far younger than he’d been in the other scenes. It was dusk, and the road was shiny with new rain. Cars flashed by, their lights briefly blinding.

When the monster walked past, Joan almost didn’t recognise him. He was in modern clothes this time: an ugly Christmas jumper and a blue anorak.

Nick was fast: a striking snake. One moment the monster was walking by, the next he was kneeling, arms twisted up behind his back.

‘Do you remember me?’ Nick said. This time, his voice didn’t shake. He was so young. Joan’s heart wrenched for him.

The man’s laugh was brief. Nick snapped his neck. When Nick turned, his eyes were bright with triumph.

A woman stepped into the frame. She was blonde and swannecked, with the kind of face Joan had only ever seen on marble statues. Her imperious posture seemed out of place on that dreary London street. She belonged, Joan thought, on a throne.

The woman spoke. The approval in her voice was at odds with her cruel, cold face. ‘You’re ready,’ she said to Nick. ‘You’re perfect.’

Joan’s palms hurt. She was digging her nails into them. She’d drawn blood, she saw distantly. All the hero stories started the same way: Once upon a time, there was a boy who was born to kill monsters. But it hadn’t been Nick’s destiny at all. He hadn’t been born to it. Someone had done this to him. Someone had made him into the hero.

‘She was the woman you saw in the hospital, wasn’t she?’ she said to Ruth.