Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(92)

‘I think you’ll have to vouch for my cousin,’ Joan whispered to Tom. ‘Apparently she’s banned from the Liu houses.’

Tom’s eyebrows went up. ‘For what? Theft?’ When Joan nodded, he seemed more amused than concerned. ‘I was banned from their houses for a while,’ he said. There was a nostalgic smile in his voice; it seemed to be a good memory. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘You’re all with me.’

With all their precautions, it took a couple of hours to get to the Liu property.

Tom guided them to a back entrance—a narrow alley between high brick walls. Joan was beginning to associate such places with monsters. There was a black lacquered door in one wall. A Chinese phoenix had been carved into the wood, its long tail sweeping almost to the ground.

Tom’s lighter mood from earlier had vanished. His huge frame was tight with tension. Still tucked in Tom’s jacket, Frankie wriggled until Tom lifted her out. Once on the ground, she pawed eagerly at the door. When Tom didn’t open it, she barked at him, sharp and impatient. Tom bent to stroke her brown-and-white back. ‘I know,’ he murmured to her. He straightened slowly. ‘You know,’ he said, not looking at anyone, ‘Jamie might not be able to help us. He’s younger here in 1993. He’s barely even started this journey.’

‘He’s already painting the hero,’ Joan said. ‘He’s already interested in him. He might know something. Give us some clue.’

Tom’s jaw worked. For a moment, Joan thought he was going to refuse to open the door. Frankie seemed to sense his reluctance. She jumped up, her paws against the door, and barked again, even more urgency in her squashed face.

Tom sighed. He fished a key from his pocket with the air of someone who had permission to come and go as he pleased. But his hand shook as he slotted the key into the lock and turned it. Joan wondered when he’d last used it. He pushed open the door.

‘Oh,’ Joan breathed. She’d seen the front of the Liu property—the gallery and courtyard—but she’d underestimated the size of the estate.

Before them was a garden, artless and overgrown. The house had to be close, but by a trick of perspective, the greenery seemed endless. They could have been in the countryside. Wild crocuses and honeysuckle poked through the long grass. Joan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Bees hummed. Somewhere, water was trickling. The air smelled of honey and sunshine.

Tom was a contrast to the serene garden. He shifted back and forth with the contained energy of a boxer. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘in this time, he hasn’t been taken yet—he hasn’t been forced to become the archive.’ He almost spat the word. ‘He won’t know that the hero was created by monsters. He won’t even know that the hero is real yet. It will all just be stories to him. Fairytales.’

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Aaron said.

Tom’s jaw tightened. ‘No shit.’ He nodded toward the garden. ‘He’ll be down by the water. He loves the water.’

Tom led them all along an overgrown path and down rocky steps to a burbling stream. It would have been the perfect place for a picnic, sunny with dappled shade from the oak trees above.

By the stream, a boy of about fifteen was sitting on a rock, his jeans rolled up, bare feet in the running water. He was painting fish in bold orange strokes that seemed to magically turn into living carp as his brush moved. Like his paintings in the gallery, this one seemed more alive than the world around him.

Tom held up his hand before anyone could speak. He stared at Jamie’s back and swallowed. Frankie didn’t wait. She bounded down the hill into Jamie’s lap, knocking the paintbrush from his hand.

‘Hey!’ Jamie laughed as Frankie barked, delighted, licked his face, bounced away, and barked again. Joan had never heard Frankie so vocal. On the last bounce, Jamie caught her before she could tumble into the water. ‘Who are you?’ he said as Frankie wriggled in his grip, trying to lick his face again. ‘Hello. Who are you?’

Tom stood there, staring at them both. Joan couldn’t imagine how he felt. If she hadn’t known that this boy was the man from the message, she’d never have guessed. The man had been gaunt, every movement slow and pained. This boy was vibrant and full of vitality.

‘You okay?’ she asked Tom.

‘No,’ Tom said. But he made his way down the hill. Frankie barked at his approach. The boy turned. In his shoes, Joan would have jumped half a mile, but the boy’s expression just turned polite. ‘Oh, hello.’ He turned and saw the four of them. ‘Oh wow.’ He pulled his headphones off. ‘Sorry, I had that blasting.’ The headphones were attached to what looked like a slim silver purse. There were little boxes scattered around, all with colourful album covers. Music cassettes, Joan realised. The silver purse was a cassette player.

‘Are you Jamie?’ Tom said. His face was all cheerfulness as he introduced himself and the others. Joan remembered how it had felt when Gran had looked at her like a stranger. Tom showed no sign of what he must have been feeling. ‘Your dad said you might be down here.’

‘Does he need help in the gallery?’ Jamie went to stand, but Tom shook his head.

‘No, actually. We need your help. We heard you’d done some research on the hero stories.’

‘Uh . . .’ Jamie seemed puzzled. Frankie was finally settling down. Jamie stroked her head. ‘You’ve come way too early. I’ve only just started researching them. So . . . Maybe go forward five years or so,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll know everything by then.’