Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(95)

‘What are you talking about?’

‘My family can see the difference between monsters and humans,’ Aaron said. ‘But our power runs deeper than anyone knows. Some of us can tell family from family.’

He’d just told her an Oliver secret, Joan realised. Aaron, who protected and defended his family, always. He’d told her something no one outside his family was supposed to know.

‘Because you’ll know I’m a Hunt?’ Joan whispered. ‘You’ll hate me for it?’

Aaron didn’t answer, but Joan knew the truth. For monsters, blood didn’t come into it. Family was power and power was family. And she didn’t have the Hunt power.

‘In a human sense, they’re your family,’ Aaron said. ‘You love them and they love you.’

‘I’m not a Hunt, am I?’ Joan said.

‘As children, monsters can have more than one family power,’ Aaron said. ‘We can have powers from both sides of the family, powers that jump a generation. But as we get older, the only power that remains is the power of our true family. When our true power stabilises, we undertake a trial to affirm which family we belong to.’

‘I never did that,’ Joan said.

‘You’re supposed to undertake the trial around the time you turn twelve,’ Aaron said. ‘I was nine.’

‘Nine?’ That seemed horrible to Joan. To have someone say that you didn’t belong to half your family anymore. What if you had brothers and sisters who manifested a different power? Did you all get separated?

‘I was so proud of myself.’ Aaron sounded contemptuous of his younger self. ‘I’d manifested what we call the true Oliver power—the ability to differentiate family from family. It’s rare among us. But after I did . . .’ Shadows flickered over Aaron’s face as a car passed, its lights shining through the wavy glass. ‘After I did, they took me into a room. There was a man in there with his hands bound, in a cage with thick iron bars.’ His breath shuddered in his throat. ‘They . . . they shocked him with a cattle prod until he looked into my eyes. They told me that if I saw anyone like him again, I was to kill them. Or inform the Court if I couldn’t do it myself.’

Joan flashed back to Edmund staring into her eyes before telling Lucien to kill her. Then she remembered how Aaron had stood between her and Edmund at Whitehall Palace, shielding her from Edmund’s view. How Aaron had taken Edmund’s abuse to keep Joan safe.

‘I never saw anyone like him again,’ Aaron said. ‘Until I saw you in the maze. Until I was close enough to see your eyes.’

‘What am I?’ Joan whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ Aaron said. ‘All I know is that if you undo the massacre, you can’t ever meet me. You can’t ever trust me. I won’t know. I won’t remember what—’ He cut himself off. Then he ground out, ‘I won’t remember what you mean to me.’

Joan felt horribly close to tears suddenly. His gaze was slanted away from her. ‘Aaron . . .’

‘No, don’t,’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘Aaron,’ she said. She touched his hand. He was always so warm.

Then he did meet her eyes. There was such intensity in his face that for a long moment, Joan thought he was about to kiss her.

He took something from his pocket. Joan’s eyes were blurring. It took her a few blinks to make out a small object: a brooch in the shape of a birdcage. The base of the cage was richly decorated with flowers. Inside, a brown bird sat on the perch, head raised as if in song.

Aaron ran a finger down the edge of the brooch—gentle, almost reverent—and then gave it to Joan. ‘I found it in the bedroom wardrobe,’ he said. ‘It was my mother’s.’

‘Your mother was here?’ Joan whispered.

Aaron shook his head, but not in denial—as if he couldn’t bear to talk about it. ‘Can you turn it over?’

Joan did. The brooch had a brass back with a simple pin clasp. Two numbers had been hand-engraved. The first was crossed out: 100. The second was in a different hand: 50.

‘The Mtawali family has the power to transfer time into objects,’ Aaron said. ‘Travel tokens, we call them. You can use this one to travel up to fifty years without taking time from anyone. I know,’ he said before Joan could protest. ‘I know. Morally, it’s the same as taking the life yourself, but it will feel different to travel this way. I promise.’

Joan didn’t believe that. Stealing life was stealing life. But all she could think about was that this might be the last time she saw Aaron—whether she failed or succeeded.

‘When you’re ready,’ Aaron said, ‘just think about the time you want to go to. Do you remember how it felt to jump?’

Joan closed her eyes, trying to remember that feeling of yearning from the Pit. She hadn’t let herself feel it since that day.

‘I’ve figured out where you’re going, you know,’ Aaron whispered. There was a shift in the air. Joan felt his hand brush against her cheek gently, just for a moment. ‘You’re going home,’ he said.

Home. It had been a long time since Joan had believed she could go home. But at the word from Aaron, she wanted it desperately. And this was the feeling of the jump, she remembered. This yearning feeling.