Only a Monster (29 page)

“No,” the woman's voice said. “Start again.”

The scene vanished, leaving the sitting room empty. Joan stared at the space where Nick had been, sickened. After the massacre, she'd imagined hurting him for what he'd done to her family. But actually
seeing
him get hurt in front of her . . . hearing the crack of breaking bone . . . She wanted to throw up.

A number floated in the air: 15.

Nick was in the chair again, face uninjured. The monster stood over him. Joan could hardly breathe.

“Who shall I kill first?” the monster said to him. “You have so many siblings. Should I go youngest to oldest, and kill your parents last? Or the other way around?”

“Leave them alone!” Nick said. “They're—”

The monster struck Nick's face, breaking his nose again. Joan flinched hard. A terrible dread began to fill her chest.

“Stop,” the woman's voice said. “Start again.”

The number 93 floated in the air.

“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 agonized 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 recognize him. He was in modern clothes this time: an ugly Christmas sweater 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 swan-necked, 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.

“Yes,” Ruth whispered.

“Who
is
she?” Joan said.

“I don't know,” Ruth said. Joan looked at Tom and Aaron. Tom shook his head slightly. Aaron seemed dazed.

“What we just saw . . . ,” Aaron said. “That shouldn't have been possible. You can't be in the same time twice. It's a fundamental law of time travel. You shouldn't be able to change the timeline like that. But they killed his family over and over—”

“And over and over and over,” Ruth murmured.

“It isn't possible,” Aaron said. “How could it have been recorded? What family power can do that?”

Nick had been tortured and then rebooted so they could do it all to him again, over and over and over. . . . He'd been remade. How many times had they killed his family? How many times before they'd broken him? That last number had been 1922. Joan couldn't stop shaking. She rounded on Tom. “Did you know about this?” she demanded furiously. Because if he
had . . .

“No!” Tom said. “I had no idea that the hero was—was
constructed
.”

“You said this message was left for you! Left for you by—” Something that had been nagging at Joan surfaced. “Jamie Liu . . .” She paused.

Aaron appeared beside her, footsteps silent on the carpet. Joan could see the wheels turning in his head just like they were turning in hers.

“Ying Liu has a son named Jamie,” Joan said slowly. “We saw his paintings in the Liu gallery. They were all of the hero.”

Tom's jaw worked. He couldn't seem to stand still. He shifted his weight, fists clenching and unclenching. “Jamie always loved the stories of the hero,” he said. “He was the foremost scholar of the myths.”

“Was?”

“He found out something he shouldn't have,” Tom said. “Something about the hero. Something he wasn't supposed to know. And the Court just . . .” Tom swallowed. “Took him. They just
took
him. It was a long time before we were even able to discover that he was still alive—that he was being kept by the
Court. That they were using him to keep their stupid records.”

The Lius had perfect memory, Joan remembered. She should have realized that the archive was a Liu.

“We always knew that he was going to disappear,” Tom said. “It was in the Liu records. But I
promised
him I'd protect him. I told him I'd keep him safe. I told him I'd change the timeline somehow.”

“You've tried to rescue him before,” Joan realized. “You became a guard to get into the Court.”

“I never saw him in the Court,” Tom said. “I tried, but I never got as close as I did tonight.”

Joan remembered what Aaron had told her once.
Everyone goes up against the timeline. Everyone tries.

“Jamie knows me,” Tom said. “He knows I won't stop until I get him back.” His voice cracked. “That fucking mattress was still warm.”

As he spoke, the air in the sitting room seemed to shudder again suddenly.

Joan shuddered with it. “Tom,” she said. She couldn't stand to see any more from the device.
Please
, she thought. But when the image resolved, it wasn't Nick.

Tom stumbled closer. A man in his twenties was standing in the middle of the room. He had Chinese features and a gentle quality. The kind of person who'd help an old lady cross the street, Joan thought. Her next thought was that he looked ill. His face was gaunt; the skin under his eyes looked bruised.

“Jamie,” Tom whispered. He lifted a hand to touch the man's
face. But there was nothing to touch. His fingers went right through.

“Hello, Tom,” Jamie said. He was in the prison cell. Joan could see the thin blanket. The cold stone floor. The sight of them gave her the swooping, sick feeling that she'd had when she'd been in there. The feeling from her old nightmares. She imagined she could smell the room again. Fear and sickness and death.

“The guards told me that no one would ever get into this room,” Jamie said. “But I knew you would.” His eyes crinkled, fond. “I love you.”

I love you
, Tom mouthed back, even though Jamie couldn't see it. Tom's expression was raw: an open wound. Joan felt like an intruder watching him.

“Who'd have thought researching fairy tales would be so hazardous?” Jamie's chuckle turned into a pained hitch. He rubbed his chest absently, as though his ribs hurt. The angle of his fingers looked wrong. They'd been broken and hadn't been set properly, Joan thought. Tom's own hands clenched into fists.

“Tom,” Jamie said seriously. “I found something I shouldn't have. The hero is real. And he's going to kill more people than you can imagine. He'll commit dozens and dozens of massacres by the time he's done. But what he doesn't know is what you just saw. That he was
made
into the hero. He was made into this.”

There were echoing footsteps suddenly, real enough that Joan and Ruth both turned to the kitchen. But the sound was coming from inside the recording. From the muffled quality,
someone was approaching Jamie's room.

“The woman who made him—who brought me here. She believes no one can stop her,” Jamie said quickly. “But she's wrong. She thinks she made the hero perfectly. She didn't. She made a mistake with him. He can be stopped.”

“On your feet,” a voice called through the door. “She wants you in the chair again.”

Fear passed over Jamie's face. He forced a smile over it when he looked back at the camera. “Tom, you need to stop looking for me,” he said. “You need to turn your eyes to what's really important. The hero
must
be stopped.”

Tom shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Jamie said, just as if he'd heard Tom's voice. “You can . . . for me.” His smile gentled into something real and soft. “You hate goodbyes, so I won't give you one,” he said. Tom was still shaking his head. Jamie kept speaking. “As for me . . . a Liu doesn't need goodbyes. I can see you perfectly even now. I remember every moment that we were together. Every touch. Every conversation we ever had. For me, you're always here.”

The recording ended.

They sat there for a long while in silence: Aaron and Tom on the sofa, Ruth slumped in a chair.

“What are we going to do?” Joan said finally.

“What can we do?” Aaron said. His voice sounded flat. “We should wait out the Patel hit and then just . . . disappear. Live quiet, unrecorded lives. Pretend we never saw what we just saw.”

“You mean give up?” Ruth said.

“What choice do we have?” Aaron said.

But it wasn't just their own families. It was all those other people who were going to be killed—dozens and dozens of massacres, Jamie had said. It was the human time that Aaron and Joan had stolen to get here. It was Jamie Liu, being kept in that cell.

And it was Nick and his family.

“In that message,” Joan said, “Jamie said that Nick had been made wrong. That they'd made a mistake.”

“If it was something that could have helped us, he should have just told us what it was,” Aaron said.

“He's a Liu,” Joan said. “He's the Royal Archive. He could have told us lots of things.”

“And?” Aaron said.

“And the most important thing—the thing he chose to tell us—was that a mistake was made.”

“Well, he didn't tell us enough,” Aaron said. “And we can't exactly go and ask him for more information, can we?”

Joan looked at Tom. He'd realized it at the same moment she had. She could see it in the shadow of resignation that crossed his face.

“Yes, we can,” she said.

Joan wanted to go immediately, but Tom refused. “We're not waking him up at the crack of dawn,” he said.

That gave them a chance to get cleaned up, at least. Joan had a shower. There were clothes in the bedroom wardrobe in various sizes—some new with tags, some pre-worn and laundered. Who had this safe house been prepared for? Aaron had said that he'd learned of this place from his mother. How had
she
known about it?

More questions. Joan sighed. She found a pair of jeans that fit, and a T-shirt that said
Crystal Palace FC
.

Aaron looked pained when she reemerged. “A football T-shirt?” he said.

Joan was surprised to find herself smiling in response. Only a few days ago, she'd found his grumbling annoying. “It fits,” she said.

“Is it indicative of your own taste or the selection in there?” Aaron said. “No, don't tell me. I'm afraid to know.” He headed to the bedroom with a mild air of doom.

Ruth joined Joan. “What's the bet he'll come back out in
those same clothes?” she said. She looked better, Joan thought. She'd had a nap and woken with more color in her face.

“How are you feeling?” Joan asked her.

Ruth sighed. Her hair was flat where she'd been lying on it. “The Hunt power still feels burned out of me,” she said. She added, very soft, “Do you think it'll come back?”

Joan reached up to fix Ruth's curls. She didn't know. But Ruth had burned herself out to save the rest of them. Ruth would have stayed there at the Court, as long as Joan had gotten out. Joan's throat felt tight at the thought. “You should stay here and rest.”

“I'd rather be busy.” Ruth poked Joan's foot with hers, and grinned when Joan protested. “Anyway, I think we should keep an eye on him.” She looked over to the kitchen. Through the open doorway, Joan could see Tom sitting at the table with Frankie in his lap. Frankie looked sleepy—she'd eaten two of the pork pies. Tom stroked her head absently; he was staring at nothing much.

“You don't trust him?” Joan said. “I do. We saw him laid bare today.”

“No, I mean we should keep an eye on him for
him
,” Ruth said. “When you speak to someone you love before they know you . . . Well, it isn't easy.”

Joan looked at her. Did Ruth know that Joan had gone to see Gran? But Ruth's expression had turned inward.
Everyone tries to change something
, Aaron had said once. Did everyone try this too?

They headed out soon after that. Conrad had apparently assumed they'd gone to ground. The police blockades on the bridges were gone, and there were fewer guards around.

Joan found herself walking with Tom. He'd scooped up Frankie and tucked her into his zipped jacket. She snored, squashed-faced, against his shirt.

“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. Fairy tales.”

“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 colorful album covers. Music cassettes, Joan realized. 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.”

Tom's throat worked. “Sure,” he said. “But we'd love to chat now too. Because, see. We, uh . . . We're . . .” His amazing
composure seemed to fail him. “Uh, well . . .”

Joan slid in before Tom's hesitation could get too weird. “We're collectors. We want to buy a painting,” she said. “From the hero series. Your dad said you could tell us about it. Right, Tom?”

Tom shot her a look of mixed thanks and disapproval. “Right.” So Tom lied to everyone except Jamie. Noted.

“Really? I've never sold anything before.” Jamie looked so happy that Joan felt bad about the lie. Well, she would have felt bad. From the expression on Tom's face, they were going to have to buy every Jamie Liu painting in the gallery. “I really like your ring,” Jamie added to Tom.

Joan saw it then. Tom turned his head from Jamie's view, just long enough for the mask to drop. He recovered quickly, turning back with a smile. “Thanks. My husband designed it.”

Tom kicked off his shoes and sat, mirroring Jamie's posture. Tom's body was usually intimidating, muscles bulging from his shirt. But with Jamie Liu, he looked utterly unthreatening. He'd put himself down on an incline. It made him and Jamie almost the same height.

Joan followed suit, peering at Tom's ring as she sat. She'd never really noticed it before. It was dark metal with a scoured finish. Now she saw what had caught Jamie's eye. Etched lines ran over and under the band—images of hounds and phoenixes. They had the same quality of vitality, of life, that Jamie's paintings did. The same quality as the tattoo on Tom's arm.

Joan flattened her hands on the ground. The grass felt cool and dry. “We're really interested in the stories behind the
paintings,” she said to Jamie. “We were all saying that we didn't remember the hero stories very well.”

“Oh, there are loads of them,” Jamie said, face brightening with enthusiasm for the topic.

“Can you tell us about them?” Ruth said.

“Oh.” Jamie didn't seem to know where to start. “Well . . . Different families tell different stories. The Patel and Hunt stories are mostly adventures. The hero fights mythical beasts like krakens and giant serpents. That sort of thing. In their stories, he only starts fighting monsters like us later in life.”

“Huh,” Joan said. Those were the stories that Gran had told her.

Aren't these just the Hercules stories?
she'd said to Gran once when she was about seven. She'd been snotty-nosed and precocious as a kid. Gran had just waved her hand.
Oh, those ancients
, she'd said.
Always stealing our myths.
Now Joan felt her eyes well up unexpectedly. She'd hardly been able to think of Gran since the massacre without remembering her terrible last moments. This was one of the first times she'd remembered Gran just being Gran.

“The Mtawali stories tend to be fables. You know, with lessons attached,” Jamie continued. “And the Oliver stories are mostly horror. I guess they enjoy terrifying their children before they fall asleep.”

Aaron usually hated people talking about his family. But there was mild approval on his face at this.
God, the Olivers are weird
, Joan thought.

“We were trying to remember a particular one,” she said.
“Where the hero has a flaw.”

“A flaw?” Jamie said.

“A weakness.”

“You mean like an Achilles' heel?” Jamie said. “Sorry. He doesn't die in any story I've read.”

Waste of time
, Aaron mouthed to Joan.

“Although . . .” Jamie hesitated. “There is one thing. It's not exactly a weakness. But it is a vulnerability, perhaps.”

Aaron lifted his head. “What is it?” Joan asked.

“The Liu stories are romances,” Jamie said. “In our stories, the hero was once in love with a girl.”

Aaron grimaced and dropped his head again. But Joan's stomach twisted. “A romance?” she said. “The hero stories aren't romances.”

“The Liu stories are,” Jamie said. “We love a tragic romance.” At the word
tragic
, the sick twist in Joan's stomach worsened. “Have you ever heard of the
zhēnshí de lìshĭ
?” he said.

“The true timeline,” Joan said.

“Some families call it that,” Jamie agreed. “The Liu stories say that in the
zhēnshí de lìshĭ
, the hero was an ordinary boy in love with a monster girl.”

“A monster girl?” Joan echoed. The sick feeling was getting stronger.

“You know the theory of the timeline?” Jamie said. “That when we make changes, the timeline repairs itself? It returns to its natural shape.”