Only a Monster (16 page)

Aaron sighed. “I understand the implication.”

“Ruth and I are going to see them,” Joan said.

Ruth shifted beside her, clearing her throat. Joan looked at her questioningly.

“I'm, uh, not exactly welcome in the Liu houses,” Ruth said. “I've . . . Well, I've kind of stolen a few things here and there, and I guess I have a bit of a reputation. They wouldn't let me through the front door.” At Joan's look, she said defensively, “They have some nice stuff.”

“Justification enough,” Aaron said, dry.

Ruth gave him the finger, but it was halfhearted.

“Well, just tell me where they are,” Joan said.

“No,” Aaron said heavily. “I'll take you.”

Joan looked at him, surprised. He'd been so scathing about the idea. And he didn't look any happier about it now. He was scowling down at his new blue sneakers.

“Be careful,” Ruth said. She sounded as though she didn't like the idea of being separated from Joan so soon after they'd found each other. Joan didn't like it either.

“You too,” Joan said. “Be
really
careful, okay?”

Ruth nodded slightly. “Just keep in mind that the Lius don't
involve themselves in petty power plays like
some
families.” This must have been directed at Aaron, because he rolled his eyes. “But every family has their own agenda.”

The Ravencroft Market had arcades running through it. Joan hadn't realized how big it was. Aaron led her down one arcade and then another. Each seemed themed. One whole arcade sold weapons of various eras: knives and swords and bows. Another sold spices that Joan had never heard of.

“This way,” Aaron said.

The next arcade had a door at one end. It opened onto another nondescript human laneway. When Joan shut it behind her, the market sounds of people talking and selling cut off like someone had flicked a switch. No human wandering past would have suspected that a different world lay beyond that black door.

Joan touched the brass plaque on the wall beside it—a sea serpent coiled around a sailing ship. The same symbol she'd seen by the door to the inn.

“Are all monster places marked like this?” she asked.

“That symbol means that monsters from any family may enter,” Aaron said. “This whole complex—the inn, the market, the post office—is a way station. Monsters from all families are welcome to come and go.”

A way station. Joan remembered the monsters who'd arrived in the rain yesterday, wearing clothes from different times. She pictured places like this dotted around the city—safe places where monsters could travel in and out, unobserved by
humans. Places to exchange currency and buy clothes, to meet people and relay messages. To eat and sleep.

Aaron had already started walking toward the mouth of the laneway. Joan followed him. She felt as though she'd just glimpsed a whole bigger world.

Outside, the remnants of the storm were all over the streets—puddled water and stray sticks and leaves. Joan's self-consciousness about her clothes started to fade as she realized that no one was particularly looking at them—or, at least, no more than people usually looked at Aaron. These clothes really did make them blend in more.

“Thank you for taking me,” she said to Aaron a little awkwardly. “I know you don't believe we can change anything.”

“I know you have to do this,” Aaron said. Joan was reminded of his weary expression from last night. “Every monster goes up against the timeline.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone goes up against the timeline,” Aaron said. “Everyone tries to change something at some point.”

What had Aaron tried to change? When had he gone up against the timeline? What had happened that had made him so weary now? Joan wanted to ask him, but something in his expression silenced her.

Just like yesterday, the nineties were everywhere. As they walked past newsstands, Joan glimpsed headlines: “New Disaster for John Major.” “Steffi Poised to Win Wimbledon.” On the
cover of
Vogue
, the model had heavy mascara and thin eyebrows.

Aaron took the same kind of twisting route he'd taken to get to the monster inn: through parks and shops and churchyards.

“This isn't a shortcut,” Joan said slowly, when Aaron doubled back.

“I'm avoiding security cameras,” Aaron said. “Monsters don't like being captured on camera. There aren't as many in this time as in yours, but there are enough.”

Joan took that in. The Hunts didn't like being photographed either. Joan had always thought that was one of their eccentricities. But it seemed this was another thing that was cultural.

Not long after that, Aaron turned into a narrow commercial street, full of jewelers and bespoke shoemakers. If Joan were to guess, they were somewhere north of Covent Garden. He stopped halfway up the street. “The Lius,” he said.

The shop—if that's what it was—had no signage, not even a street number. The front was just a cool wall of frosted glass bricks. Patches of violet and green shimmered beyond the glass like the dart of exotic fish. In the summer sunshine, the effect was almost tropical.

As they stood there, a beautiful woman pushed past them, briefly enveloping them both in a scent that made Joan think of summer gardens. She pushed at the wall, and a piece of the glass moved inward—a door, its edges cunningly blended into the glass bricks. Joan caught a glimpse of vibrant color. Then the door swung shut, and there was only the wall.

“We need to be very careful,” Aaron said. He had a relaxed hand in his pocket, but Joan was beginning to recognize his mannerisms now, and she could see the tense line of his back. “Nothing's free between families. If you want information from the Lius, you'll have to trade for it.”

“I have money,” Joan said. She'd sold the phone yesterday.

But Aaron was already shaking his head. “Something like this is considered a favor. It'll be a favor for a favor. And monsters take debts seriously. You'll have to pay what you owe.”

“And after all this, what will I owe you?” Joan said.

Aaron's cheeks turned pink. “I told you. I'm the one who's in your—oh, will you stop asking questions so we can do this?” he said with an exasperated tone that was becoming a familiar part of their conversations.

Joan shrugged. She turned and pushed the wall where the woman had touched it. To her surprise, the door crashed open. She'd measured her effort for a heavy glass door, but in some genius of craftsmanship, it had been weighted to open to the lightest of touches. Joan's push had made it fly. She flushed, the violent entrance making her feel ridiculous. Distantly, she heard Aaron make a disapproving sound at her clumsiness, but she barely registered it as she stared around her.

The space inside was huge—far larger than it had seemed from the street. Light streamed from skylights. More light shone through the glass-brick wall, scattering into rainbows on the pale wooden floor.

The layout was a crisscross of white walls. It took Joan a second to realize that they were strategically angled away from
direct sunlight. The slashes of tropical color that she'd seen from the outside were paintings, the streaky abstract kind that she'd always thought looked like children's finger paintings.

But these weren't painted by children. Perhaps aided by the layout of the room, perhaps by careful placement and progression, these paintings were intensely compelling—raw and mysterious. Joan found herself walking closer.

Just a few steps revealed a man, hidden by the angle of a wall. He was in profile, repositioning a painting, and he had Chinese features, handsome and grave. He looked up at Joan's approach.

“Ying?” It was the woman who'd entered ahead of them. She was even more beautiful now that Joan could see her properly. She was perhaps thirty, with flawless golden-brown skin. Her face was as delicate as a doll's. She gave Joan a casual up-and-down look that dismissed her, and then reconsidered the dismissal. She tilted her head. “Daughter?” she asked the man—Ying. “Niece?”

Ying's pause was long. “She is not a Liu.”

Now that he was looking at Joan directly, she could see that his face was cut with deep, sad lines. His dark hair was parted perfectly and pulled back into a short ponytail. His clothing was both impeccable and slightly incongruous: shirt collar as white and rigid as porcelain, trousers a blue-gray linen that made Joan think of stormy seas.

Joan felt Aaron appear beside her. “Excuse me,” Aaron said. “I want to trade.”

Joan had thought Aaron would fit in perfectly here. He
didn't. Beside Ying, Aaron looked uptight and overthought. In here, he was as out of place as Joan.

“My apologies, but you'll have to wait,” Ying said. His accent was Oxford. “There are people ahead of you in the queue.”

Aaron's cheeks reddened. He opened his mouth, and then clearly couldn't bring himself say it.

Joan restrained herself from rolling her eyes. “He and I are here together,” she said.

Ying had the face of a man who'd seen everything, but Joan saw a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “A Hunt and an Oliver together? How very Romeo and Juliet.”

A flush crawled down Aaron's neck like an ugly rash. “Not that kind of together.” He looked as though he'd eaten something he was allergic to.

Joan felt her irritation flicker like a fanned flame. Aaron had a knack for making her feel that way, it seemed. She bunched her hair into her fist to cool her own neck.

As she did, the woman made a small, surprised cry. “You've been cut!” she said to Joan. “My goodness. What happened to you?” She touched her own slim side.

Joan dropped her hand. The skirt had slipped and the bandage with it, revealing the edge of the sword wound. Joan wrenched her skirt up, wishing she were wearing more than the dog vest.

“What happened?” the woman asked. “It looks as though you were in a
duel
.”

Joan caught Aaron's alarmed look. Apparently, questions
about sword wounds were dangerous territory. “It's nothing,” Joan said. “It's just . . . paint.”

“Paint?” The woman sounded skeptical.

Ying's smooth voice interjected. “My apologies. There
was
a wet painting by the wall.”

“Oh,” the woman said, uncertain now.

“Shall I have your piece delivered to the Ritz?”

“That would be convenient,” the woman said. She inclined her head graciously.

Joan could feel her curious eyes on them as Ying gestured for them to follow him.

Ying led them on a winding path through the gallery. The angled walls reminded Joan uncomfortably of the maze at Holland House. Her heart stuttered each time they turned a corner; she half expected to find Nick's people waiting with weapons. But at the end of their walk, there was just a small staff kitchen.

It was incongruously cozy compared with the soaring gallery. Everything was covered in mismatched striped wool—the teapot, the legs of the chairs, knife handles, cushions. “My niece likes to knit,” Ying said when he saw Joan looking. He went to a cabinet and took out a first-aid kit. He cut off a piece of clear tape.

“You lied for me,” Joan said, accepting the tape.

“I didn't lie,” Ying said. “There
is
a wet painting by the wall.” His eyes crinkled slightly, although the rest of his face remained solemn.

Joan did smile, tentatively. She fixed her bandage, hiding it again under the edge of the skirt.

As she did, Ying put together bowls of love-letter wafers and fresh strawberries and shelled peanuts. With some careful jigsaw-puzzling, he squeezed all the food onto a tray. The impulse to feed guests reminded Joan acutely of Dad.

“Please.” Ying gestured for Joan and Aaron to follow.

He led them through the back door to a beautiful, if overgrown, courtyard garden. It seemed to be the center of the Lius' residence: a square surrounded on all sides by buildings. A covered walkway ran between the courtyard and the buildings.

One covered section had been set up for a painter, with a table and an easel. Ying placed the tray on the table. His niece had been here too. The table legs wore striped tights in mismatched colors—blue and red, and green and pink. Joan caught Aaron glancing at them with mild horror.

The courtyard had a pleasantly casual feeling. Fern fronds encroached on the table. The air smelled of paint and jasmine. The sun had come out, turning the air thick and summery. There was no sign of yesterday's storm.

In the covered walkway, most of the doors had sneakers and flip-flops outside them. There were half-painted landscapes and portraits propped against the walls.

“One of my son's works,” Ying said, and Joan realized that she'd been looking at the nearest painting. It was of a man standing outside the door of a little town house, his back to the viewer. “Jamie loves the hero myths,” Ying said.

“The hero myths?” Joan said.

“The hero knocks,” Aaron murmured, as if it were a familiar subject of art.

Joan was more shaken than she'd have expected.
Nick.
The painting showed the hero standing outside a monster's door. Even from behind, he didn't look much like Nick. He had light brown hair to Nick's dark, and an immense muscularity to Nick's human frame.

Joan had thought she'd understood that the boy she'd kissed at Holland House was a figure from legend. But seeing him like this—mythologized in a time before his own birth—made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

“Joan,” Aaron said.

Joan blinked at him. “Yeah.” She pulled herself away from the painting with some effort.

“Please,” Ying said. “Sit.”

There were no proper chairs in the courtyard. Joan sat on the raised brick edge of a bed of violets. The brick was warm and dry. Ying sat on a low stool by the painter's easel. Aaron remained standing, leaning against one of the thick white pillars that separated the courtyard from its corridor.