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Joan imagined telling him the full truth. Yes. Because that’s what we are. We steal human life. She imagined his reaction. He’d be scared. Horrified. He’d leave the moment the boat stopped. And the next time she saw him, maybe he’d be leading an army.

And now she imagined lying outright. No, we don’t call ourselves that. You misheard. She dismissed the thought. He wouldn’t buy it. For all she knew, someone else had said monster in front of him already, at the inn, and she’d missed it.

The silence was beginning to stretch too long. A few more moments, and he’d really get suspicious. ‘We do call ourselves that,’ Joan admitted. She tried to control her quickening breaths. Now what would he do?

Nick was silent for a long moment. ‘Why?’ he asked sleepily.

Joan tried to make out his face in the dark. She couldn’t see much but the outline of his big frame. This was the question she’d really been dreading. The question she herself hadn’t asked until it was too late. Her family had always called themselves monsters. But she’d never asked why—not until Gran had told her: He didn’t do something to you. You did something to him.

Aware again of the lengthening silence, Joan said haltingly, ‘You’ve seen how dangerous this world is. How dangerous the people are.’

Nick was quiet again, taking that in. In the pause, Joan’s heartbeat sounded very loud. She wondered if he could hear it. ‘I have,’ he said slowly. ‘But … why monster? There are bad people here, but there are good people too. Bad like Corvin, and good like you and Jamie and Tom. And you said Aaron wasn’t a bad person really.’

Joan’s chest felt heavy with guilt. ‘Nick …’

‘Is it a word that humans gave you all?’ Nick asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your people have powers,’ Nick whispered. ‘You’d seem dangerous to some humans. Maybe even monstrous. But …’ He shook his head. ‘Back in that alley, Jamie was scared of me. Of being found out.’ With each word, he sounded sleepier.

He had picked up on Jamie’s fear. Joan had a flash of the other version of him, the bodies of four monsters lying behind him.

‘I think it’s a word humans gave you because they were scared of your powers,’ Nick murmured. ‘Always about fear in the end.’

thirteen

Joan woke to the wash of water and the low drone of an engine. The porthole window framed a slow-moving view of brick buildings with white lattice windows. She’d fallen asleep in darkness, but Jamie must have opened the shutters. Now, sharp sunshine glared off glassy water. The white sky had cleared to smears of cloud against blue.

Somewhere outside, raucous laughter rose; dogs barked; someone whistled a cheerful trill. They were nearing a mooring.

Nick breathed steadily beside Joan, still asleep, his head against the cushion, body slanted toward her. Joan felt the echo of his heavy warmth against her side. Had they been pressed together at some point?

Until now, Joan had been forcing her gaze away from him. Had been looking at him in glimpses. Now, she let her eyes roam. His body was like a classic sculpture. A young Mars, she thought. The god of war. With his head tilted, the vulnerable underside of his jaw just showed. A sudden sense memory hit Joan—of her mouth right there, the prickle of stubble against her lips. Another memory followed fast: the rough pad of his thumb running over her lower lip.

She sat up and squeezed her eyes shut. That had never happened. She’d never kissed him like that. He’d never touched her like that. It was just a fantasy of her tired mind. Or maybe a lost remnant of the original timeline.

Either way, this was just proof that she needed to be more vigilant about how she looked at him; how she thought about him.

Under her, the cushions shifted as Nick stirred. He breathed in sharply, tensing as he realised he was somewhere unfamiliar. For a second, he was a coiled spring.

‘We’re on the boat,’ Joan whispered. ‘We’re safe.’

She had expected him to tense more. The word monster stood between them now. But to her surprise, he relaxed at the sound of her voice, his shoulders loosening. ‘Joan,’ he said, voice gravelly. Her name came out lengthened and soft, like he was murmuring a prayer.

He opened his dark eyes, gaze seeking hers. Joan’s stomach flipped over. Asleep, he’d been impossibly handsome, a classical statue. Awake, that football-captain, popular-boy charisma made his looks even more magnetic. For a second, she couldn’t pull her eyes from him.

Outside, Tom called out something, and Jamie answered. The view rotated, showing a glassy marina lined with apartment buildings. And then they were drawing up alongside a narrowboat, much smaller than the barge. Like on Tranquility, a double-headed hound ran across the side, the painter’s hand not as skilled as Jamie’s.

‘Where are we?’ Nick said.

‘I think we’re with Tom’s family—the Hathaways.’ Beyond that, Joan couldn’t guess. The piled-up brick buildings said they were still in London, but the sun seemed too high in the sky for that. They must have slept for hours, and it wouldn’t have taken that long to get out of the city.

She stood, reaching for the wooden wall by the door for balance. Her whole body ached. However long she’d slept, it hadn’t been enough. Nick took her cue and got to his feet too, his long legs straightening. He stretched, T-shirt riding up to show defined muscles. Joan dragged her eyes to the porthole fast.

‘Who’s the artist?’ Nick nodded at a jar of paintbrushes on the galley bench.

Joan hadn’t noticed them. ‘They must be Jamie’s. He grew up in his family’s gallery.’