Page 26 of Once a Villain (Only a Monster #3)

Tom wore a knitted beanie, and he was unshaven, the scruff on his cheeks the color of sand.

He stroked Frankie’s head absently. She licked at his chin, not seeming to register anything different about him. Joan supposed

that, from her perspective, Tom had only been gone a day.

Nearby, an unmusical whistle sounded—the secret language of the Hathaways. The whistle was quickly taken up, and within a

minute the news of strangers arriving had traveled around the small dock. Muscled Hathaways climbed onto the decks of their

boats, staring at Joan and the others, expressions unwelcoming.

Tom didn’t seem so hostile. His gaze had fixed on Jamie. “Is this your dog?” he asked in his familiar low growl.

A flit of pain passed across Jamie’s face, and Joan swallowed. She knew how it felt to have someone you loved look at you

without recognition. And it was one thing for Jamie to have known, intellectually, that Tom wouldn’t remember him, but to

hear the evidence was something else.

“Her name’s Frankie,” Jamie managed, and Tom paused, as if the name was familiar to him. Had he named Frankie after someone?

On the roof of the narrowboat, a shadow moved.

A pink yawning mouth appeared, and then two golden eyes.

A black cat had been sleeping, curled around the chimney; it woke now, blinking and stretching, and then scrambled up in a posture of outrage as it spotted Frankie in Tom’s arms. A clawed paw swiped from the roof, just missing Frankie’s nose.

“Oops!” Tom said. He scooped up the cat, tucking her under his other arm. “Not very nice, Sylvie!” And now it was Frankie’s

turn to be outraged. She ruff ed at the cat, shook her head, and ruff ed again. “Sorry,” Tom said to Jamie. “She’s used to having me all to herself.”

“So you live alone?” Jamie breathed. Tom blinked at him. “I mean...” Jamie’s face reddened.

“Just me and my familiar,” Tom said. That was what the Hathaways called their pets. His eyes lingered on Jamie again, shifting

down and then up. Then he reddened a little too as he realized how blatantly he’d been looking.

Marguerite cleared her throat. Tom jerked around, as if he’d forgotten there was anyone else on the dock but Jamie.

“We need a ride back to Nightingale territory,” Marguerite said. She fished in her purse and retrieved a few notes of cash

that made Aaron and Tom raise their eyebrows.

Tom played it cool, though. “Going to need a bit more than that to transport six people, my love.”

Marguerite shrugged and retrieved more notes. “Enough for the dog too.”

Tom made a sweeping gesture, inviting them onto the boat. “Dogs always ride free.”

Joan ducked her head as she descended the short flight of stairs into the narrowboat’s living compartment.

It was tiny compared with the boat Tom had shared with Jamie in the previous timeline, and without Jamie’s hand it was a simple, tidy space.

Joan missed Jamie’s artwork, which had once made a ribbon beneath the ceiling—an uninterrupted illustration of a boat’s journey along the Thames.

The only sign of life—other than Tom—was a small cat bed on a side table. Sylvie leaped neatly into it now, turning to stare

imperiously down at Frankie, who barked up at her.

“She’s a guest,” Tom scolded Sylvie gently. He ran a thumb behind her soft ears. “We’re polite to guests.”

The cat gave him a disbelieving look in response.

A cat... Joan stared at her. For some reason, that was almost the strangest change between this world and the last. Joan

had never expected Tom to have a different familiar in this timeline.

Tom pulled down benches for them to sit on. Aaron, Joan, and Nick ended up on one side; Marguerite, Jamie, and Ruth on the

other. Tom himself strode through to the back of the boat, opening a door to get to the tiller outside. “Hang on a tick,”

he called. “I need to get us through the lock; it’s a tricky one.”

It took about fifteen minutes to get the boat out onto the river. Then, to Joan’s surprise, Tom whistled a few notes and returned,

leaning on the cabin door.

“It’s driving itself?” Joan asked Tom.

“The magic of autopilot,” Tom said dryly. And that was another piece of technology Eleanor had dragged into this timeline—for narrowboats, at least. “Right then,” Tom added gruffly. “How exactly did I just earn all that money?”

“We have a code that we need you to crack.” Marguerite nodded at Joan. “Will you play the recording?”

“Shouldn’t we just give him the numbers?” Joan said. The message hadn’t actually mentioned Eleanor by name, but it was still

sensitive information.

“It’s all right,” Marguerite reassured her. “Tom can be trusted. And he might need the whole context to decrypt it.”

The way she said it, with complete confidence in Tom’s discretion, made Joan realize again that there’d been a whole operation

here before they’d arrived in this timeline. A small one, perhaps, but an efficient one. And Joan and the others had disrupted

it....

This time, as the message played, Joan found herself watching Nick’s counterpart as much as listening to his words. His solemnity

and bearing reminded her of the heroic version of him she’d first met.

She glanced at her Nick. Behind his glasses, with his hair styled differently, he truly did seem like someone else. He was frowning slightly

as he watched; Joan wondered if he was thinking about his counterpart’s scars. Wondering who had done that to him.

“Hmm,” Tom said when the numbers flashed up at the end.

9 1894 1, 9 1671 6, 7 161 7, 12 108 6, 2 2229 4, 14 56 6, 11 2141 5, 3 3199 6

“We can write them down,” Marguerite said.

“That’s not necessary.” Tom handed Marguerite back the wad of cash she’d given him.

“You can’t solve it?” she said, disappointed.

“It’s a book cipher. I’d put money on it. First number in each group is the chapter, second is the line, third is the word.

To break the code, we’d need a copy of the book used to encrypt it. Not just the book—the exact edition.”

Joan looked at her Nick again. He lifted one shoulder at her. He didn’t know what the book could be.

“Looks like a long book, if that helps,” Tom offered. “Those are large numbers....”

“Running out of time... ,” Marguerite said. “Why would he say that? And what does damage mean?”

“And locking things down ... ,” Jamie said. “Why does that seem familiar?” he murmured, almost to himself.

“The numbered line must provide the full context,” Ruth said.

“Or maybe we’re misunderstanding something,” Tom said.

But Marguerite frowned, giving Aaron a long look, as if she suspected he was keeping information from her deliberately, perhaps

to protect her.

And maybe his counterpart had been protecting her because, to Joan, the phrasing of the message implied an advanced plan that hadn’t involved Marguerite. You’re alone in this now. You have what you need.

“Why don’t you check the Nightingale library,” Aaron said to Marguerite now. “I’ll check the Oliver one.”

“We should speak to the Lius as well,” Jamie said. “If one of us has read the book, we won’t need the physical item. We’ll be able to break the code from memory.”

“Who are the Lius?” Tom said, sounding curious.

Silence followed. Outside, water lapped at the boat, rocking it. Jamie reached for the wall to steady himself. “You don’t

know the Liu family?” he said slowly.

Tom’s head tilted; he’d heard the note of horror in Jamie’s voice, and he didn’t understand it. “I’m sorry—should I know them?”

The hairs rose at the back of Joan’s neck. They’d searched for Liu territory last night and hadn’t been able to find it. They’d

assumed that the Lius had moved somewhere else in the city. They’d been planning to reach out to them later today. But Marguerite’s

and Tom’s confusion said that something was wrong.

“They’re a family of monsters,” Jamie said.

“I’ve never heard of a monster family with that name before.” Marguerite’s voice was gentle. She could see that Jamie was

distressed, but like Tom, she didn’t know why.

“But...” Jamie’s voice died in his throat. Joan could see the question all over his face. Then where is my family?

“We’re almost at the Nightingale dock,” Tom said softly. It hadn’t taken long to cross the river.

“I should go,” Marguerite said, still in that gentle tone, as Tom jumped out to tie up the boat. “Projector off!” she added,

and the floating numbers vanished.

Aaron stood when she did, and his mother hugged him and kissed him quickly on each cheek. For a second, he looked shaken—maybe remembering this affection from his own mother. Joan had a feeling he hadn’t been hugged by a member of his family since she’d died.

Aaron swallowed. “Be safe,” he said to her softly.

“ You be safe,” she said to him, touching his cheek.

Aaron’s gaze followed his mother out onto the dock as she left. Outside, the wind had picked up. Marguerite walked to a parked

car, holding down the edge of her skirt. Tendrils of hair fluttered around her face, defying her neat bun. Joan couldn’t imagine

how Aaron was feeling.

“Can you take us to the Oliver house?” Aaron asked Tom when he came back in.

“Of course,” Tom said easily. He made no move, though, to start the boat again. Instead, he leaned against the boat’s wall.

“I need to know something first, though,” he said.

“Who are you all? Because you ”—he nodded at Aaron—“are not the Aaron Oliver I know. And you,” he said to Nick, “look and sound uncannily like the gladiator.” He met Joan’s eyes.

“And I know your face from a wanted poster. Joan Chang-Hunt. Strange thing is, a girl with a very similar name died in infancy about seventeen years ago.”