Page 6 of Once a Villain (Only a Monster #3)

Joan blinked at him, thrown a little off guard. “Okay?” She’d expected him to argue—to say: It’s a waste not to use them. The time’s already taken. You’re being unreasonable. We should at least take a vote.

But he looked up at her, gray eyes serious. “Do you want me to give them to you?”

Joan didn’t want to touch them. “No.”

“Okay,” Aaron said again, as if that was reasonable. It wasn’t, though, she knew.

“All right,” Ruth said slowly. She looked between Joan and Aaron, as if she’d registered something that Joan hadn’t.

Joan felt off-balance, despite Aaron’s easy agreement. She concentrated on the newly opened drawer.

She found a small stash of coins and banknotes with Eleanor’s profile, crowned in roses—the official currency, she guessed.

She pocketed it and kept rummaging, feeling something hard at the bottom of the drawer.

“What’s this?” She’d retrieved a domino-like object, off-white and heavy. Had it been carved from bone? There was a date on

one side— April 13 —and a letter, V . She turned it over and found an etched image of a stadium that looked like the Colosseum of Rome.

Jamie came over to look. “It’s an old ticket to the arena. Not worth anything.” He pointed to a scratched strike through the

stadium image. “It’s already been used.”

“Arena?” Joan repeated. The caged men on the bridge flashed into her mind. “ Damnatio ad gladium ,” she said slowly. “ Damnatio ad bestias. ” Those words were familiar.... She’d heard them before, in history classes.

“Condemnation to the sword, and condemnation to the beasts,” Jamie said. “They were punishments of ancient Rome. Criminals

were forced to fight against gladiators. And after those battles, the lowest-worth prisoners were forced into the arena with lions and bears.”

Joan fumbled the bone ticket back into the drawer. Eleanor had brought back medieval displays of heads on spikes, and now,

it seemed, she’d brought back Londinium’s colosseum too. More ancient cruelties.

Jamie took a book from the shelf above Joan’s drawer. Crown History: Volume 1 . He flipped through it, spending a fraction of a second on each page, his expression turning grave. “It’s an official history,”

he said to Joan. “It lays out some basic laws.”

“Laws like what?” Joan was almost afraid to ask.

Jamie’s mouth twisted. He recited what must have been a passage from the book:

“ Each human must give fifty years—or a full life term, if that term is smaller—to the monster family in whose territory they

are born. This time may take the form of life or labor, or a combination of both. In exchange, humans will receive housing

in the family’s territory, a salary, and a pension if applicable . Families may educate or train any human in their territory, at their discretion, and may designate certain high-value humans

as labor-only or labor-mostly. At all times, humans must display two numbers: the amount of life they have left to live, in

years, months, and days, and the amount of time still belonging to the family. ”

It was too much. The cages, the heads on the turrets, the curfew, the man being beaten on the bridge.

.. Joan’s thoughts swirled in a nauseating mess of fear, guilt, anger.

This world existed because of her. For a long moment, she couldn’t find the words.

“We can’t let this world stand,” she managed. “We have to fix the timeline.”

“How?” Jamie said.

Joan blinked at him. Wasn’t it obvious? “We have to kill Eleanor, like Nick killed the King.” Despite everything, the words

felt wrong in her mouth. Eleanor was her sister. Joan might not remember her, but she was Joan’s own blood.

But Joan didn’t see any other way. Eleanor had molded Nick into a weak point of the timeline—a place where history could be

changed—so that he could kill the King. Surely that meant he could kill Eleanor too. And that should give them control of the timeline.

Jamie’s dark eyes were gentle. “I don’t think it’ll be that simple.”

Joan looked down at the embroidered carpet with the elm-tree symbol of the Argents. She suspected Jamie was right. Eleanor

was smart—and she played a long game. She’d spent years planning the King’s murder. She had to have spent just as long figuring

out how to protect herself.

Joan caught sight of Nick then. He was standing in the kitchen, both hands on the counter, expression sick with guilt. Joan

pushed away from the wall, unable to bear the misery on his face. “I’ll see if there’s anything in the bedroom we can sell,”

she managed.

The black hallway carpet was so lush and soft that Joan’s footsteps were completely silent. She tried to calm her mind, but she kept seeing Nick. He’d barely been able to look at her since they’d arrived here. I turned you against each other , Eleanor had said. It worked, didn’t it?

Joan swallowed down the lump in her throat. Valuables , she told herself firmly. She had to focus on that. The bedroom at the end of the hallway was very dark. She found the light

switch, and blinked when it illuminated not ceiling lights but dim lamps around the walls. The glow was as soft as candlelight.

Opposite the bed was a walk-in closet, almost as large as the rest of the room. The clothes inside it seemed to belong to

a man—the one in the living room portrait, maybe.

Joan flicked through sixteenth-century shirts and doublets, looking for tie pins, cuff links, pearl beading, gold buttons,

anything sellable. Finding nothing, she turned, and was surprised to see a shard of light, like a sunbeam, in the middle of

the closet. It stood at a not quite horizontal angle, dust motes floating within.

It hadn’t been there when Joan had walked in.... She glanced at the window, half expecting to see a crack in the curtains

with daylight pouring in. But it was night outside, and the curtains were firmly shut.

Someone said her name then, quiet and clear, as if they were standing right beside her.

“ Joan? ”

Joan startled, searching for the source, but there was no one here. And then recognition came. That had been Gran’s voice. “Gran?” she said uncertainly.

How could Gran be here, though, in an empty closet, in an empty room?

As Joan thought that, there was a kind of jolt, and the lamps in the room dimmed as if someone had turned down a dial. What— she tried to say. But, to her horror, she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even feel the breath in her lungs.

A rustle sounded nearby, and Gran’s voice came again out of the darkness beside her. “Joan, can you hear me?”

Gran , Joan tried again to say. But she couldn’t move.

Panic flared through her as she realized she was in a full-blown fade-out.

The first time this had happened, Aaron had been there. You nearly died , he’d said, horrified. You tried to travel without taking time first. You jumped and then you tried to jump again. You didn’t know how to put on the brakes.

Since then, Joan had been waking up to fade-outs almost every morning. She tried to calm herself now and focus on sensory

details—just as Aaron had taught her. If she could claw back her senses, she’d be in the present moment again. She’d be able

to breathe. She’d be safe.

What details were there? She’d half turned when she’d heard Gran’s voice, and now she was frozen in place like that. Her field of view showed

only the thick velvet curtains at the other end of the room. From here, they were just shapes and shadows—not enough specificity

to ground herself.

Panic roiled. She couldn’t shift her eyes. Couldn’t even blink.

Gran’s voice came again, filtering hazily through the panic. “Joan, you’re running out of time. You have to stop Eleanor before

it’s too late. There are people who can help you. You must find them. You’ll know them by the mark of the wolf.”

Gran wasn’t here. Joan wished she were, but this had to be a hallucination from lack of oxygen. In her peripheral vision, her chest wasn’t moving. How long could she survive without breathing? How long had it already been? A minute? Two minutes?

Breathe , she told herself, terrified. But she just couldn’t. She had nothing to ground herself with. Nothing to hold on to. She was

going to die here, alone in the dark.

And suddenly, Aaron was there.

He pulled her toward him, and maybe the movement helped because Joan’s lungs inflated. She gasped in air as if he’d just dragged

her, drowning, from the ocean. She clutched desperately at the lapel of his jacket, aware distantly that she was creasing

the material, stretching it. He’d hate that. But she couldn’t seem to let go. Her whole body was shaking.

Aaron pulled her closer. His mouth moved silently, his fine features creased with worry. Don’t leave me , his lips seemed to say. Stay with me. And maybe: Please. I only just found you.

There was pressure and warmth at Joan’s waist. She could feel again. She focused on his face, on the strength of his grip.

Don’t let go , she wanted to say. Please. His touch was the only thing keeping her together—she was sure of it. If he released her, she’d fade out again, and she’d

never come back.

He didn’t let go. Didn’t even seem to notice his wrinkled jacket under her fist. Joan breathed in and out and in, and finally she heard his voice. “Stay here,” he whispered, mouth pressed to her temple. “Stay in this room with me.”

Joan tried her voice. “I’m here.” It came out as a rasp.

“ Fuck. ” Aaron closed his eyes, his hands tightening around her waist.

Joan could feel his fingers flexing against her dress. She could see. Could hear. She was back in the present moment. “I’m okay,” she managed, relieved.

Aaron breathed out an incredulous laugh. There was no humor in it at all. “Okay?” he repeated. “When I came in your lips were

blue !” He looked down at her fingers, still clutching his shirt. For a moment, Joan thought he was going to smooth the creases.

But he just took a shuddering breath. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he murmured. “These fade-outs... Not like this.” He

pulled back just enough to search her face. “Something’s going on here,” he said, almost to himself. For a second, his expression

was rakingly sharp and analytical.

“What do you mean?” Joan said.

At her words, Aaron’s expression softened. “I’m going to fix this,” he said seriously. “This is not going to keep happening.” He pulled away from her, and Joan was momentarily cold. A second later, though, he offered his

hand. “Come on. You’ll be more grounded when you eat something.”

Joan took his hand and let him lead her away. As she did, though, she remembered the strange shard of light she’d seen. She

stopped and looked over her shoulder. There was nothing there. She’d hallucinated it, like she’d hallucinated Gran’s voice.

And yet... when she thought of those words in Gran’s voice, a shiver ran through her. Joan, you’re running out of time.

“What is it?” Aaron said.

Joan hesitated. “Did you hear someone speaking when you came into the room?”

“ I spoke to you,” Aaron said uncertainly. “Is that what you mean?”

And there it was. Aaron hadn’t heard a thing. It had all been in Joan’s head.

Aaron was really frowning now. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you grounded in this timeline.”

In the main room, the others were still looking for valuables.

Nick stood alone in the kitchen, looking grim and untouchable, and impossibly handsome. He turned as Joan and Aaron entered,

and Joan’s heart ached almost as much as when her breath had stopped. Since the day they’d first met, he’d always searched

for her in every room. She’d always searched for him.

Soul mates , Jamie had once said of them. They had been. They’d belonged together in the true timeline before circumstances had ripped them apart. But now...

Joan wasn’t sure what was in her expression, but Nick’s forehead creased and his gaze swept over her with such unexpected

concern that her chest tightened even more.

Beside Joan, Aaron shifted his weight. Joan blinked up at him, and found him looking between her and Nick, something strangely

sad—maybe even resigned—in his eyes. He released Joan’s hand gently, and she felt instantly colder.

“We need to get some clothes and food from the market,” Aaron said heavily. “If we don’t eat something, we’re all going to

fall out of this time.”