Page 7 of Once a Villain (Only a Monster #3)

Joan’s head and chest ached. The fade-out had left her feeling shaky and sore. She pulled on her game face, though, as they

descended the stairs into the market below. She’d only been in this world a few hours, but it was already clear they couldn’t

show weakness here. And no one could know that she and Nick were human; it was well after curfew now.

At first sight, the market was chaos: racks of clothes, curtained changing rooms, and card tables laden with belts and shoes

were set up, almost at random, in the huge round space under the dome. Sellers shouted about their wares and customers yelled

back, the noise echoing and mutating into a senseless cacophony. Above it all, a huge brass timepiece hung from the pitch

of the dome. The hands were ravens, showing the time as six forty-five, with a small moon to indicate night.

It took Joan a second to make sense of the layout. Aisles delineated sections of the market, creating the shape of a clock.

Each wedge was dedicated to a particular time period. To the left was the prehistoric: Bronze Age woolen skirts in muted colors,

and Iron Age shields and jewelry. After that was ancient Rome, with stalls selling tunics and pins. Then there were early

medieval cloaks and belts, and later medieval cowls....

The atmosphere, as they walked in, was volatile. “Take it somewhere else!” a shopkeeper snapped at two scuffling men. He shoved them away from his shop, big butcher’s arms tensed.

Hard-eyed shopkeepers and customers sized up Joan’s group. None of the hostile looks persisted, though. Were people intimidated

by the number of them? By Nick’s size? Joan glanced at the others and registered for the first time just how banged up they

all were from the fight at the end of the last timeline. A red scrape ran down Jamie’s jaw, and there were bruises on Nick’s

knuckles and Ruth’s arms. They seemed as ready to fight as anyone here—even Aaron, who was unbruised but, in his overly formal

suit, somehow seemed the most dangerous of them all.

“Here—” Nick tucked them all between racks of heavy cloaks so that they could decide on a plan of action. With walls of clothes

around them, it almost felt like they were alone.

Joan’s stomach rumbled as the smell of cooking drifted over: fried onions and sausages and fresh bread—there were food stalls

on the other side of the room.

Jamie’s jacket shivered. Frankie had been snoozing, but now her head pushed up between the flaps of the open zipper. She blinked

around, bleary-eyed. Jamie lifted her out, and she shook herself awake, ears flapping.

“Food is the priority,” Aaron assured Frankie, as if she’d spoken.

“Let’s split up,” Joan said. “I’ll go down to the food stalls. Pies okay?” The others nodded.

“I’ll get clothes.” Ruth gestured toward the contemporary section with its gray tweed and chiffon.

“ I’ll get clothes!” Aaron countered.

Ruth blinked once, very slowly. When Joan and Ruth had been kids, their cousin Bertie had always fled the room when Ruth had looked at him like that, but Aaron stood his ground.

He folded his arms now. “I’m not letting you dress me.”

“You’ll buy stupid stuff that’ll make us stand out!”

“ I’ll buy quality clothes that will make everyone look good!”

“You’ll—”

“ Both of you can get clothes!” Joan snapped, and was surprised when they both quieted immediately.

Ruth tilted her head. “You all right? Your face is like...” She frowned, a dramatic furrow in her brows—Joan guessed she

was mimicking her. “Like you have a headache.”

Joan sighed. It felt like there was a vise at her temples. “I just need to eat something.”

Aaron gave her a long look. He turned to Ruth with an air of reluctant conciliation. “You can get Frankie a coat.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “I’ll get what I want.”

“Shall we meet back here?” Aaron asked.

“No,” Nick said. “Let’s meet back at the room. I don’t want to stick around here any longer than we have to.”

As Aaron and Ruth headed off toward the clothes—already bickering about which stalls to prioritize—Jamie shook his head. “I’d

better go with them,” he said, beckoning Frankie. “I think they’ll need a referee.”

That left Joan unexpectedly alone with Nick.

She glanced at him. To her surprise, he was looking back, his dark eyes wide, as if he’d just realized they were alone too.

They’d had a moment together at the inn, when they’d seen the curfew notice, but this spot, between the clothes racks, felt

oddly private.

Joan opened her mouth, and then didn’t know what to say.

She could feel her face heating. She could always feel the pull of him, but being this close made her want to be with him always, on some deep, instinctive level.

Nick pushed a hand nervously through his thick hair.

Joan’s chest tightened. It was hard to believe it had been just a few days since they’d kissed.

The distance between them felt painfully impassable now.

“We should—” Nick tilted his head, and Joan nodded quickly.

They walked along the relatively calm path of the perimeter, and Joan found herself thinking about the last time she and Nick

had spoken—properly spoken.After they’d kissed, he’d learned the terrible secret of what Joan had done to him.She’d unmade

the hero, dooming all the people he’d saved. He’d been furious, but he’d agreed to a truce.

We’re going to work together , he’d said. We’re on the same side until we stop Eleanor. But after that... our paths will diverge .

Joan’s chest constricted again. The thought of being at war with Nick again after they defeated Eleanor was unbearable.

“Head down,” Nick whispered now.

Joan did it automatically, taking in with a sweeping glance what Nick had seen. There were proper brick-and-mortar shops along

the rounded edge of the market. Ahead, one of them was roped off, security officers checking people on entry. It seemed to

be selling weapons—swords, spears, axes—and there was a sign outside it. No humans.

Security officers checked people’s eyes as they entered. Joan didn’t need Aaron to tell her that they were Olivers.

And... Joan’s heart stuttered as she spotted more wanted posters on the wall of the weapons shop—including her own. Nick had shifted so that he was blocking Joan from sight, but Joan couldn’t breathe as she walked past the officers, trying to keep an even pace.

Nick’s shoulders dropped in relief when they were out of danger.

“We should probably get nonperishables as well as something to eat now.” Joan tried to keep her voice steady, but she could

tell from Nick’s creased forehead that she hadn’t quite managed it. “We might have to run again.”

They were approaching the food section. Along the curving wall were alcoves that reminded Joan of thermopolia—the fast-food

stalls of ancient Rome. Sellers stood at stone counters with recessed cauldrons. Behind them, meat and onions sizzled on grills,

hazing the air with smoke. Chalked menus advertised everything from stews to spiced drinks to pastries to skewers of meat.

Nick nodded toward a stall selling roasted nuts and dates. “I’ll put together some trail mix.”

The stall next to it sold pastries and skewers of chicken and lamb. Joan got into that queue, trying not to look as tense

as she felt when someone joined the line behind her. There were monsters all around them now, and she’d never felt so much

like prey.

To her left, a couple of dozen picnic tables were packed. Customers stood watchfully around them, paper plates and cups in

hand, ready to pounce on the next free seat. Servers hovered too, in white tunics with the Serpentine Inn logo: intertwined

snakes with forked tongues sticking out.

As Joan inched forward in the queue, a boy of about fifteen stood up from one of the picnic tables. He casually beckoned over

one of the servers—an elderly man with a peach fuzz of white hair.

Joan had assumed the boy wanted a fresh drink, or a spill cleaned up, but to her shock, he gestured for the man to bend his head. Without missing a beat, the elderly man ducked down, and the boy swiped the back of his neck.

Joan heard herself gasp, the sound drowned by the harsh sounds of the market. The server himself didn’t react at all to having

his life stolen. The boy gestured again, and the man tilted his wrist, revealing an ugly, bulky pendant with two rows of rotatable

numbers; it looked to Joan like a complicated combination lock.

With growing horror, she realized that all the servers—the humans—were wearing pendants, on bracelets and necklaces. Jamie

had explained what they were back at the apartment. The top row of numbers represented the human’s remaining lifespan. The

bottom row was the amount of life belonging to the monster family in whose territory the human had been born.

Joan felt sick suddenly. The floor here was unpleasantly sticky, and her head was pounding. She wanted desperately to leave.

The boy turned the last number on each row of the man’s pendant and then walked away, vanishing mid-step as he traveled in

time. Blank-faced, the server took the boy’s soiled plate and cup, and wiped down the table.

Joan put a hand over her mouth, trying to will down the bile rising in her throat. Everyone was acting like nothing had happened,

but she knew that scene would be burned forever in her mind.

She sought Nick’s gaze and found him looking back at her, shaken.

“Next!” the man at the counter called, and Joan blinked. She’d reached the front of the queue.

All appetite gone, she pointed at a warming dish full of pastries. “Ten, please,” she said. “And—” She nodded at some skewers

of chicken. “Four of those. No sauce, no salt.”

“No sauce, no salt?” the man echoed. “Might as well eat cardboard!”

“They’re for a dog,” Joan explained.

“A dog !” The man shook his head, muttering, “I’m cooking for dogs now!” He took Joan’s money, though, and counted out the change.

Joan shoved the coins into her skirt pocket, and her fingers brushed something unfamiliar. She drew out a small envelope and

flipped it open, finding their unused room key; she’d half forgotten she had it.

She went to pocket it again, and then hesitated as something caught her eye. A thin roll of paper was tucked behind the metal

key.

The man at the counter cleared his throat. Joan’s food was ready, boxed and bagged.

“Thanks!” Joan grabbed her purchases and stepped aside to make room for the next person.

She felt more than saw Nick appear by her side, his solid presence comforting. “What’s that?” he murmured as Joan slipped

the tiny roll of paper from behind the key.

“Not sure. It must be from the receptionist at the Serpentine. Ronan.”

Joan unrolled the scrap of paper. A message was scrawled in a rushed hand:

I can help you

meet me at iron age 7pm

Underneath the words, there was a stamp, the image unmistakable: a wolf, its head raised in a howl.

Joan’s heart thudded like a gong. There are people who can help you , Gran had said. You’ll know them by the mark of the wolf. Had Joan actually heard Gran’s voice back at the apartment? Was that possible?

“From the receptionist?” Nick said. He was frowning as if he didn’t trust the note.

The coincidence of the wolf stamp was too much to ignore. “What’s the time?” Joan found the clock at the center of the dome.

Five minutes past seven. She swore under her breath. She was already late.

The note had said to meet in the Iron Age section. As Joan turned, looking for it, Nick made a surprised sound. Jamie was

running toward them, Frankie in his arms; Ruth and Aaron hurried behind with heavy bags.

“I thought we were meeting at the room,” Joan said, confused.

“Don’t you hear it?” Aaron was pale.

Unease coiled in Joan’s stomach. “Hear what?” Even as she said it, though, she saw heads angling toward the front of the market.

Whispers were passing back and forth at the picnic tables, and traveling up the lines of people queuing at the food stalls.

Guards! Guards are coming!

“Hide!” Aaron said sharply, directing them behind the shelter of a decorative box hedge with shiny plastic leaves, tall enough to hide even Nick.

They barely had a minute to settle into place before ten red-coated guards marched past, their gold lion pins glinting. Are they looking for us ? Ruth mouthed.

But the guards were striding with intention deeper into the market, past ancient Roman tunics and brooches and belts. Joan

tracked their path, heart stuttering as she realized they were moving on. And the period before ancient Rome was—

Joan spotted him then—Ronan—among the torcs and tunics of the Iron Age. He’d seen the guards, and was shoving past racks of

clothes, trying to get to an exit.

It was too late, though. Guards swarmed him. “You’re under arrest!” one of them shouted. “For conspiring against the Queen

herself.”

“ No! ” Joan heard herself blurt. She felt Ruth turn to her, clearly confused, but Joan couldn’t tear her eyes from Ronan’s terrified

face.

“Please—I’m loyal!” Ronan cried out urgently, trying to appeal to the crowd. But no one dared respond. “I’m loyal to the Queen!”

As the guards dragged him through the market, Joan stumbled from their hiding place. She had heard Gran’s voice at the apartment; she was suddenly sure of it. She needed to get to him.