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Joan’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t spoken to any of the Hunts since she’d come home. Her cousin Ruth had messaged her a few times.
Hey, if you ever want to talk about the whole being-a-monster thing, we can do that.
Even if you don’t want to talk about it, we should. You might think you can shut it out, but you can’t.
Joan had told herself she’d reply, but weeks and now months had passed, and Ruth’s messages were still unanswered.
‘I got the feeling that your gran wanted to talk to you about something,’ Dad added.
‘About what?’ Joan said.
‘Oh, you know your gran,’ Dad said, sounding distracted. ‘She doesn’t like to say much on the phone. There you are!’ He produced a pair of black oven mitts from the drawer.
Joan found herself remembering a different kitchen—Gran’s kitchen in London, cocoa bubbling on the stove. Joan had had a strange encounter with Gran’s neighbour. He’d pushed her into a wall one morning, and then night had abruptly fallen.
Joan had run back to Gran’s place, terrified. He did something to me, she’d told Gran.
Gran’s green eyes had been luminous in the low kitchen light. He didn’t do something to you, she’d told Joan. You did something to him. She’d leaned close. You’re a monster, Joan.
A few months ago, Joan had learned what the rest of the Hunts had always known. Her mum’s side of the family were monsters: real monsters. They stole life from humans. They used that life to travel in time.
Now, in Joan’s own kitchen, there was a slight stirring as if from a breeze, although nothing in the room moved. Dad didn’t react. Joan had felt it with her monster sense. The wave came again, rippling through the world without actually disturbing anything.
Sometimes the timeline seemed like a living thing—a creature with a will of its own. Tonight, Joan perceived it as a natural force, as if the storm itself had come inside.
Dad closed the oven door with his elbow. ‘So tomorrow night?’
You might think you can shut it out, but you can’t. Joan folded her arms across her chest. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m working tomorrow.’
‘Don’t you finish up at four?’
‘I’ve got an essay.’
‘Can you do that on Sunday?’ Dad asked. ‘The thing is, your gran reminded me …’ He hesitated. ‘Tomorrow is the fifteenth anniversary of your mum’s death. I think your gran wants to spend some time with you.’ He looked down at his oven mitts. ‘I should have remembered it was a special day,’ he said. ‘I suppose you and I always celebrate your mum’s birthday instead.’
A familiar pressure of emotion started. Joan shoved it down. She hadn’t expected Dad to say that. Dad talked about Mum all the time, but Gran never talked about her.
‘Is that okay with you?’ Dad said. When Joan didn’t answer immediately, he said, softer: ‘Joan, are you okay?’
He’d been asking that question in different ways for weeks. You seem so quiet lately. Is anything going on? Have you had a fight with your friends?
Joan tried out the truth in her head.
I found out that I’m a monster, Dad. The Hunt side of the family are all monsters.
Or another truth.
The boy I loved was a monster slayer. He killed Gran and the rest of the family. But I unmade him. I unravelled his life. And now the Hunts are alive again. But they don’t remember.
He doesn’t remember me.
The hollow grief of it hit her again. She couldn’t tell Dad any of it. He wouldn’t believe her. She didn’t want him to believe her. She wanted him safe, here at home, far away from the world of monsters.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. She tried to make it sound real. ‘Just. You know. Stuff.’
Dad searched her face. ‘What stuff?’
‘Normal stuff.’ Joan needed to keep the emotion out of her voice. ‘Nothing stuff. Everyone’s stressed about school this year—you know that.’
