Never a Hero, page 41
We grew up together, Eleanor had said. And she’d known things about Joan—she knew how Joan thought. And . . . “You knew how Gran planned jobs,” Joan said slowly. “You said it was a ten-day minimum.” How could Eleanor have known that? Gran didn’t share secrets like that with anyone but her own blood.
Sisters. Could it be true? Joan shook her head, trying to clear it.
As Joan stood there, blankly, the King turned toward the north bank and waved a casual hand. Around them, London leaped back to life, the water of the Thames lapping again at the foreshore, a ship’s horn faintly sounding. On the other side of the river, the steamship pulled farther from the wharf. The buggy-like cars and unwieldy buses of 1923 rolled along the bridge.
With the King’s back to Joan, the sensation of staring into the sun wasn’t as pronounced. Even so, her perceptions of him were still shifting from moment to moment. Who was he? What family had he originally been from? What abilities must he wield that Aaron and even Eleanor’s allies—with all their powers—were staring at him half-fearful, half-worshipful?
Joan had been experiencing the timeline as a force lately. Now, though, it felt more like a great beast, leashed by the King’s presence but not tamed. Aaron had once told her that the King and the timeline were one and the same. But, in the King’s presence, Joan sensed some stubborn core of rebellion from the timeline. It didn’t like being tethered and, every now and then, there was a faint jolt in the air, as if it were tugging at its leash.
“An interesting choice of location,” the King commented. “I must admit, I’d quite forgotten that the erasure of the Graves started here.” He turned back to them, and Joan’s eyes watered as she tried to keep looking at the glare of him. “Follow me.” His cheerful tone felt sinister.
The word sister kept echoing in Joan’s head as she was forced with the others to shuffle out of the alley, eastward along the river. She registered, vaguely, that the wharf was cleaner than it had been in 1891. A wooden walkway had replaced the mud of the foreshore. Creepily, the dozen dockworkers they passed seemed unaware of the strange procession walking by them.
Nick caught her eye. She could see how much he wanted to speak to her—away from all this. His expression was wary, though, and Joan thought about what Eleanor had said. I made him into a slayer because you loved him and he loved you. Because if he killed the people you loved most, you’d never trust him again. Because when you fought back, he’d see you for the monster you are. He’d never trust you. And it worked, didn’t it? You’ll never really feel the same about each other again.
“We can stop here.” The King phrased it as optional, but they all stumbled to a halt, their feet sticking again.
They’d ended up near where City Pier would one day be. Rowboats and barges bobbed in the water.
Joan tested her feet again but couldn’t move them. What did she have on her? There was a knife in the inner pocket of her jacket. She undid a button, and then felt a flare of too-hot attention from the King and the impression of brief amusement.
“No,” he said simply.
Joan saw then a scatter of guns and knives along the path they’d just walked. Eleanor’s people had dropped their weapons along the way.
An ancient god-king, Nick had called him. Joan had thought Eleanor and her people were powerful, but the King did seem more god than man.
“In the original timeline, the old bridge lasted somewhat longer, didn’t it?” the King said to Eleanor conversationally.
“Up to the twenty-third century,” Eleanor said tightly. “It was rebuilt a few times along the way.”
“What are we doing here?” Joan dared to ask. Why had the King moved them up the river? Just as he was still alternating between old and young, he seemed both capricious and considered. Joan couldn’t figure him out. Was he going to kill them all? Spare them? She’d never felt more off-balance; more powerless.
“There’s a better view from here,” the King said. He barely looked at Joan as he said it, but again his brief attention was a flare of light. Joan flinched, closing her eyes automatically.
When she reopened them, the King’s back was to them all. He pinched at the air, and Joan had the impression that he was tearing away a swath of wallpaper. Barely pausing, the King reached into the air again, and made another tearing motion.
Eleanor half gasped, half groaned. Joan stared.
Old London Bridge suddenly stood upriver—a palatial street of carved and gabled Renaissance buildings, more beautiful in life than any of the illustrations Joan had seen. The structure beneath was breathtaking too—a huge stone span with nineteen arches, each supported by boat-shaped wooden piers.
“There it is,” the King said, as if Eleanor hadn’t just made that agonized sound. “The Graves’ territory, as it once was.”
“We’re looking at the true timeline, aren’t we?” Tom whispered. “The vera historia.”
Joan understood then. The King had torn a hole in the timeline. There was no feeling of dissonance, though; no jagged edges in the air, no shadows from the void. And maybe that, more than anything, was a hint of the King’s true power.
Eleanor’s eyes shone with tears, and then Joan understood too why the King had brought them here. This spot offered a perfect viewing angle. In the original timeline, the old bridge lasted somewhat longer, didn’t it? he’d said.
The window had no visible edges. The illusion that the bridge still existed was almost perfect. The only discontinuities were cars vanishing as they reached the north and south banks. If Joan hadn’t known better, though, she’d have thought that she could walk to the bridge in just a few minutes.
Her chest constricted at the thought. She’d told herself that she didn’t remember anything of the Grave family, but there was something familiar about Old London Bridge, about the close-built configuration of the houses. She somehow knew the red-gabled roofs and white walls.
From here, she could just make out the carved arch that ran through the ground level of all the buildings so that vehicles and pedestrians could get across the bridge. And she couldn’t see what was inside that arch, but she had a vivid memory of walking under it, past shops with swinging signs charmingly illustrated with parasols and books and gloves, past slow-moving cars; being held up by wandering tourists; looking up to see balcony gardens, bright with overhanging flowers.
Now her gaze hit the mansion in the middle of it all. The Graves’ house. Her heart stopped. It was taller than the buildings around it. And the other houses were traditional, but this was a tiny exuberant castle with square turrets and meringue-shaped cupolas and huge arching windows. Joan didn’t know where to look—at the gilded columns or at the walls and trims, brightly painted in red and green and yellow.
“Remind me,” the King said. “What did the sundials on the roof say?”
“Time and tide stay for no man,” Eleanor said shakily, and Joan felt another thrum of resonance at those words. Eleanor’s gaze stayed yearningly on the house. “It’s not really here, is it?” she said heavily. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
“This is just an echo of what was here,” the King agreed. “An afterimage on a screen. The original timeline is gone. I erased it.” He pretended to think. “What do you blasphemers call it? The zhēnshí de lìshĭ? The vera historia? The true timeline?” He added, mock-gently, “But what have I been thinking? You won’t recognize anyone here—this isn’t your time. You and your sister were raised in a later age.” He snapped his fingers, and the view inside the window darkened. Joan finally saw the extent of the window—it was bigger than she’d realized. The size of a house. Inside it, the moon rose and fell, followed by the sun rising and falling too, the cycle quickening, until the image was a blur. Then the King snapped his fingers again, and it all stopped. Joan felt her mouth drop open.
The view still showed the true timeline—with its elaborate bridge—but the date seemed to have advanced to sometime in the twenty-first century. Modern cars crawled across the road.
“Oh,” Eleanor said, hard and breathless, as if she’d been punched.
On the walkway, people had appeared too, strolling up and down: tourists with shopping bags labeled Bookshop on the Bridge and Bridge Bakery and Drawbridge Gifts. Among them, locals walked their dogs and carried fruit and vegetables in market bags. Eleanor stared openmouthed at a man hurrying in the direction of the Tube station. Then her eyes flicked to a girl with pink hair. Then to a man in a tailored suit. Realization jolted through Joan. These were members of the Grave family. People Eleanor had once known. People Joan must have known. They all wore the same sigil, as a pin on a lapel, a tattoo on a bare shoulder, a motif on a shirt: a silver rose.
Bestowing me with this sigil, Eleanor had said, and Joan understood then Eleanor’s strained tone. The King had given her a new sigil: a thorned rose stem without the flower. A reminder, always, of what she’d lost. Of what had been done to the Graves.
Beside Aaron, Nick shifted, and Joan realized that while she’d been staring, Nick had been subtly struggling with the King’s bonds, trying to free himself.
But just as she observed that, Nick froze. His face was blank, but his eyes were suddenly alight, like he was trying to keep a handle on some strong emotion.
Trepidation curled inside Joan. She followed his gaze to the walkway. To the lost people from the true timeline.
She gasped.
It was Nick. The original Nick. Through the window that the King had made, he was strolling casually up the walkway, his pace and posture relaxed.
Joan was hit with a feeling of bone-deep recognition. His dark hair was long enough to make soft curls. Joan had never seen it that length, but she somehow knew what it felt like to push her hands into the thick silk of it; what it felt like to have his hands cup her waist at the same time.
He was holding hands now with someone who seemed familiar, and it took Joan a weirdly long moment to recognize herself. The original Joan.
They both looked so different. Joan’s hair was shorter than she’d ever cut it, floating just above her shoulders. But it was more than that. Their other selves seemed easier somehow. Comfortable within themselves. Unconflicted.
The original Joan said something to Nick that made him laugh. He leaned down to kiss her, soft and intimate. When he pulled back, he and Joan smiled at each other, open and trusting, and so in love that Joan’s chest hurt with yearning. They were looking at each other as if nothing could ever go wrong. As if no one could ever hurt them.
As Joan watched, their heads turned away from the bridge. Someone had called to them, she guessed. And from the way they lit up, from their open postures, it was someone they’d been waiting for, someone they were eager to be with. Joan glanced back over her shoulder to see who it was, but the window into the true timeline wasn’t visible behind her. The only person in her line of sight was Aaron, in his 1920s suit, pristine and perfect, as always, amid all this chaos.
The King snapped his fingers then. Joan turned back fast, but he’d already closed the window. She heard herself make a shaken sound.
It was all gone. The Graves. Old London Bridge. The original Joan and Nick. All that remained was 1923, with its boats and cranes.
Joan could still see the other Joan and Nick in her mind’s eye, though. How happy they’d been. . . .
She turned instinctively now to this Nick. His eyes were still on the walkway too. And . . . Joan’s breath caught. He looked cracked open and raw. It lasted for just a moment. By the time he turned to meet her eyes, his expression was closed again.
His name started in her mouth, but the King spoke over her.
“A last gift for you,” the King said to Eleanor. “And now, come here.” He beckoned her over.
Eleanor had been looking on the span of the water where the old bridge had stood. Now she was forced to turn away from it; to shuffle to the King. He stopped her, with a raised hand, a few paces from him.
Joan’s heart stuttered. Eleanor and the King had ended up in the center of a loose circle of Joan’s allies and Eleanor’s. What was about to happen?
Joan had come here to stop Eleanor—even if that had meant killing her. But . . . having seen that lost family, the thought of watching Eleanor die right here, right now, seemed too much.
Eleanor had been cruel and vengeful. She’d done things that Joan would never forgive. But at the same time, Joan knew what it felt like to lose your family, to want them back so badly that you lost yourself.
Joan had lost herself last time. She’d been thinking of Eleanor as alien, someone whose actions and cruelty had been incomprehensible. But was she so different from Joan, really? Eleanor had gone to extremes to bring her family back, but so had Joan. Joan had stolen decades of human life. She’d dragged Ruth and Aaron from danger to danger—into the Monster Court itself—in the hope of bringing her family back. And at the end . . . she hadn’t thought about it consciously, but some part of her must have known that bringing monsters back—her family back—would cost human lives.
And maybe that was the real proof that Joan and Eleanor were sisters. Maybe it ran in the family.
“I was never loyal to you,” Eleanor told the King, her voice tight. “I’ve been working against you since the moment I woke up in this sick timeline.”
The King emanated paternal indulgence. “You never had a chance against me. You must have known that. You should have tried to forget them.”
“I guess it’s not in my nature to let things go.”
Something in her tone made Joan pause. Eleanor was on the cusp of death, and yet . . . she was unafraid. Her chin was up; her expression was calm. She had the air of someone at the end of a long journey.
Eleanor seemed to feel Joan’s gaze. She looked over at her and smiled. There was a shine of triumph in her blue eyes, and Joan thought suddenly about how Eleanor had ambushed her. How meticulous she’d been in crafting Nick into a slayer.
“You’re so predictable, Joan,” Eleanor said softly.
What? Joan felt a curl of unease.
“I know how you think,” Eleanor said to Joan. “You always have a backup plan. To defeat someone like me, you’d want another member of the Curia Monstrorum. So you sent for Conrad.”
Joan wet her dry lips. She didn’t nod, but Eleanor was right. It was disconcerting to be known so thoroughly by someone who’d been using that knowledge against her.
Eleanor turned to the King. “And I know you. I’ve had a long time to observe you. You’d never trust any member of the Court with a job like this. Joan called for Conrad. You should have let him come in your stead.”
“And why is that?” the King said.
Eleanor leaned closer. She was still pinned to the ground like everyone else, but she didn’t seem to care. “Why do you think you’re here?” Eleanor said to him. Behind her, the tide was rising. Tied-up rowboats rocked with the waves.
The King still emanated amusement. “You know why I’m here.” He looked at each of Eleanor’s allies. “Mariam Ali,” he said. “Joseph Nightingale. Adriana Portelli. Shalini Patel . . .” He named all of them with the heavy note of a death sentence. “You should have kept your oaths to me.”
“You think you came here to execute us,” Eleanor said.
“Of course,” the King said.
“No,” Eleanor said so seriously that Joan shivered. “I’m going to undo what you did. I’m going to bring my family home. Right here, on our own territory.”
Joan stared at Eleanor. She was starting to see it now. Eleanor had lured the King here, just like she’d lured Joan. She was going to unmake him, like Joan had unmade Nick.
Eleanor guessed what Joan was thinking. “No,” she said to her. “Unmaking him would bring our family back. But I want more than that. I want to create a new timeline that will keep them safe forever. And for that, I need what he has.” She looked the King dead in the face without any hint of discomfort or pain from the glare of his presence. “Complete control of the timeline.”
A feeling of indulgence from the King. He didn’t seem to have realized that Eleanor was serious. “You’d have to kill me to take control,” he said.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “You’re here for your execution.”
Thirty-Eight
“Really?” the King drawled as Eleanor drew a knife from her belt. Joan had the impression that he’d allowed her to draw it. Maybe he had so much power that he thought this mild excitement was worth entertaining. “What are you going to do with that?” he said. The feeling of bright light was so intense now that Joan flinched from him and saw the others wincing too. Even Eleanor looked away. “The truth is,” the King said, “I can’t be killed. Not by you and not by nature. I’m so entwined with the timeline that we’re essentially the same entity.”
Were they? Joan’s impression was still of the timeline as a separate creature, unwillingly leashed to the King.
“I can’t kill you by my own hand,” Eleanor agreed. She held up the knife. It was exquisite: silver-bladed with gold roses worked into the hilt. More roses and leaves curled up the flat of the blade. “Only someone unbound from the timeline can do it.”
Joan drew a sharp breath at that. Eleanor threw the knife on the ground. It lay gleaming, close to Nick, but just out of his reach. Nick took an unthinking step toward it.
“Nick,” Joan said uncertainly.
Nick’s eyes widened as if he’d only just realized that he’d taken that step. He tilted his head, clearly unsure how he’d overcome the King’s compulsion. Then, very slowly, he bent to pick up the knife.
The King stared at Nick, disturbed, as if he was looking at something uncanny. He lifted a hand in a lazy gesture—to disarm Nick, Joan guessed. When Nick didn’t drop the knife, the King took a step toward him and repeated the gesture. Still, nothing happened.
