Only a Monster

Dedication

For my family, with love

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by Vanessa Len

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Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

When Joan was six, she decided she was going to be Superman when she grew up. She told Dad she needed the costume so she could practice. Dad had never liked spending money, but he painted an S on Joan’s blue T-shirt and found a red napkin she could use as a cape. Joan wore them to bed every night.

Superman? Gran scoffed when Joan came to stay with her in London that summer. You’re not a hero, Joan. She bent her gray head confidingly. You’re a monster. She said monster like being a monster was as special as being an elf.

Gran was making up Joan’s bed in the guest bedroom, and Joan was helping by stuffing the pillows into their cases. The room smelled like fresh laundry. Morning sun filled it to the corners.

Monsters look like giant spiders, Joan said. Or like robots. She’d seen enough cartoons to know. Gran sometimes told jokes without smiling. Maybe this was one of those times.

But Gran’s eyes weren’t shiny with a held-in joke. They were serious. That’s pretend monsters, she said. Real monsters look like me and you.

Joan and Gran didn’t actually look that much alike.

Joan took after Dad’s side of the family—the Changs. Dad had moved to England from Malaysia when he was eighteen. He had round, freckled cheeks and narrow eyes and smooth black hair like Joan’s.

Gran looked like the photos of Mum. She had curly hair that hung around her head in a cloud, and green eyes that were too sharp for her face. Sometimes Joan saw that same suspicious expression on her own face in the mirror. The Hunt family look, Gran called it.

Gran finished smoothing the duvet and sat on the edge of Joan’s bed. It put her and Joan at the same height.

Monsters are the bad guys, Joan said skeptically. In cartoons, monsters lurked under your bed. They had scary laughs that went on too long. They ate people. At school Mrs. Ellery had told Joan that Chinese people ate cats. Joan had kind of felt like a bad guy then—but with the same bubble of resistance that she felt now. She wasn’t. She wasn’t.

For some reason, that made Gran smile. You remind me of your mum sometimes.

Joan didn’t know what that had to do with monsters. Still, she held her breath, hoping Gran would say more. Mum had died when Joan was a baby, and Gran hardly ever talked about her. At home, there were photos of Mum above the TV and on the living room wall. But Gran didn’t have photos of anyone in her house. She had paintings of fields and old ruins.

Dad said she was clever, Joan ventured.

Very. Gran pushed Joan’s hair back from her face. Clever and stubborn. She didn’t believe things without proof either.

Before Joan could ask what that meant, Gran reached up into the air above them as if she were plucking an apple from a tree. The hairs on the back of Joan’s neck rose, although she couldn’t have said why.

When Gran opened her hand, she was holding something that gleamed gold like the morning sun. A coin, but not a coin that Joan had ever seen before. On one side, there was a winged lion; on the other, a crown.

I know how you did that, Joan said. It was called sleight of hand. Joan’s cousin Ruth had shown her how to do it with a button. You could make something appear and disappear by hiding it between your fingers and then flipping it into your palm.

Gran dropped the coin into Joan’s hand. It was heavier than it looked. Can you show me? she said. Can you make it disappear?

Ruth’s trick had been hard. Joan had only gotten it right twice, and she must have dropped the button a hundred times. Still, Gran’s face was expectant, so Joan put the coin into the arch between her thumb and forefinger, balancing it.

No, Gran said. The way I did it. She moved the coin into the center of Joan’s palm and closed Joan’s fingers over it. The monster way.

I’m not, Joan thought. I’m not a bad guy. And Gran wasn’t either. Joan had spent almost every summer with Gran for as long as she could remember. When Joan had nightmares, Gran sat up with her. When Joan had found an injured bird in the park, Gran had wrapped it in her scarf and looked after it until it could fly again. A person like that wasn’t a monster.

Joan concentrated on the weight of the coin until she couldn’t feel it anymore. She opened her fingers, showing Gran her empty palm.

Gran’s smile was warm. The monster way, she said approvingly. She added: There’s a rule that goes with that trick.

A rule? Joan said. At home, with Dad, there were rules about what you should and shouldn’t do. Stealing was wrong. Helping people was right. Lying was wrong. Listening to teachers was right.

The Hunts had rules too, but it was like they’d agreed to a whole different set of them. Stealing wasn’t a big deal, and neither was lying—as long as you were doing it to strangers. Paying debts was right. Being loyal to your family was right.

We hide in plain sight, Gran said. Do you know what that means?

Around them, the house seemed very quiet. Even the birds outside the window had stopped chirping. Joan shook her head.

The warmth was still there, but Gran’s expression turned serious. It means that no one can know what the Hunts are, she said. What you are. She lowered her voice. You must never tell anyone about monsters.

One

Joan smoothed down her hair and did a last mirror check in Gran’s upstairs hallway. She had a date today. With Nick. In the mirror, her eyes went soft and happy. Joan had been volunteering at a museum with him over the summer break. She’d had a crush on him all summer, but everyone at work had a crush on Nick.

He’d asked Joan out yesterday, biting his lip and nervous, as if he thought she might say no. As if just being in a room with him didn’t make her heart stutter.

Now they were going to spend a whole day together, starting with breakfast at a café on Kensington High Street. Joan checked her phone. An hour to go.

She was nervous too, she admitted. A waiting-for-the-ride-to-start mix of nerves and excitement. She and Nick had been getting closer and closer over the summer, but this felt like the beginning of something new.

Laughter rose from downstairs, and Joan took a deep, centering breath. Her cousins were already up. Their familiar, comforting bickering washed over her as she descended the stairs.

Best forged painting in the National Gallery, her cousin Bertie was saying.

Easy, her other cousin, Ruth, said. "Monet’s Water-Lily Pond."

That’s not forged! Bertie said.

I rest my case.

You can’t just say a random painting!

Joan was already smiling as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Most of the year, she lived with Dad in Milton Keynes. She liked her quiet life with him, but she liked this too—the noise and clatter of Gran’s place. She stayed with Gran every summer, and she looked forward to it every time.

In the kitchen, Ruth was perched on the broken radiator under the window. At seventeen, Ruth was a year older than Joan and their other cousin, Bertie, but this morning she looked like a kid. She was still in her pajamas: gray flannel bottoms and a Transformers T-shirt with the Decepticon logo: big beaky robot mouth. Her dark curls framed her face.

Is there any tea in that cupboard? Ruth asked Bertie.

Bertie craned to check, one eye on his frying pan of mushrooms and tomatoes. Only that smoky stuff Uncle Gus drinks. He seemed to be dressed for a 1920s boating trip on the Thames, straw hat covering his black hair. All the Hunts had eccentric fashion sense.

That stuff tastes like a— Ruth cut herself off as she caught sight of Joan in the kitchen doorway. She took in Joan’s new dress and sleek hair, and her face lit up, a slow illumination of glee.

Ruth, Joan protested. Don’t start.

But Ruth was already crowing. Look at you!

You got a job interview? Bertie asked Joan. I thought you were still volunteering at that museum.

I’m having breakfast with someone, Joan said. She was already red. She could feel it.

"She got dressed up for a date, Ruth said. She put her hand over her heart. It’s the ultimate nerd romance. They’re going to the V and A after breakfast! They’re going to look at medieval textiles together!"

Nerd romance? Joan protested, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling again. You know the V and A has other stuff too. There’s historical wallpaper . . . ceramics . . .

A story for the ages, Ruth said. She leaned back against the window, hand still over her heart. "Two history geeks volunteer at a museum over the summer break. And then one day they’re mopping floors together, and they look at each other over their mops . . ."

Joan snorted. She went over to steal a corner of uneaten toast from Ruth’s plate. You should come help out sometime, she told them both. It’s actually really fun. We learned how to repair broken ceramics the other day.

One day, I’m going to record you so you can hear what you sound like, Ruth said. She made stiff robot arms. I am Joan. I love community service. I’m so square, I only cross the road when the traffic light says I can.

Yes. That is exactly what I sound like, Joan said.

Ruth grinned. She might have been a year older than Joan, but their relationship had always been flipped. Ruth saw rules as other people’s problems. Joan was always playing the older sister—taking shoplifted things from Ruth’s pockets and reshelving them, and dragging Ruth to the end of the street so that they could cross at the lights.

Aren’t you a Goody-Two-shoes, Ruth would say, but she was fond about it. They’d known each other far too long to think they could ever change each other’s natures.

Go on, Bertie said to Joan, and he sounded just as fond now. He put the whole pan of mushrooms and tomatoes on the kitchen table. Tell us everything.

Let us live the nerd romance vicariously, Ruth said.

Joan kicked idly at Ruth’s shoe. I like him, she told them both.

Really, Ruth said, with the indulgent patience of someone who’d been hearing about Nick all summer. She reached over to take a mushroom from the pan.

You know the rest. We’re having breakfast this morning. And then we’ll walk up to the V and A.

Uh-huh, Ruth said. And then are you two history nerds going to sneak behind the exhibits and . . . She mouthed at the mushroom, licking it with exaggerated tongue curls. Mmm—mmm—

Ruth! Bertie complained. I cooked those mushrooms.

Mmm—mmm—

Gran’s dry voice sounded from the stairs. Do I want to know? she said.

Anyway, got to go! Joan said, before the whole family could start up. I’ll see you later.

And now Uncle Gus and Aunt Ada were coming down the stairs behind Gran. Go where? Uncle Gus said.

She has a date! Ruth called to him.

Wait, I want to hear about this! Aunt Ada called back.

Joan fled the kitchen. Talk to you later! she yelled from the hallway.

A date with who? she heard Ada ask the others.

That boy she has a crush on! Ruth said.

Bertie belted out in song: "She’s going to kiss her summer crush in front of the medieval textiles!"

Joan cracked up. Bye! Goodbye! she shouted, and shut the door.

She was still smiling as she walked up Lexham Mews. She turned onto Earl’s Court Road and then Kensington High Street. It had been a warm summer, and the hazy air promised another hot day.

A message from Nick popped up just as Joan got to the café: I’m on the Tube! Joan took a deep, happy breath. He was running early too—less than fifteen minutes away. She bit her lip. She still couldn’t believe she was about to spend a whole day alone with him.

She got a cup of tea at the counter and took it over to a table by the window. Sun streamed in, warm against her face. She went to message Nick back, and as she did, she felt a rush of air as the door opened behind her.

There was a thundering crash then that would have caused an eruption of jeers in Joan’s school lunchroom. Joan turned, along with the rest of the café.

A man was standing in front of an upturned table, eyes wide and bewildered. Bits of broken plate and glass lay strewn over the floor. He blinked down at the mess, as if he thought someone else had made it. I want to buy flowers, he mumbled.

A waiter near Joan groaned. Not this again. He raised his voice to one of the other staff members. Ray, get the vacuum out! That drunk’s back! To the man he said, wearily: You can’t get flowers here. I keep telling you. There hasn’t been a florist here for years.

Joan stood slowly. She’d recognized the man. Hey, he isn’t drunk, she told the waiter.

Mr. Solt was Gran’s neighbor from up the road. Last week, he’d wandered into Gran’s house in this same confused way. His daughter Ellie had been in tears when she’d arrived. He has dementia, she’d said to Gran. It’s got so much worse since Mum died last year. He doesn’t even know what year it is half the time.

Mr. Solt? Joan went over to him, her shoes crunching on broken glass. There was glass everywhere. Mr. Solt was wearing soft slippers; inside them, his feet were bare. He must have walked all the way from his house wearing them.

Where’s the florist? Mr. Solt’s face creased in confusion. He was a big man in his seventies—bald, with hulking shoulders. Right now, though, he was all hunched up like a little boy. He looked like he wanted to cry.

Joan tried to coax him back from the glass. Why don’t I call Ellie? she suggested to him. She can get you some flowers, and you can go home. She glanced at her phone. Nick would be here in around ten minutes. It’s all right, she said to the waiter over her shoulder. I’m going to call his daughter.

She touched Mr. Solt’s arm, tentative, and, to her relief, he allowed her to guide him away from the glass and out the door.

Outside, it was a sunny day with a rare cloudless blue sky. It was early enough that most of the shops on Kensington High Street were still closed.

Let’s find you somewhere to sit, Joan said to Mr. Solt. But when she looked around, she couldn’t see any benches. She settled for the strip of wall between the café and the bank next door. Do you want to lean against the wall while we wait? she suggested. Mr. Solt blinked at her. We’re going to wait here, Joan explained. I’m going to call Ellie, and we’re going to wait for her.

Mr. Solt stood there, still staring down at Joan without expression. Joan felt a strange sense of unease then. Something terrible was about to happen, she thought, and then wondered why she’d thought it.

Mr. Solt? she said.

He staggered, and his hands shot out, grabbing Joan’s shoulders. She jerked back instinctively, and his heavy grip tightened.

And then it was weirdly like they were scuffling, even though Mr. Solt was only trying to get his balance back.

Joan looked over her shoulder, trying to see through the café windows, but she was angled away, closer to the bank. A motor vroomed tinnily to life from inside the café. A vacuum cleaner. Joan looked the other way—the way Nick would walk up. But Kensington High Street was emptier than she’d ever seen it.

Mr. Solt bore down on Joan’s shoulders. Joan’s legs shook with the effort of holding him up. She was ridiculously reminded of the time she’d tried to take the mattress off her bed and had collapsed under its weight. She’d had to shout for Dad to get it off her, and he’d laughed so hard afterward he’d had to hold on to the door frame.

She tried to laugh now. It came out high and nervous. She wasn’t scared, she told herself. Not exactly. Mr. Solt was just confused and trying to get his balance back. In a second, they’d both find their feet.

She wondered how she’d even tell Nick about this when he arrived. This weird thing happened before you got here. Mr. Solt kind of lost his balance, and so did I, and then we were just stumbling around in the middle of Kensington High Street together.

Except that then Joan’s knees buckled. "Mr. Solt!" she blurted. Mr. Solt frowned. For a second, awareness sparked in his eyes. He pushed Joan away from him with a confused shove. She stumbled backward, flailing her hand up to grab his shoulder, his shirt, anything to keep her feet.

Joan’s back hit the wall with a painful thump, and for a moment all she could see was that cloudless blue sky.

And then there was a kind of snap.

And everything went dark, as if someone had switched off the lights.

Joan could hear herself breathing loudly. She felt totally disoriented. She reached out in the dark, trying to feel for where she was, and as she did, flares of light roared past her, making her flinch.

She stumbled back. The lights had been a car.

Her eyes were beginning to adjust now, but the feeling of disorientation was only getting worse. She couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.

On the other side of the road, there was a burger shop. Joan knew it well. She’d walked past it dozens of times before.

She turned slowly. The café stood behind her, dark and empty. There was a Closed sign in the window. She hadn’t moved, she realized. She was still here. Still standing on the exact same spot where Mr. Solt had pushed her.

Only Mr. Solt was gone.

Joan stared. A moment ago, she’d been waiting for Nick to arrive. The sun had been shining on her face. It had been morning.

But where the sky had been blue, now it was black. The stars were out. The moon.

It was night.

Two

Joan looked disbelievingly at the black sky. Night had fallen—not with a gradual sunset, but in an instant, as though someone had thrown a blanket over the world.

She couldn’t make sense of it. A moment ago, she’d been waiting for Nick to arrive, and now . . .

She went to check the time and realized with another rush of confusion that she wasn’t holding her phone. She had a vague memory then of it slipping from her grip in the scuffle.

A car zoomed past, lighting up the street. The spot where her phone had fallen was empty. Joan took a stumbling step, disoriented.

A curl of panic started in the pit of her stomach. She was supposed to meet Nick here for breakfast. But now the café was empty, chairs stacked inside. Her eye caught on that Closed sign again.

God, what had just happened?

Mr. Solt had pushed her and then . . . Joan tried to remember. And then nothing. Then it had been night.

The sound of voices made her start back. A group of girls tottered past her along Kensington High Street, chatting and laughing. They were all dressed up and clutching at each other to stay upright, like they were in the middle of a big night out. Ooh, sorry, one of them said when she walked too close to Joan.

Joan’s heart skittered as she watched them go. It was obvious that they were just enjoying their night; nothing strange had happened to them.

Joan closed her eyes, hoping the world would right itself when she opened them again. That it would be morning. That Nick would be walking toward her, up the road. But when she opened her eyes again, the sky was still black. The shops of Kensington High Street were still closed for the night, their windows dark. And it felt like night. The temperature had dropped at the same moment that the world had gone dark.

Joan pinched her arm. It hurt. The air was cold. The ground under her feet was firm. She wasn’t dreaming.

But if this was real . . . Joan turned back to the dark windows of the shop behind her. There was a sign there with the café’s hours: seven a.m. to nine p.m. If this was real, that meant there was a gap in her memory at least thirteen hours long.

Joan pushed down a surge of panic. She reached into her pocket for her phone, needing to talk to Nick—to tell him she was here—and then remembered again that her phone was gone.

Another surge of panic hit her. And then it was too much. She was alone in the dark with no memory of the day. She suddenly wanted to go home to Gran. She felt like a little kid again—like she’d fallen and hurt herself. Like if she could just get home, Gran would give her a hug, and then everything would be okay.

Joan stumbled back down Kensington High Street and then Earl’s Court Road. All the familiar streets looked different in the dark. The shops were like empty shells. What time was it? It felt late.

What had happened? Had she been knocked out? Had she been drugged? Had she imagined it all? Each possibility scared her more.

In a rush of panic, she stopped and patted at her clothes. She was still fully dressed, she discovered in relief, still dressed for her date with Nick—sundress and sandals.

Could she be sleepwalking? She’d never done that before.

But underneath all her speculation, there was another question—one that she was afraid to think about too much: What did Mr. Solt do to me?

Mr. Solt’s house loomed near the corner of Lexham Mews. Joan cringed away from it, afraid Mr. Solt might come out the door. She broke into a run, tripping on the uneven path outside his house. And then she ran the rest of the way back home, tumbling onto Gran’s doorstep in the dark.

She got the door open and then locked it behind her. She checked the lock and then checked it again. When she turned, she expected to find the house dark and quiet. But to her surprise, there was a well of light coming from the kitchen. Someone was still awake.

Gran was at the kitchen table, drinking cocoa. More cocoa bubbled on the stove. Joan hesitated in the doorway, not sure if she was in trouble. The clock said it was just past one a.m. Dad would have freaked out if Joan had stayed out that late without calling him.

Hello, love, Gran said without looking up. Come and sit down. There was another mug of cocoa on the table, Joan saw now. It was steaming.

I— Joan didn’t know what to say. Gran, I think maybe I was drugged. Or maybe I hit my head and got knocked out. Neither of those things seemed true. Something happened, she managed. Someone did something to me.

Sit down, my love, Gran said, more gently. She slid the cocoa over to Joan.

Joan sat slowly and put her hands around the mug. It was very hot.

Gran looked softer than usual in the dim light. She was in a flannel dressing gown, and her hair was a curly gray halo. She waited for Joan to sip the cocoa and then she asked: What happened? Tell me exactly.

Joan tried to remember, and panic bubbled up inside her again. The whole day was missing from her memory. There was just nothing there. Mr. Solt did something to me, she said. He did something. He—he pushed me against the wall. And then . . . She hit the blank place in her mind again. And then I don’t remember. The words blurted out of her. Gran, I don’t remember anything that happened since this morning.

He pushed you. Gran sounded reassuringly calm. Did you push him back?

What? Joan said. It was such an unexpected question that for a moment she didn’t know how to answer. No.

But you touched him. Gran put a finger against the nape of her own neck. Here.

Joan started to say no again and then remembered how she’d flung her hand up to keep her balance. She had a vivid sense memory of the edge of her hand knocking against Mr. Solt’s neck.

It was day, Gran said. And then it was night, with nothing in between.

Joan stared at her. That was exactly what it had been like. He did something to me, she whispered.

He didn’t do something to you, Gran said. You did something to him.

What? Joan said.

My love, I told you what you were when you were six years old.

Joan shook her head. She couldn’t take her eyes off Gran’s face.

Gran leaned closer. You’re a monster, Joan.

On the stove, cocoa was still bubbling. Joan could hear the slow tick of the clock. The whole world seemed to have narrowed to Gran’s green eyes.

You mean I can make things disappear? Joan said. Disappear and reappear? She wasn’t very good at it. If anything, that ability had diminished over the years. Gran and Uncle Gus could make whole paintings vanish, but Joan had never managed anything much bigger than a coin.

In the yellow kitchen light, Gran’s eyes were as luminous as a cat’s. That’s the Hunt family power, she said. Each monster family has its own power. But all monsters have a power in common. We can travel. That’s what you did.

Travel?

Humans are bound in time, Gran said. Monsters are not. You stole time from that man and then you used it to travel from this morning to tonight. You traveled in time.

Joan wanted to laugh. She wanted Gran to start laughing. But Gran was just looking at her. What are you talking about? she said.

Life, Gran clarified. You stole a few hours of life from him.

No, Joan said. She didn’t understand.

You didn’t take much, Gran said. Half a day, perhaps. He’ll die half a day earlier than he was supposed to.

No! Stealing life from humans . . . Joan’s family had always called themselves monsters, but Gran was making it sound like they were monsters. Like they preyed on humans. Yeah, they shoplifted sometimes. Ruth could pick a bike lock. Bertie snuck into movies through the back door. But they weren’t monsters.

I didn’t, Joan said. I didn’t steal life from him. I wouldn’t. None of us would. And traveling in time . . . well, that’s . . .

Joan saw Uncle Gus’s hat then, on the kitchen bench. It was like all of Gus’s hats: beautifully kept. This one was a chestnut color with a rich brown band. Gus was slimly built with a kind of 1950s style. He liked sharp suits and hats. Even his hair was old-fashioned: neatly smoothed and parted to the side.

Joan thought about what Aunt Ada had been wearing yesterday morning. Ada had an eclectic wardrobe, and Joan had always liked it. Yesterday she’d been up early, wearing a mechanic-style jumpsuit and a scarf in her hair with a knot at the top. The day before, she’d been in a white dress, like she was going to a 1920s garden party.

Like she was going to travel back in time to a 1920s garden party.

Joan pushed away from the table. The scrape of her chair was loud in the silence.

Joan, Gran said.

Joan gripped the edge of the table. She shook her head again. She didn’t even know what she was trying to deny.

Gran held out something. It was Joan’s phone, the one she’d dropped in the scuffle with Mr. Solt. The screen was cracked.

Don’t forget the rule, Gran said. No one can know what we are. What you are. You must never tell anyone about monsters.

Upstairs, Joan’s room was just as she’d left it that morning—bed unmade with her pajamas strewn over the pillow. She stared down at her phone, at the long, jagged crack across the screen. Someone had turned it off. Gran