Jekel Loves Hyde

by Beth Fantaskey

  I stared into Tristen Hyde’s brown eyes, just inches from my own. He wasn’t violent. Right then, I couldn’t believe it. He was warm. Kind. Gentle. He would help me. If only he felt more . . . felt what I did at that moment . . .

  And then, as we sat face-to-face, it was almost like my wish came true, because I saw something change in Tristen’s eyes. Not the frightening change that I’d seen when he’d gotten angry with Todd. This was the change I’d seen in the lab on that same night.

  I thought I’d seen a new kind of warmth in his eyes back in the classroom and maybe again in the garage, but I was sure right then. Almost sure . . .

  We searched each other’s face, like Tristen was looking for clues to my feelings, too—although I was sure my emotions must have been obvious, written large in my eyes, whether I really wanted him to know or not.

  “Jill,” he finally murmured, raising his hand and brushing my ever-wayward lock of hair behind my ear.

  I sat stiffly, spine rigid, even as something deep inside of me started melting, tingling. I was afraid that if I moved, Tristen would move, too, and take away the hand that lingered behind my ear, and the melting would stop.

  He kept studying me, eyes moving to my cheeks, my nose, down my throat to my hideous pajamas, and when he raised his eyes to mine, he seemed almost confused. Yet I was certain, absolutely certain, that I heard desire in his voice when he whispered, “You’re such a good girl, Jill.”

  I was used to hearing that word in a mocking way. Jill Jekel the goody two-shoes, always good. But when Tristen said it . . . it sounded like the most beautiful compliment in the world.

  His words barely registered, though. All I could think about was the feel of Tristen’s fingertips against my ear, and the warmth that was spreading, radiating from the very core of my body, as he drew the back of his index finger against my cheek and down along the line of my jaw with the same slow, deliberate confidence that had enabled him to wordlessly wrest control of a chemistry class or an out-of-tune keyboard.

  My heart was pounding with anticipation—and fear.

  I’d wanted this. I did want this. With him. A part of me had wanted it since that day in the graveyard . . .

  But I’d never been kissed before. Would Tristen know? I knew that he had experience.

  And he said he was dangerous. Darcy said it, too. Warned me . . . You’ll endup like your father . . .

  The blood on the list so close to us . . .

  I pulled back, just slightly.

  “Jill,” Tristen repeated, voice huskier in his throat, his hand more firm as his fingers slipped around the back of my neck, drawing me closer. “Such a nice girl.”

  “Tristen . . .” I knew I should stop him, had to stop him . . . Yet I allowed myself to be pulled, willingly lured. “Tristen . . .”

  He didn’t answer me. He just continued to caress my throat in a way that gently but surely brought us even closer together. I smelled the familiar soap on his skin, heard tenderness in his voice . . .

  Just one kiss. Then I’d push him away . . .

  I closed my eyes just as Tristen’s rough, warm lips barely brushed against mine, the sensation nearly imperceptible and yet overwhelmingly powerful, causing me to melt and freeze and panic and press my hands against his chest.

  No, it was wrong . . . The timing was wrong . . . He was wrong . . .

  Had Becca hesitated? Becca of his dreams?

  “Stop this instant!”

  I thought I’d cried out.

  But when Tristen and I abruptly jerked apart, I opened my eyes to see my mom standing behind the sofa, arms crossed, looking horrified and angry—and more alert than she had in weeks.

  Chapter 35

  Jill

  “WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” Mom demanded. “Explain this, Jill!”

  My face reddened in shame. “It’s—it’s nothing!” I stammered.

  Had it been nothing?

  I glanced to Tristen but couldn’t read anything on his face. “It’s my fault, Mrs. Jekel,” he said, rising. “I came over to talk with Jill, and I’m afraid . . .” He shrugged, with a smile that was probably as close to “sheepish” as Tristen Hyde ever got. “What can I say except that I like your daughter? And I’m certain I’m not the first to try to kiss her.”

  My face grew hotter, and I prayed that my mom wouldn’t contradict him. She knew I’d never had a boyfriend. Not even a real date. He was the first.

  And did Tristen mean that about liking me? Or was he just placating Mom? What had happened—or nearly happened—between us?

  “That’s all it was,” Tristen added more seriously. “One visit, one kiss—and barely that.”

  Yes, barely that. Could I even say that I’d been kissed?

  “Is this true, Jill?” Mom asked me. “Is this the first time he’s been here?”

  I could tell that she was upset to think that something had been going on while she slept, drugged, upstairs. “Yes, Mom,” I fibbed. “Just tonight. And it wasn’t like we’d planned anything.”

  But my mother’s attention had already returned to Tristen. She cocked her head. “You look very familiar. And sound familiar.”

  “Yes,” Tristen said. “I’ve been told that I strongly resemble my father.”

  Mom’s shoulders relaxed a little, as did the set of her mouth, and she nodded slightly in recognition. “Of course. You’re Tristen. Your father speaks of you often.”

  “Complains about me, I’m sure,” Tristen ventured a joke.

  “No, he seems very proud of you.” Mom tucked her hands into the pockets of her worn chenille robe and looked Tristen up and down, no doubt trying to reconcile the unwanted guest with the boy she’d apparently heard praised by Dr. Hyde. “Your father says you’re an accomplished pianist,” she noted. “That you show great promise as a composer.”

  For once Tristen seemed uncertain, and I suspected he was surprised to hear that his father had bragged about him. “That’s nice to hear,” he finally said. “Although I’m afraid Dad wouldn’t be happy to learn that I’ve upset you tonight. Again—my apologies.”

  Mom paused, seeming to consider her next move. “I suppose I might have overreacted. Especially given who you are, Tristen. I know you went out of your way to help us.”

  “It was nothing,” Tristen said.

  “No, it was very kind, what you did for me—and Jill. I—I should have thanked you sooner.”

  When Mom actually thanked Tristen, I realized that he had seized control of even this situation like he always did.

  My mother looked to me, eyes sad and weary. “I know it’s difficult for you, Jill,” she admitted. “I’m sure you’re trying to follow the rules, and I suppose I was home, technically . . .” She seemed to grow more unsure, and adjusted her disheveled hair with a shaky hand, an echo of my own habit. “I know your life isn’t normal right now, with boys and dating, like other girls. It’s . . .”

  Mom seemed unable to finish the thought, and Tristen and I shared a worried glance. “Mrs. Jekel?” he asked, moving to Mom’s side. “Are you all right?”

  “Just tired,” Mom said. “I came down for my medicine . . .”

  “Here,” Tristen offered, taking Mom’s elbow and leading her around to the sofa. She sank down next to me, and as Tristen backed away, he smoothly swept up the list, which had been in plain view, folded it, and tucked it back into his pocket.

  But Mom had seen it. “What was that?” she asked, suddenly sharply alert again. “That paper?”

  My heart jumped into my throat. I wasn’t sure if Mom even remembered talking about the list, but I was afraid that if she saw my dad’s blood again, she might go into a tailspin. Get completely catatonic. That couldn’t happen. I looked to Tristen for rescue. Tell her something. Distract her again. Take control.

  “It’s a school project,” Tristen said coolly. “That’s why I initially came here. To ask Jill for help.”

  Mom eyes narrowed, like she was trying to remember something. “It lo
oked like—”

  “You said you came down for your medicine,” Tristen noted, interrupting her. “Can I get it for you? Just tell me where it is and what you need. I’m actually quite familiar with the regimen and the importance of following the schedule.”

  I looked at Tristen with surprise. He was familiar with the medicine? But he’d said back in the school that he didn’t know much about his father’s methods . . .

  Mom started to rise, but weakly. “I should do it.”

  “No.” Tristen pressed her gently back down with a hand on her shoulder. “Let me. Please.”

  “Thank you,” Mom agreed. “The bottles are on the counter. I need two of the generic benzodiazepines and one Atarax.”

  “Keep your mother company,” Tristen told me. “I’ll be right back—then on my way, of course.”

  When Tristen disappeared into the kitchen, Mom rested her head back on the sofa. “He seems nice, Jill,” she said quietly. “I suppose it would be silly to think you’d never have boyfriends. That you’d always be the innocent little girl who hid behind my skirt on the first day of kindergarten, too shy to play with other kids.”

  She was starting to sound so melancholy, like I was abandoning her, that I felt a lump rise in my throat. “I’m still pretty innocent, Mom.”

  “I know, Jill.” She gave a faint smile and patted my hand. “You’re a good girl. I do trust you.”

  Tristen returned then, interrupting us to offer Mom a handful of medicine and a mug of water. “Here.”

  Mom looked into her palm, counting the pills, wisely not trusting a high school boy to dose her, even one descended from Dr. Frederick Hyde. But Tristen must have followed her directions, because Mom popped her hand to her mouth, raised the mug to her lips, and swallowed.

  “Drink it all,” Tristen advised. “That’s recommended.”

  I shot him a curious look. How did he know that, too?

  But Tristen didn’t meet my eyes. He was watching my mother drain that mug. Watching intently.

  Seconds later, before she was even finished, the mug dropped from Mom’s hands and rolled to the floor, spilling water on both of us. Her head lolled sideways, and she slumped against me. “Tristen?” I cried, alarmed, shaking my mother.

  She didn’t respond.

  “I had to do it, Jill,” Tristen said miserably. “For all of us.”

  Chapter 36

  Jill

  “YOU DRUGGED MY MOTHER?” I yelled, snatching at her wrist, feeling for a pulse. I raised my eyes to him, hurt and betrayed and terrified. We’d almost kissed. But he’d done this . . . “Why, Tristen?” I demanded. “Why?”

  Why had any of this happened? The near kiss, the assertion that he liked me—the attack on my mom?

  “She’s fine,” Tristen promised, kneeling next to us and taking her other wrist. “Her heartbeat is steady. The dose was completely safe. Just a little extra Atarax crushed in her water.”

  Seeing his hand on Mom, I felt a protective, almost maternal instinct come over me, and I shoved hard at his shoulder, pushing him away, sending him sprawling backward on the floor. “Get away from her! Don’t touch her!”

  I loathed Tristen at that moment. Loathed and feared him. How could he? He was a monster.

  Tristen rose off the floor, dusting himself off, and I was suddenly very aware of his height and the muscle that I’d felt those two times he’d held me. The strength that had once seemed comforting, now menacing.

  “Get out,” I ordered him. Or maybe I begged. “Please, get out!”

  “Your mother saw the list, Jill,” Tristen said, sounding guilty and wretched even as he tried to justify what he’d done.

  But he couldn’t, because he was a terrible, evil beast—just like he’d said he was.

  “She didn’t just see it,” he clarified. “She recognized it.”

  “So what, Tristen?” I cried, all at once sick of secrets.

  “So what?” he asked, incredulous. “What if she’d demanded it back, taken it away from me? Just as I’m on the brink of performing an experiment that might save my life!”

  “It’s my family’s list,” I reminded him, voice shaking with fear and anger. I kept my fingers wrapped around Mom’s wrist, reassuring myself that her pulse beat steadily. “Not yours! The list isn’t yours, and the box isn’t yours. You act like they are! But they aren’t!”

  Tristen didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He just stared at me.

  And when he finally spoke, he no longer sounded remorseful. He sounded angry. “The list, the box—those are my legacies, too,” Tristen advised me in a low growl. “Mine.”

  I shook my head. “No, Tristen! They belong to my family!”

  “Your family?” Tristen spat the word. He started to pace but stared steadily at me. “Do you want to talk about your precious family?”

  I wasn’t sure. I held Mom’s arm . . . but followed Tristen with my eyes.

  “You Jekels ruined my whole life and the lives of my ancestors,” he continued, voice rising. “Created a monster that kills, breeds, and kills some more!”

  “Tristen . . .”

  He was losing control. But not like he had with Todd. No, what I saw before me was just Tristen Hyde . . . mad as hell.

  He stopped pacing and faced me directly, eyes narrowed, voice getting quieter, but in a way that only made his words that much more ominous. “Did you ever stop to think, Jill, that any blood the Hydes may have shed is on the hands of the Jekels, too? Did you ever think that perhaps YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY owes me? And that perhaps, just perhaps, I have a right to do what I must do in order to fix everything that one of your ancestors wrought? All of the mayhem?”

  Tristen was loud again, digging his fingers into his hair, practically roaring, like he was releasing years of pent-up frustration and anger. “All of the HORROR, Jill! The HELL that I live with every day INSIDE MY FUCKING HEAD! And you, Jill. Did you ever stop to think that maybe YOU are as corrupted as ME?” He laughed, a harsh, almost choking sound. “You come across so innocent, but your blood is as tainted as mine in its own, perhaps worse, way! Your family created a line of killers! Have you ever thought of that since we started this whole effort to save MY FUCKING SOUL?”

  I swallowed thickly, rubbing my mother’s wrist, where the blood . . . our Jekel blood by birth and bond of marriage . . . pulsed through her veins.

  No. I’d never thought about guilt, complicity. My family couldn’t be responsible for the corruption of an entire bloodline. We were victims of violence. And like I’d just said to my mother, I was innocent. Innocent . . .

  Tristen stopped talking—stopped accusing—and stood facing me, breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, glaring at me. When it must have become obvious that I had nothing to say, that I didn’t intend to defend myself, he moved to the sofa and slipped his arms under my mom’s still body.

  “Tristen?” I clung to Mom’s wrist more tightly. “What are you—?”

  “I’m taking her upstairs,” he interrupted gruffly, avoiding my eyes. “If she doesn’t wake up in bed, she might recall that something went wrong tonight. I want her to awake rested and oblivious to everything that happened here.” He looked to me then, but his eyes were hard, impenetrable. “What we were doing. The list. Everything.”

  What we were doing . . . I thought he meant the kiss. And the way Tristen said it, the look on his face, the bitterness I saw . . . I knew that we would never come close to touching like that again.

  Which was the way it should be.

  I hated him. Monster.

  “Take her upstairs and get out,” I said, voice flat with defeat. He’d do what he wanted, anyway. “Just go, then get out. Please.”

  Tristen lifted Mom, her arms dangling loosely and her head lolling backwards as he cradled her against his chest.

  I looked away, staring into the black, empty fireplace. “You know where the bedroom is.”

  “Yes.” I heard Tristen take a few steps then pause. “She’ll be fine, Ji
ll,” he said quietly. “I really do know the safe dosage, and she didn’t even drink it all.”

  Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, like against the glare of blinding snow, I thought back yet again to that day in the cemetery.

  Trust me, Tristen had urged.

  Yeah. Sure. Right.

  “Just put her in bed—gently—and go,” I said, eyes still closed.

  Tristen didn’t answer. I just heard his footsteps moving toward and up the stairs.

  I sat alone in the heart of a house that suddenly seemed spent of energy, like all the rage, and fear, and desire or whatever Tristen and I had just shared, had been snuffed out. Sort of suffocating in this vacuum, I listened to his footsteps fade down the corridor, and the sound of Mom’s mattress squeaking as he placed her on the bed.

  Burying my face in my arms, I listened, too, as Tristen came back downstairs and moved almost soundlessly through the living room and into the foyer, letting himself out, the door creaking softly shut behind him.

  He didn’t say good-bye, which was fine by me. I didn’t want to see his face or hear his voice.

  Besides, I was crying too hard to answer, anyway.

  Chapter 37

  Tristen

  THE NIGHT IS STEAMY, and the river that pulses sluggishly at my side smells of decay: the wilt and rot that accompany the fecund height of summer. Smiling, I turn my face to the black sky and see the Man in the Moon leering down with approval, his round, disembodied head swinging from a gibbet of stars.

  “Watch,” I want to tell him. “Watch what happens next. The slick, sick trick that I will pull.”

  “Tristen?” the girl calls softly, bending to peer down the dark path from which she expects me to emerge. “Are you there?” She sounds nervous. “It’s very dark!”

  I wait a moment, enjoying the sight of her before me, her slender form so thin that her shoulder blades jut out, two angel wings waiting to be snatched before she can even think to fly away . . .