Soon I would have to stand on stage in front of all those people, some of the top science students in the nation, and Darcy Gray, who’d laugh at how my voice would quiver like it always did when I spoke in public.
“Come on, Jill,” Tristen said, nodding for me to follow him. He held the carrier full of rats. “Let’s go.”
“I . . . I . . .” I hung back.
“Jill, you’re second on the program,” Mr. Messerschmidt noted. “You should probably get backstage and set up.”
I looked to Tristen, wanting to tell him that I was scared. I wanted to lean on him and borrow his strength. But his eyes were neutral, and he didn’t encourage me.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Fine,” Tristen agreed. “You’re the boss.”
I watched him lead Mr. Messerschmidt through the crowded aisle toward the stage. He was taller than most of the teachers, even, and I easily followed his progress. Even in a new setting where he didn’t know anybody, and although his injuries didn’t look as ominous anymore, people seemed to part and make way for Tristen Hyde. I didn’t think they were picking up on some menace that lurked inside of him. I thought they just instinctively recognized that he was special somehow.
How could I have thrown him away?
I turned away, scanning the auditorium for a restroom. Seeing a sign, I began to thread my way through the increasing throngs—with increasing panic.
I was going to freak out. Darcy would laugh at me, mercilessly, as she accepted her check for thirty thousand dollars.
I touched the vial in my pocket with sweaty fingers.
The evening didn’t have to end so badly, though. I knew somebody who was bold. Somebody not afraid to steal, or go to parties. Somebody who would probably love to be on stage with all eyes on her and who could win the money. And what, really, did I have to lose by summoning my alter ego one last time? I’d already lost Tristen, and maybe my virtue, at a party I couldn’t recall, and I was about to be humiliated, anyway. Wouldn’t it be better not even to remember?
But it wasn’t just stage fright that made me reach again for the vial, as I stepped inside the ladies’ room. If I had been honest, I would have admitted that it was my inability to live one more second with myself.
I’d destroyed my one chance at love. Becca had handed me the hatchet, but I was the one who’d hacked to pieces my relationship with Tristen.
Maybe I just wanted to drink the formula, too. Just plain wanted to do it, and everything else was just an excuse.
I hurried toward a stall and was just about to step inside when somebody spoke to me.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t half the losing team of Jekel and Hyde!”
Chapter 88
Jill
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here, Darcy?” I blurted, fingers curling around the vial in my pocket.
I realized the question was stupid as soon as it came out of my mouth, and of course Darcy laughed. “I’m here for the contest. Duh.” She rolled her eyes and continued applying blush at the mirror. “I hope you’re that sharp on stage,” she added. “It’ll be that much easier to beat you.”
“Don’t be so sure you’re going to win,” I warned her. “Tristen and I have a good presentation.”
“I’ve seen you talk in public.” Darcy smiled, dropping her makeup into her purse. “Remember seventh grade when you gave that book report? You ended up running out of the room!”
“This isn’t seventh grade anymore,” I reminded her.
“But you’re the same person,” Darcy said. “The same mousy girl you’ve always been—and always will be. You might be teamed up with a smooth-talking, arrogant thug, but at heart you’re still a frightened little baby, Jill. It’s just who you are.”
I knew Darcy was deliberately undermining my confidence to boost her chances of winning. But I also knew that she was just being mean for the hell of it. And to make matters worse, she’d just insulted Tristen.
Pulling my hand out of my pocket, I walked up to Darcy and took the fingers that had just been clutching the formula, opened them wide, and slapped her across the face hard enough to make up for about a decade of abuse. My palm print stained her cheek, and she clapped her hand across her face, glaring at me in mute disbelief.
“I’ll see you on stage,” I said. “And don’t ever insult me or Tristen again.”
Then I marched out of the bathroom, forgetting all about taking the formula. I found Tristen backstage doing some last-minute rehearsal. He glanced up from his notes. “I suppose you’d prefer that I speak—”
“No,” I interrupted, holding out my hand. “This is my experiment, right?”
Tristen seemed surprised but handed over the notes. “Of course.”
“Jekel? Hyde?” A woman with a clipboard approached us. “It’s time.”
“Let’s go,” I said, shrugging out of my wool coat, dropping it with the rest of our stuff, and leading Tristen onto the stage.
Chapter 89
Jill
“YOU TWO SHOULD really be proud,” Mr. Messerschmidt said as we drove down the turnpike. “You did a great job.”
“We didn’t win, though,” I said, hunched in the back seat.
Tristen twisted around to face me. “But you were outstanding, Jill. Everyone loved you.”
The compliment was bittersweet. Everyone but you, Tristen. I’d seen to that.
“Thanks,” I said.
Tristen didn’t turn back around. He kept facing me in the darkness. A car passed us in the next lane, and the headlights briefly lit his face, and I thought I saw a trace of admiration and maybe even affection in his eyes, and suddenly I didn’t care so much about losing the money. At least Tristen had thawed a little.
“We did do okay, didn’t we?” I sort of smiled at the memory of me, Jill Jekel, delivering a flawless speech in front of about two hundred people. “Third place isn’t bad.”
Tristen’s white teeth flashed in the darkness. “Especially since Darcy got fifth.”
It was mean to be happy about her failure, but I couldn’t help grinning, too.
Tristen reached back then and gave my knee a shake. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I repeated as he turned to face forward again.
Although the heater in Mr. Messerschmidt’s car wasn’t reaching the back seat, I felt warmer suddenly. Tristen had touched me. It didn’t mean he still loved me, but it was better than the cold distance that had separated us. It was a start, maybe.
Hunkering down in my seat, I buried my hands in my pockets and stared out at the passing night. I was so distracted, thinking about Tristen, that we went about a full mile before I realized that the vial was gone.
Chapter 90
Tristen
MESSERSCHMIDT PULLED UP in front of Jill’s house, and immediately something struck me as not quite right.
“Jill,” I said, opening the door and flipping up my seat, “I thought you said your mother was out of town.”
She clasped my hand and struggled to get out. “She is.”
I continued holding her hand and directed her attention to the glowing windows—and the smoking chimney—of her house. “Well, someone’s home. And they’ve lit a fire.”
She started to pull her hand from mine, but I wouldn’t let her go. I didn’t want to release her. Not yet. For I had a very bad feeling about the scene before us. It was just an instinct born of my own knowledge of how the beast would behave.
I stroked Jill’s hand with my thumb, hoping to convey that even if she hated me, I still loved her. I couldn’t help loving her. I wanted to do so much more than just touch her hand. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her that I was sorry for all that had gone wrong between us and for all of the awful things I had wrought upon her life, from forcing her to trespass in the school to carelessly altering her very soul with a kiss.
But of course I couldn’t, with Messerschmidt watching.
“Maybe Mom
came back,” Jill said. She didn’t sound convinced, though. In fact, I got the clear sense that alarm bells were going off for her, too.
The scene was so innocuous. And yet something was wrong.
Messerschmidt opened the trunk, offering, “I’ll help you take everything inside.”
I squeezed Jill’s hand again. “You wait out here, eh?”
She looked up at me with those wide, wonderful eyes, which had just captivated an entire auditorium full of people as they’d always captivated me, and shook her head, her ponytail swinging. “No, Tristen. Let’s go in together.”
“Jill . . .”
“Come on,” Messerschmidt prompted, lifting out the old box. “It’s late and cold.”
She pressed my palm, and I knew that she wouldn’t let me go alone, no matter how I insisted. She truly had changed—and not only because she’d tasted the formula. The Jill Jekel who had emerged in the last few weeks was completely beyond my control.
“Let’s get a move on,” Messerschmidt urged, starting up the steps.
Releasing Jill’s hand, I removed the box from Messerschmidt’s grasp, stepped past him, and led the way inside the house.
Chapter 91
Jill
I WAS GLAD Mr. Messerschmidt came with us. Tristen knew something was wrong. I knew something was wrong. Mom wasn’t supposed to be home. And she never lit fires. That had been Dad’s thing.
“Jill, give me the keys.” Tristen held out his hand. “Please.”
I almost protested . . . then did as he asked.
Mr. Messerschmidt cleared his throat, almost like he was nervous, too, for some reason.
Tristen put the key in lock, opened the door, and we all stepped inside.
And what we saw there . . . it was even worse than what I’d imagined we might find.
Chapter 92
Jill
“MOM?” I CRIED. “What’s happening?”
“I’m sorry, Jill,” she said, voice trembling. She was sitting on the couch, a teacup perched on her knee, which was shaking, too. Violently. “I didn’t tell you we were seeing each other. I thought it might upset you . . .” Her eyes darted to Dr. Hyde, who stood near the fireplace, smiling a crooked, evil smile. “And then he changed . . .”
“Yes, people do change,” Dr. Hyde agreed, stepping away from the fire. “Don’t they, Tristen?” His smile shifted to a scowl. “And sometimes they must change back.”
“Run for help,” Tristen directed Mr. Messerschmidt over his shoulder. “Hurry.”
But for the first time our teacher didn’t follow Tristen’s direction. “I can’t do that,” he said.
“Then grab your cell—call the police,” Tristen snapped, keeping a wary eye on his father. “You don’t understand what’s happening here. Listen to me!”
Mr. Messerschmidt turned as instructed—then slowly and deliberately spun the deadbolt, sealing us all in together.
Tristen whipped around. “What are you doing, you idiot?”
“I’m sorry, Tristen,” Mr. Messerschmidt said, cringing. “I have to do what your father says.”
What? I stared at my teacher, not understanding.
“What the hell is going on here?” Tristen demanded, turning back to his father. “How do you know Messerschmidt? And what are you doing to Jill’s mother? This is about you and me!”
Dr. Hyde walked behind the couch and rested his hands on my mom’s shoulders, and I wanted to scream. Mom’s hands shook so hard that the contents of the teacup spilled out onto her pants. I followed the spreading stain and realized that her ankles were bound. My throat tightened like the duct tape was around my neck, too.
“Don’t spill that, dear,” he said, squeezing Mom’s shoulder. His hands appeared gnarled and he stood slightly hunched, the monster finally casting off the mask it had worn. Dr. Hyde had changed, physically, like Tristen had done in the lab. Only this time the transformation was complete. The handsome, if imposing, psychiatrist was gone, replaced by a grotesque—and completely terrifying—creature with eyes that seemed barely human.
There were hints of Dr. Hyde: the beard, the suit, the shape of his face. And yet the beard wasn’t neatly trimmed, the suit hung wrong on uneven shoulders, and the features on his face were warped and irregular. The bent nose, the lopsided mouth—they were awful, physical manifestations of the twisted soul that had emerged.
This thing . . . It was someone—something—else. And it was terrible to behold.
“Steady, now,” he urged again when Mom’s hand kept trembling. “You might be thirsty later.”
“What are you doing?” Tristen repeated, his own tone ominous.
“Blackmailing you,” Dr. Hyde said. “Tonight you will drink the formula or watch your girlfriend’s mother drink what is in her cup. And then we will all sit and watch Mrs. Jekel die, slowly and in agony. And if that doesn’t convince you, I will break your little girlfriend’s neck with my bare hands.”
I stifled the urge to cry out as tears began to stream down Mom’s face.
“Over my dead body,” Tristen said, putting a protective hand on my arm.
“As you wish,” Dr. Hyde agreed.
“What’s in the cup?” I spoke for the first time since coming in the door.
Dr. Hyde released Mom’s shoulders and stepped around from behind the couch. “Household bleach. A common but effective corrosive—as I’m sure you, a chemist, know perfectly well.”
“No . . .” I shook my head, looking to Tristen. “No . . .”
“We don’t have any formula,” Tristen pointed out. “If you thought we made some at the contest, you’re wrong. It was just a demonstration. I didn’t add the final ingredient. I won’t ever again.”
“You know how to make it, and you have everything you need in the car,” Dr. Hyde growled, stepping closer. His eyes were so metallic, and the smell of him . . . He smelled like a corpse already rotting in the grave.
Is that what Tristen would have become? What I would have become if I’d kept drinking the formula?
Where was the formula?
I shot Mr. Messerschmidt a confused glance. And how—why—had our teacher betrayed us?
“I don’t have all the ingredients,” Tristen insisted. “I don’t have the altered salt!”
This revelation seemed to anger Dr. Hyde further—but didn’t sway him from his plan. “You will tell Messerschmidt what is needed, he will get it, and you will drink the solution!” he snapped. “Tonight, as I planned!”
“Tristen, don’t!” I cried. I couldn’t let him become like the monster that stood before us. It would only delay the inevitable for my mother and me. I didn’t believe Dr. Hyde would let either of us leave the house alive. There was no reason for Tristen to destroy his soul again. “Don’t make more.”
“I can’t do it,” Tristen said. “And neither can you.”
And with that, he drew back his arm and hurled the old metal box into the fireplace, where the unlocked clasp opened on impact, the papers flying into the flames.
“YOU FOOL!” the beast roared, staring into the flames, curling and uncurling its fingers as the documents were consumed. “YOU IDIOT!” He spun to face Tristen. “You were the best of our lineage. Young, smart, ambitious—and talented! With your gift and our legacy you could have commanded incredible power. Been worshiped—and feared—around the world. Now you’ve ended everything!”
“On the contrary,” Tristen said. “You and I—we are just beginning.” He stepped closer to the beast. “Now let the women go, and let us conduct our business in private. Because I am very eager to see this through to the end.”
I had seen Tristen Hyde’s imperious side many times, but I’d never seen him be that commanding, and I thought he probably could have inspired both adoration and outright terror if his evil side really had been unleashed. Maybe he could do it, just on his own. But even the powerful guy who stood, feet planted wide on our old wooden floors, wasn’t strong enough to slay the monster that seemed to b
e growing more hunched, and more vile, with every passing second. Not without unleashing his own terrible side . . .
“You have made a grave mistake, Tristen,” the beast growled, stalking even closer. Tristen stepped in front of me, guarding me. “And now all of you will pay! You have cost your lover and her mother their lives, too.”
I had no doubt then that we were all going to die as the beast reached out for Tristen, to take him first.
But suddenly, into the surreal silence that had descended upon all of us, Mr. Messerschmidt cried out, “Wait!”
Chapter 93
Jill
“I HAVE THE FORMULA,” Mr. Messerschmidt announced, stepping out from where he lurked near the door.
We all spun to face him, and I saw the vial from my pocket. “How did you get that?” I demanded.
“From your coat,” my teacher said. “I knew you’d made some. I listen to you kids, Jill, when you think I don’t. I heard rumors about you changing. I thought, maybe, given how shy you are, you might take some to the contest. I would have done it if I had been you.” His face reddened. “The formula is so . . . liberating.”
“You—you’ve taken it?” Tristen asked, sounding confused.
“Oh yes,” the beast chimed in with a deep, gloating laugh. “Tell them, Messerschmidt. Tell them how you were a paid guinea pig for Jill’s father, testing the formula to ‘cure’ Dr. Hyde.”
My mind struggled to keep up. “I don’t understand . . .”
“I wasn’t a guinea pig,” Mr. Messerschmidt protested, sounding hurt. He looked to me. “Your father and I were partners. We were all going to share the accolades when we found the proper formula. I was going to be a respected scientist, in league with your dad!”
“You were never going to earn respect.” The beast laughed. “You were a very well-compensated lab rat.”
Jekel Loves Hyde Page 24