Jekel Loves Hyde

by Beth Fantaskey

  The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. My dad had paid Messerschmidt to help him in the lab. That was where my college savings had gone.

  “You’re wrong,” Mr. Messerschmidt objected. “Dr. Jekel treated me fairly. We were collaborators!”

  “Then why did you bite your master?” The beast laughed again, turning to me. “Your father was so determined to ‘save’ Frederick. What a miserable martyr Jekel was—killed by his own assistant!”

  I spun to face my teacher.

  “I didn’t mean to, Jill,” he said. “But when I took the last formula, I changed. I followed him to the parking lot, needing to know how to make more, but he wouldn’t tell me the secret . . .”

  The room started to whirl around me. Mr. Messerschmidt—my teacher—had killed my father?

  Across the room my mother was sobbing loudly. I looked over and saw that the fire had spilled out onto the floor, and the rug was smoldering at her feet.

  “Jill.” Tristen grabbed my arms. Maybe I was swaying. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s okay . . .”

  “You came to his funeral,” I accused Mr. Messerschmidt, hearing the disbelief in my voice. “And you faced me, every day in class. How could you? How could you not turn yourself in?”

  He didn’t answer, and I saw not just guilt but shame on his face. A shame I recognized.

  “You still wanted more!” I screamed. “That’s why you forced me and Tristen together to do the contest. You wanted us to make more so you could change again. Even after what you did to my father!”

  “Yes,” Mr. Messerschmidt confessed, breaking down before our eyes. “Your father . . . he never did tell me the final ingredient . . .” He buried his face in his hands, starting to cry. “I knew you and Tristen were smart enough to figure it out. I pushed you two together . . .” He raised his face to me. “God help me, I craved it . . .”

  “I don’t understand,” Tristen said, turning to face the beast. “When did Messerschmidt start working for you?”

  The monster in my living room was grinning again. “When you destroyed yourself, Tristen, I went to Messerschmidt, thinking he’d somehow figured out the formula and ‘cured’ you. But that idiot didn’t even know you were already working, let alone had solved the mystery. I figured that out. After that I made sure he pressured you to make more. Your teacher became my pawn.” The beast snorted a laugh. “While I was enjoying myself, relaxing in a quiet hotel room and courting Mrs. Jekel—”

  My stomach lurched again. I’d kind of known Mom was up to something, with the fancy dresses and new social life, but I had conveniently ignored the signs, having grown tired of taking care of her. I looked to my mother quaking on the couch and saw that the rug was starting to burn more brightly, the flames spreading. Oh, Mom . . . We were all going to die . . .

  “While I was amusing myself,” the beast continued, “that mess of a man was keeping tabs on you, reporting to me, so I could confront Tristen at the proper time.”

  I wheeled to face Mr. Messerschmidt again. “You told him that night Tristen and I worked alone in the lab. You set us up! You delivered us to Dr. Hyde twice!”

  He didn’t say anything, and Tristen squeezed my arm again, either holding me up—or holding me back.

  “Here,” Messerschmidt said, avoiding my eyes and stepping past me and Tristen—giving us a wide berth in a room that was getting warmer, filling with acrid smoke—to hand the vial to the beast. I saw my teacher’s hand shake as he offered up the solution. “Just give this to Tristen, and let me be done with all of this.”

  NO.

  Tristen would not drink the formula. And I was not done with my father’s murderer.

  Lunging forward, I tore free of Tristen’s grasp and snatched the vial from Messerschmidt’s hand just before the beast could take it, and I tore off the stopper and poured every last drop down my throat, ignoring Tristen’s cry.

  Stop, Jill! Don’t do it!

  He was too late.

  I turned on Mr. Messerschmidt and saw raw fear in his eyes.

  Chapter 94

  Jill

  I DRANK THE last few drops . . . and nothing happened.

  Maybe nothing had ever happened. Maybe all along the beast I’d unleashed had just been . . . me. Or maybe I was so full of rage that there was no room for a worse self to emerge. I was my worst self that night. “I hate you!” I screamed at Messerschmidt.

  “Jill . . .” I heard Tristen calling my name, but his voice seemed to come from far away.

  “I’m going to kill you,” I advised my teacher, who backed away from me. I wheeled to face the beast, who stood too close to Tristen. Behind them both the fire began to spread in earnest. “And then I’m going to kill you, too, you fucking monster.”

  I think Tristen was too stunned to move. Either that or he wanted to let me have revenge. Regardless, he didn’t move as I bent and smashed the vial against the floor so the glass broke raggedly. Swinging my arm wide, I swiped at Mr. Messerschmidt’s face, wanting to maim him first.

  I saw my teacher raise his hand, but I was too quick, and the glass caught him right beneath his eye. He howled in pain, and as he covered the spurting wound, I pulled my arm back again, aiming for his throat.

  “Jill, no!” Tristen caught me, swinging me to face him. “Don’t become like him. Stop—for me!”

  I breathed hard and raggedly, staring into his eyes. I wanted revenge. I wanted nothing less than full retribution. But more than that I wanted Tristen to love me again. I didn’t want to see the fear and dismay that I saw in his eyes then.

  I dropped the broken glass.

  “Jill . . .” Tristen was searching my face, and I knew he saw that I was still me. “Don’t kill him.”

  Mr. Messerschmidt cowered on the floor, whimpering, and behind us the fire was still spreading, starting to consume the curtains. My mom struggled to free herself, crying, “Jill! Get out of the house!”

  Yet the world seemed to stand still, revolving around me and Tristen.

  “Kiss me, Jill,” he said, holding my arms. “Kiss me and share the formula.”

  I shook my head. “No, Tristen. I don’t even know if it’s working . . .”

  “It will work for me. You know it will. I am a Hyde.”

  The beast was coming closer to us, taking its time before killing us all—and giving Tristen one last chance to drink from my lips. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the twisted smile of anticipation on its face.

  “Kiss me, Jill,” Tristen repeated. “Kiss me goodbye. Then go save your mother.”

  “We don’t have any more formula,” I said. “You won’t be able to come back . . .”

  “It’s okay, Jill.”

  I shook my head harder. “No.”

  “I love you,” Tristen said. “I love you so much.”

  They were the words I’d longed to hear. And although we were probably both going to die, I suddenly felt curiously at peace. “I love you, too,” I told him. “I’ll always love you.”

  “Then do this,” he said.

  I thought I’d gone beyond taking orders from Tristen Hyde, but how could I disobey as he bent his head to mine and pressed our lips together? And although I knew I was corrupting him again, ruining him, I kissed him so tenderly and so hungrily that, for the brief moment that we had, we really did feel like one soul. I felt like I lived and breathed as part of him, and shared that glorious strength that he always possessed, whether he was a man or a monster. For a moment I was Tristen and he was part of me.

  Then he released me, and as I darted to save my mom, I saw Tristen Hyde turn to face his waiting father as the house burned down around them.

  Epilogue

  Jill

  “I’M GLAD YOU came with me,” I told my mom, taking her hand in mine.

  “I worry about you in this city.” She shook her head. “It’s not safe. Are you sure you want to live here? You could wait a year, reapply to Smith.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I promised
. “The NYU campus is very safe, and Tristen will be close by. I don’t want to go to Smith anymore.”

  Mom looked at me with sad, worried eyes—the expression she always seemed to have since that night our house burned down. We never talked about it anymore, but I always saw a shadow of the experience in my mom’s face. “I don’t know that you being with Tristen reassures me,” she said. “It’s a big city.”

  “It’s a miracle that I got into NYU’s art program—and a scholarship,” I told her. “I’m going to school here.”

  “Your paintings are so different now.” Mom’s brow furrowed more deeply. “They’re so dark. I worry about you . . .”

  “Mom.” I squeezed her hand. “It’s okay.”

  A smattering of applause interrupted us, and I looked to the stage with the same anticipation and excitement that I always felt when Tristen entered a room.

  He smiled at the small crowd, and without a word, sat down at the baby grand piano, closed his eyes, and began to play.

  I watched him, mesmerized, like everybody else who heard him. His reputation was already growing in New York, where he’d gone after his father’s death, quitting high school and never looking back.

  High school had never seemed right for Tristen, anyway.

  The stage where he sat, that was right for him. And soon he would play on bigger stages, for larger audiences. Although he was barely eighteen, some of the city’s best musicians were already taking notice of the young man who played the haunting, beautiful, powerful music.

  Mom leaned over to whisper, “He is very good, Jill.”

  It was an understatement. On the stage Tristen bent over the piano, his fingers swift and sure, his blond hair gleaming under the spotlight. I glanced around at the audience, watching their faces, gratified that they were as captivated as I was by the dark, thunderous song that Tristen conjured.

  Returning my attention to him, I pressed my fingers against my chest, feeling the engagement ring that I wore hidden under my shirt on a chain around my neck. My mom liked Tristen in a way, but she was wary of him, too, and she had strongly objected to us getting engaged so young. But I had nearly lost Tristen, more than once. I wanted to be joined to him, as tightly as law and sacrament could bind two people.

  He wanted that, too. He insisted on it.

  I smiled in the dark room. And when Tristen Hyde insisted on something . . . Well, it was still hard to refuse him.

  Bowed over the piano, Tristen brought his composition closer to a crescendo, and I could feel the audience tensing, and I wondered what they would think if they knew the price that he had paid to get his talent back.

  For that night in my house . . . the formula hadn’t worked for Tristen, either.

  We couldn’t quite figure out what had gone wrong. Whether there just hadn’t been enough solution on my tongue or if the ingredients had simply expired, having sat a little too long.

  Regardless, whatever had happened between Tristen and his father back in the that burning house, it had been Tristen’s handiwork alone.

  He never talked about what took place after I’d dragged my mom onto the porch, and the fire had all but destroyed Dr. Hyde’s body, so there was no investigation.

  Sometimes I would look at Tristen and wonder if he’d used a weapon or if they’d fought hand-to-hand to the death. All that really mattered to me was that it had been Tristen who had emerged from the engulfed building, stumbling, choking on smoke as he collapsed in the yard, his face and hands and clothes black with soot. So black that if there was blood on him, it didn’t show.

  No, I would never know exactly what Tristen had done that night. But whatever had happened, it had reopened the dark side of his soul, or created a new dark place, and he could compose again.

  Did he think the price he’d paid was too high? Even though we loved each other, I didn’t ask. I had a feeling he couldn’t answer if he wanted to.

  Around me I could feel the collective excitement in the crowd as Tristen drew them into his mind, his soul, bringing his composition to a deeply satisfying, beautifully corrupted end.

  There was a moment of almost stunned silence, during which Tristen sat, head bent, recovering, like he’d done that evening so long ago in my former house. Then the applause began, some people rising from their seats.

  Tristen stood then, too, and smiled warmly. “Thank you.” He went backstage but emerged a moment later and dropped down into the audience. People tried to grab him, wanting his attention like he was already a star, but he politely excused himself, eyes fixed on me as he made his way toward my seat.

  “I’m glad you made it,” he said, kissing my lips.

  I couldn’t wait until we were alone, so I could kiss him more. Would his touch ever seem ordinary to me? Not thrilling?

  No.

  “It was wonderful,” I told him.

  “You’re biased,” he teased, eyes twinkling. Then he turned to my mother. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Jekel. I’m glad you came.”

  “Tristen.” Mom gave a polite nod. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “We need to get to the train station,” I said, checking my watch. “We’re cutting it close.”

  “Sure.” Tristen clasped my hand and led us toward the exit. “Let’s go.”

  When we reached the street, he hailed a cab and we rode in silence to Penn Station. As we moved through the city, I watched, as I often did, for a rotund little man who might bear a scar under his eye where I’d slashed him with a broken vial. Mr. Messerschmidt had disappeared that night, taking advantage of the chaos of flames and fire trucks, and we always wondered where he’d gone. The Manhattan sidewalks were crowded, and I scanned the faces, thinking a city with eight million people would be a good place to hide. And if I found him . . . ?

  I honestly wasn’t sure what I’d do.

  “We’re here,” Tristen announced, sliding out and holding open the door for Mom and me. Then he paid the driver, refusing Mom’s attempt to shove money into his hand, although it probably meant he’d skip a meal later that week. He’d inherited his father’s money and possessions, but seemed unwilling to touch either, preferring to make his own way. A fresh start for a new generation of Hydes.

  I led the way to the train, where I hugged my mom. “I’ll be home on Sunday,” I promised. “In time for school.”

  Mom frowned. “You’re not coming with me? I thought—”

  “No, I’m going to stay with those girls I met during my weekend at NYU,” I lied.

  Of course I would stay with Tristen, as if that would be very romantic, in the cheap, dirty efficiency he shared with five other struggling musicians. But Mom wouldn’t like to think of me even curling up on the couch with him for the night, so I fibbed.

  I didn’t lie because I was afraid Mom would be mad and drag me home on the train. No, I was so far beyond her control, so much an adult, that I made all my own rules. I lied only out of respect for her feelings.

  “All right, Jill.” Mom hugged me. “Just be careful, okay?”

  “I’ll watch over her,” Tristen promised, placing an arm across my chest, pulling me to him. “Don’t worry.”

  Mom boarded the train, and Tristen and I waited, waving until it was out of sight.

  “Have I mentioned that I love you?” Tristen asked, turning me toward himself and pushing my stray lock of hair behind my ear, a gesture that he had largely assumed responsibility for.

  “You can say it again,” I said, slipping my hands under his coat and around his waist, just like I’d done at the cemetery on that cold January day. I rested my head against his chest, feeling his heart beat.

  “I love you,” he whispered, lips brushing my hair.

  As always, when he said that, my eyes welled with happy tears. Would I ever get used to those words, either?

  Never.

  “I love you, too,” I promised, voice cracking.

  Alone . . . I would never be alone again. No matter what happened, even when death did eventual
ly separate us, I would never really feel alone again.

  After a few more moments just holding each other, I pulled away, and Tristen and I clasped hands and left the station, walking into the night together.

  Acknowledgments

  Like no doubt every book that features only one or two names on the cover, Jekel Loves Hyde was actually a collaborative project, and so I want to try to give credit to all the amazing, talented, supportive people who helped bring it to bookshelves.

  I was fortunate to have two wonderful editors—first Kathy Dawson, who saw potential in the initial draft, and then my new and gifted guide, Margaret Raymo, who tirelessly helped me polish, and polish, and polish . . .

  Thanks, in fact, to everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, especially Betsy Groban, Adah Nuchi, Jenny Groves, Laura Sinton, Linda Magram, Karen Walsh, Christine Krones, Lisa DiSarro . . . and the list could go on and on.

  A special nod also to Cliff Nielson, who created the beautiful jacket for this book and the one for Jessica’s Guide to Dating on the Dark Side.

  Speaking of which—many, many thanks to all the e-mailers, bloggers, booksellers, and YA librarians who supported my first novel and helped to ensure a second, from Adele Walsh in Australia to Donna Rosenblum in New York, as well as Betsy Rider, Michelle of Michelle’s Minions, and the fun people at YA Reads, who seem to be scattered around the globe. I wish there was room to acknowledge you all!

  I also want to again credit my agent, Helen Breitweiser, for always making me feel as if I’m the one and only author she has to handle, and for doing such a great job on my behalf. Finally, I have to acknowledge my friends and family—including my Pilates pals, and Patti and the Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, McDonald’s crew, as well as everybody in our little town who cheers me on.

  And the biggest thanks to my husband, Dave, my parents, and my in-laws, who not only support my projects but help to watch my wonderful girls, Paige and Julia—both of whom encourage me with their boundless enthusiasm.