Hyde, an Urban Fantasy

by Lauren Stewart

  “No kissing, no humiliation, hope to God not the eye-thing. I need to show you something.” His intensity flowed past the railing, down the stairs, leaving her standing in a puddle of it.

  She lowered her head. What could top today’s adventure? Eden wasn’t sure she wanted to know. No, she was sure she didn’t want to know.

  He sighed, leaning against the railing. “Look, you’ll be fine. For the next few days you’ll be fine, I’ll— We’ll figure this out. On Saturday. Okay?” He paused, perhaps waiting for a response. “Please, Eden. It's important.”

  She took a deep breath, the inhalation lifting her chest and her chin up. At least she looked tough. She just hoped her voice wasn’t going to be as shaky at her stomach felt. “So show me now.”

  “I can't. It has to be Saturday. Saturday I will show you who I am.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Eden had always valued honesty, always believed it was the only absolute. Black and white. Easy to understand and, thus, to follow. Until now. Honesty is impossible when you don’t know the truth to begin with. And for Eden, the truth was tucked so deeply into her subconscious, she couldn’t even begin to understand it.

  When she got home, Carter was already gone. She found her cell phone and saw that he’d called nine times since the morning. The messages he’d left increased in volume and worry until he was practically screaming. She stopped listening and called him.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Oh, thank God. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. I’m at home. How did I get out last night, Carter?”

  “Have you seen the dryer?”

  “The dryer? Really? ‘Hey, babe’,” she mimicked, “‘I know you got out last night and may have gotten into terrible trouble, but I’m outta socks so could you finish my laundry for me?’ ”

  “Check the dryer, Eden.”

  “Fine.” Eden stalked through the kitchen into the small alcove that housed their washer and dryer. The machine was pulled away from the wall. Peering over the heavy appliance, she saw a hole in the drywall where the hose was ripped out. The vent it fed into was torn apart, leaving a gap big enough for her to fit through if she’d really squeezed. It led outside. To the second floor. That’s quite a jump. Enough of a jump, she almost felt the need to make sure her legs weren’t broken. Chunks of drywall were on the ground on both sides and powdered chalk covered the floor. “I did that?”

  “If it wasn’t you, then . . . Eden, where did you go?” he asked. “Where were you all day?”

  “I was with Mitch.”

  “Damn it! What did you do?”

  She knew what he was insinuating. Why was he more concerned that she’d been with Mitch today than the fact that she’d broken out of their apartment and gone who knows where last night? Now that he knew she wasn’t dead, he didn’t care about what had happened. Only that Mitch had been involved.

  Her nostrils flared. “You want to know what happened with Mitch? You really want to know?”

  “Yeah, I really do. You have no idea how worried I was about you. Did he do anything to you?”

  Eden swallowed the words she’d been about to spit out. He was just worried. “No, he didn’t do anything to me. He . . . He helped me. When are you coming home?”

  He sighed. “Hopefully, around eight. I’ve been looking for you all day. I’m at the station now with a missing person’s report in front of me. Now that I know you’re okay, I have to make up some of the time I missed.”

  She wondered why he hadn’t gone to Mitch’s, to see if she was there. Then she remembered the trip to the crime scene. Maybe Carter had just missed them.

  “I’m glad you’re alright, Eden. I love you.”

  The pause was a long one. She didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ll see you later,” Carter said, letting her off the hook.

  “Yeah, I’ll see you later.” She hung up the phone, plopped down on the couch and cried.

  After two and a half days of considering what to tell Carter about what had happened, Eden still hadn’t told him. As they’d patched up the wall, reinforcing the area with metal sheeting, and tried to act as if nothing had changed, their conversations were stilted. Formal. Uncomfortable.

  Was what she’d done with Mitch cheating if the only reason she and Carter were together was habit? Or comfort? She had no romantic feelings for him, so, no, it wasn’t cheating. However, she was learning that there was always another side. Less black and white, more shades of gray.

  When she’d told him about sleepwalking and finding herself in Mitch’s bed, she’d been horrified because of her behavior and because of their unspoken expectations, but not because she felt like she’d cheated. Well, other than on herself. She was very adept at guilt.

  Carter had feelings for her—he’d never been shy about them. So, by being with someone else, it would hurt him. And that’s what she’d done. Hypocritical? Absolutely. But for so long, they’d been in these roles with each other. Crazily unhealthy roles, if she thought about it. Which she had been. Constantly. Since leaving Mitch’s house.

  So she had to tell him. And let him punish her in whatever way he deemed fit. That was his right. That was right.

  The days dragged by as she waited for a knock on her door. The police would find something at the crime scene, or Mitch’s fake alibi for her would be revealed and they’d come for her. A week ago, the question of whether or not she should go to them first wouldn’t have even given her pause. She’d have told them everything and let them figure it all out. But now, not knowing what she’d done, not believing it was possible for her to murder someone made things fuzzy. She’d always trusted her intuition, and it was insisting that she hadn’t killed anyone.

  So she’d wait. Wait for the cops to tell her. Wait for her other personality to appear again or send her a flashback of what had actually happened. Wait with a heart that felt like it was wrapped in chains that tightened with every beat.

  Thankfully, she was lying down when the flashback slammed into her head. If she hadn’t been, she would have ended up on the floor.

  An image seen from down the alley. Two women—one light, one dark. A body on the ground, surrounded by blood that looked almost black. The next image was tighter, as if the camera in her mind had been lower, closer to the blond woman’s body. A hand—mine?—touching a puddle of blood. Then nothing.

  Eden wiped the hair off her face. Her forehead was damp. If she could trust what she’d seen, she—Eden or the other person inside of her—hadn’t done the killing. It wasn’t what she’d seen. Oh God, how she wanted it to be true. She dialed Mitch’s number.

  “Did it happen again?” His voice was frantic, confused. “It hasn’t been four days.”

  “What? No. Mitch, I don’t think I killed her. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I did it.”

  “That’s great.” He didn’t sound as if he believed her revelation. “How’d you figure that out?”

  “I had a flashback. I saw her hand touch the body, but she didn’t kill her. Mitch, I really don’t think she killed anyone.” The more times she said it aloud, the more her mind accepted it as truth, the more her voice bounced with relief.

  He didn’t respond immediately. “Good news. But I’m still coming over tonight. There is something I need to see. If I’m right, then remember the way you are feeling right now. You’re gonna need to remember that.”

  “I don’t think I murdered that girl anymore. I think it’s going to take a lot to bring me down.”

  “Sure. I’ll be there by ten.” He hung up.

  She waited anxiously for Carter to get off work. Putting it off this long had been wrong enough. She’d tell him what happened at Mitch’s house. Come clean. About everything. And then, finally let him know Mitch would be over to stay the night for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom at this moment. But her jerk-of-an-unpaid-life-coach seemed adamant, and he wasn’t the type of man to go out of his way for anyone unless there was a very good reason. Her
eyes changing color was definitely a good reason.

  Flipping through countless websites, still searching for an explanation for her eyes, she sighed. None of them mentioned anything about pigment changes of the iris in adulthood other than gradually during times of great hormonal shifts. Admittedly, her hormones levels had definitely peaked at Mitch’s house, but none of the other conditions were present at the time. Pregnant? Nope. Gradual? Big nope. She cursed Mitch for withholding the knowledge that he seemed so confident of having, yet was so unwilling to share until it suited him.

  I’ll be fine for a few more days? Gee, Mitch, thanks for the intel. And for being so forthcoming. If he doesn’t start coughing up answers pretty soon, I’ll . . . What could she do? Beat it out of him? Yeah, right. She was powerless to do anything. And it felt awful.

  When she heard the click of the deadbolt, her heart doubled in speed. She tried to convince herself how happy she was that Carter was home and they’d have a chance to talk.

  “Hey.” He threw his bag next to the door and tossed a package wrapped in brown paper into her lap. “Did you order something?”

  “No. What is it?” It was rectangular, heavy, about the size of a half-sheet of paper, and at least an inch and a half thick.

  “Don’t know. As I was coming up here, a bike messenger dropped it off. Seriously, who hires a bike messenger to deliver something?” He flopped down on the couch next to her.

  She shrugged and flipped it over. Aside from her name and their address, there was nothing else written on it—no return address information or any indication of who it was from. “Think it’s a bomb, Officer?” She smiled and shook it. Nothing rattled.

  “Not an officer. But I have enough powers of deduction to . . . deduct”—he smiled, switching into a bad impression of Sherlock Holmes—“that this is not a bomb but a book, my dear Wat—”

  “Yeah, not loving the impersonation, Carter. You do a terrible English accent.”

  He clutched his heart melodramatically. “Alas, there goes my career on the stage.”

  “Super alas. Tis true. So tis not a bomb?” She laughed lightly, appreciating his attempt at normalcy—tragic accent or not. Maybe, at least in part, things could go back to the way they used to be.

  He pressed his lips tightly together and held his breath as if he was really trying to come up with a witty answer. Then he blew all the air out, shook his head sadly and said, “I got nothing. Just open the thing, would you?”

  Eden set the package on her lap, ripped the paper down the center and peeled it back. Both of them stared at an old-looking—like, really old-looking—green cloth-bound book. There was no decipherable title on the cover, just worn cloth with an occasional hint of gold lettering as if it had been well-worn and well-loved. She glanced at Carter who shrugged and scooted closer to her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

  She opened the book to the first page, careful not to push the binding too far. A piece of thick stationery with a sharp, gold line across the top covered the title page. Obviously Carter read faster than she did, or was certainly less patient and had skipped to the end, because his arm came off her shoulder. He moved to the opposite side of the couch before she’d even started reading.

  Read this before I come over for our sleepover. It’s my personal copy and is a first edition, thus making it worth more than you, so take good care of it. No highlighting, no dog-eared pages. Got it?

  “Mitchell Turner” was embossed in gold leaf at the bottom. She looked over at Carter and grimaced at the invisible steam she imagined was coming out of his ears. “I need to tell you about the sleepover thing. Does it help if I tell you that you’re invited?”

  He grunted something incoherent.

  Angry at Mitch for leapfrogging over news she’d planned a careful and delicate discussion with Carter about, she grabbed the thick stationery and crumpled it in her fist. The title was now exposed, sending a chill down Eden’s spine, followed by a rippled spasm in the muscles of her back.

  Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  That was just mean. Mitch was playing with her, the jerk. She closed the book, trying to decide if it was seriously worth something or he’d bought it at a flea market and would just laugh when she told him she’d tossed it out the window.

  Picking it up, she felt something slick underneath the book. She slid it to the side and saw another—a bright yellow and black striped, very new book. She set the older one on the coffee table and took a good look at the second.

  Cliffs Notes on Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  Underneath the title was a post-it, it’s yellow only slightly lighter than the book’s. The handwriting was the same as that on the stationery.

  Wasn’t sure you were a reader. If you aren’t, give me back the original immediately. You can keep this one.

  Okay, now that is just offensive. He was messing with her and he thought she was borderline illiterate. “Gee, thanks,” she said to the post-it. She picked up both books and stood to bring them to her room. Which, evidently, was the wrong thing to do, because Carter started cursing.

  “Jesus, Eden! What is going on with you two? He’s giving you gifts, like, continually.”

  “He’s given me bars on our windows, an old book he wants back and a three dollar cheat-sheet. I don’t think those really count as gifts, Carter.”

  “So nothing is going on between you guys?”

  Oh, boy. The timing to start this conversation could have been a heck of a lot better. Like maybe while he was asleep or drunk or something. “Um . . . nothing much.”

  The snap of his jaw clamping together gave her hope that he wouldn’t have anything else to say. Maybe they could move onto watching television or something that took no mouth movement at all.

  Sadly, that wasn’t the case. He struggled for a moment and ended up speaking through his teeth. “Is all of this his fault? Is he doing something to you?”

  “Of course not.” She laughed at the idea of Mitch with crazy mad-scientist hair, sitting in a lab, brewing up some kind of potion like the doctor in Jekyll and Hyde. “What could he be doing to me?”

  He held her eyes, his own sad and filled with regret. “I don’t know.” Then he shrugged and went into the kitchen. “Tell me about the sleepover,” he called out over the sound of a beer being opened.

  “Did I mention that you’re invited?” Why wasn’t she telling him? Being honest about everything? Because it would hurt him? Or because it would hurt them both?

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Wednesdays were normally Eden’s get-comfy-on-the-couch-and-catch-up-on-trashy-television night, not her sit-stiffly-on-the-couch-with-two-men-and-being-the-main-event evening. But there she sat, across from Mitch and next to Carter, her back sunk deeply into the cushions of the green second-hand piece of junk Carter had bought a few years ago.

  The memory flashed through her mind—Carter waiting for her to say she hated his first attempt at making a home for both of them, looking at her anxiously. Kind of like he was looking at her right now. Except back then, he’d also had an apologetic expression, as if what he’d bought wasn’t good enough for her.

  And just look at us now. Another pair of peepers had been added to the mix—Mitch’s bright hazel ones. Two sets of eyes staring at her, waiting for . . . She had no idea what they were waiting for. She broke the awkward silence. “So? What now?”

  Mitch was the only one of them who appeared half-way relaxed, leaning on one arm of the blue and green, worn side-chair. “You sure you want him to be here?” he asked, flicking his head toward Carter.

  “I’m not leaving you alone with her,” Carter said.

  Eden was so tired of their territorial squabbles. “I don’t even know what’s supposed to happen.”

  “You need to sleep,” Mitch told her.

  Eden sighed. “Yeah, like I can sleep with you two staring at me.”

  Standing up, Carter said, “Maybe you should take a sleeping pill or something.”r />
  “No. She can’t. She can’t be sedated.”

  “Why not?” Eden asked. He didn’t answer. Not surprising.

  Carter flopped back on the couch grumpily. “What the hell are we doing here?”

  Mitch didn’t look at him. “You’ll see.”

  “This is beyond insane.”

  “You got any board games?” Mitch asked.

  Eden and Carter glared at him.

  He shrugged. “What? They’re called board games for a reason.”

  She refused to go to her room—the idea of them staring at her lying on her bed was even less appealing than this.