Jekel Loves Hyde (32 page)

"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 278

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.

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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 280

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 281

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. 281

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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 eventually 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.

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