“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, Jill,” 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 . . .
I lick my lips and clasp the knife more tightly. My palm is wet against the hilt, as if her blood is already spilling across my fists.
“Tristen, “she whispers again. “Where are you?”
Her voice is musical, a siren song to my ears. But I won’t be the one to crash upon the river rocks at our feet.
I step up behind her, unable to wait a moment longer for the satisfaction that I seek. “Hello, love,” I whisper directly into her ear. “Boo!”
She starts, nearly screaming, but I stifle her cry, not with my hand across her mouth, but with a firm, reassuring palm upon her trembling stomach, and a soft, nuzzling kiss to her throat: a kiss that makes her groan in dismay and laughter and relief—and desire. “Oh, Tristen . . .”
She relaxes back
