“I made coffee,” I said, knowing that I had just a few moments to trick him. He had to drink out of habit, without thinking or even looking. Although the formula was dark, it wasn’t as black as coffee. I handed him the mug, handle out, so he wouldn’t feel that that the ceramic was cool, lying, “It’s piping hot, just as you like it.”
He accepted the mug, rubbing his eyes. “Thank you, Tristen.”
Drink. Just drink. I turned away and reached for my own cup, not wanting to appear unusually eager to watch him. But my hand fumbled as I poured my share of coffee. Is he drinking? Is he?
“Tristen?”
My blood froze, but I set the pot back onto the machine. “Yes?”
“What were you reaching for up in that high cabinet? What do we store there?”
“I was looking for more coffee,” I improvised. “I thought we’d bought some, but it seems to have disappeared.”
“Oh.”
Had he still not taken a sip? Why wasn’t he doubled over in pain? I had to see what the hell he was doing . . .
I turned to face him, unable to bear the suspense any longer, certain by then that he was suspicious. That my plan had failed.
When I saw his face, I knew that I was right.
I was also, unfortunately, a split second too late.
Chapter 49
Tristen
“HOW DARE YOU?” the beast roared as the mug full of formula smashed behind my head, which I’d ducked just in time. But having my back turned for so long—it had put me at a disadvantage. Because my face had been averted, I hadn’t seen him silently withdraw the knife from the butcher block holder.
“Dad!” I cried as he slammed into me, shoving me against the cabinets with one powerful hand around my throat, banging my head so hard that I felt my skull crack the thin wood. “DAD!”
He wasn’t my father. And yet what other name could I use? I writhed as he crushed my windpipe and then shoved back against his shoulders. “Dad, don’t!”
The beast squeezed harder, pinning me with astonishing strength.
My father, I was fairly certain that I could have beaten him in a fight. I was younger and stronger. But this thing that I battled, it drew its power from pure evil and held me easily even as I struggled. A struggle that I abandoned entirely when he slowly, deliberately raised the knife, jabbing the point beneath my chin—using the tip first to subdue me and then compel me to turn my face so that we were eye to hideous eye.
Licking his lips, he slid the blade to the tender, defenseless spot close to my throat. A place where it seemed, if he thrust upward, I would feel the metal plunge all the way into my brain.
I remained as still as possible, watching him, battling my ragged breathing, afraid that I might slip and do myself in. But my eyes rolled wildly, looking at anything, anything other than his eyes, so fearful was I of what I might see there. Or what he might perceive as missing within me.
“Look at me,” he finally snarled, jabbing the knife deeper into my flesh.
Gagging from the pressure, enough that he relented a little, I forced myself to meet his gray eyes. His vicious gray eyes. And when I did, I could not look away again.
In the beast before me there was no trace of my father. No trace of sanity or humanity. How could I not have seen that before? How could the monster have fooled me in the months since my father had typed that last journal entry?
Already, though, I knew the truth. I hadn’t wanted to see the beast. I had, to some degree, fooled myself. I’d seen glimpses of the reality that stared me down in that kitchen and then, as I had just moments before, averted my gaze.
But the monster that threatened to impale my head on a short pike had no compunction about seeing into my soul. He stared hard into my eyes, realization dawning.
“What have you done, Tristen?” he thundered, his hot breath rank and sickening. He shook me with the hand that clutched my throat, allowing me just enough air to survive. “WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?”
“You know . . . what I’ve done.” I gasped. “And I could help you, too, Dad.”
“Your father is GONE,” the beast spat. “Beyond help! I AM HIM!”
“I don’t believe it,” I said, looking deeper into his eyes, searching for any trace of my father, the slightest hint that Dad still existed, caged somewhere deep within the thing that held me. “I can help you! I’ve found the cure!”
Later, when the dust had settled, I would always wonder if I had somehow reached Dad and saved my life, because the beast hesitated for a split second, the blade at my throat withdrawing another fraction of an inch, and his eyes shifted, softening.
And then, with a mighty roar, he withdrew the knife completely, drew his hand back, and slashed the blade across my cheek, causing drops of blood to spatter on the white refrigerator before I could press my hand against the wound, nearly falling as he re-leased my throat—only to crack my wrist against the sharp edge of the counter so violently and efficiently that I heard bones snap, and dropped to my knees, forgetting my bleeding face as I clutched at my smashed arm.
How could he . . . ? To me . . . ?
I raised my face to his—the familiar yet completely alien features—betrayed by the obscene violence, irrationally thinking, But we’re blood.
But of course we weren’t blood. The monster that stood over me wasn’t my father. And I no longer harbored the beast that he had considered his son. His heir.
I had killed his child.
“Where is the formula?” he growled, glaring down. “Get it and drink it again! Undo what you’ve done!”
“I don’t have any more,” I lied.
“Make more!”
I shook my head.
