“Sometimes,” I said with a shrug. And sometimes not . . . “Um, about clothes,” I added to change the subject. “Could I borrow that blue blazer from you? For that scholarship presentation?”
“Yes, of course,” Mom said, but her face got pale. “I’m afraid I forgot about that, though. I made some plans for that weekend . . .”
I cocked my head. “Plans?”
“Yes.” She fidgeted and looked away. “Your aunt Christine invited me to visit her in Cape May. She thought it might be nice for me to get away.”
I looked at her with surprise. “Aunt Christine? But you two hardly ever visit. I haven’t seen her since Dad’s . . .” I stopped myself, wishing I hadn’t nearly mentioned my father’s funeral.
“Yes, well . . .” Mom shoved her hand through her hair, our shared gesture. “I’ve told her about my . . . illness, and she thought it might be good for me to get some fresh sea air, even if the weather is cold.”
“Well, yeah, I guess so,” I agreed. Actually, I was relieved that my mom would miss the presentation. I was terrified of public speaking, and it only got worse if I knew people in the audience. “I really don’t mind.”
She hugged me again, and the mood lightened once more. “Thanks, Jill. I really think this will be good for me.”
Then my mother left me to go put on her scrubs, and in spite of her approval, I took off the shirt and skirt, put them back in my closet, and went to bed early, trying not to think about the vial that was hidden in my drawer or about Tristen. But both of those wicked, wonderful things seemed determined to tempt me, while I, a good girl, did my best to resist.
Chapter 68
Tristen
THE SCHOOL’S EMPTY hallways seemed unusually dark and silent as I made my way to the second floor sometime after midnight.
Locating my locker, I spun the combination, opened it, and pushed aside a track jacket I never wore. Dipping my hand into a plastic bag, I retrieved a Gatorade bottle. Only the liquid inside wasn’t neon yellow-green. It swirled against the plastic, murky and milky and toxic.
I held it up before my face—and realized that I’d licked my lip.
Just touching the formula, I got edgy and . . . something else. Deep in the recesses of my brain I could hear one of my favorite compositions, a thunderous variation on a traditional funeral march, begin to play, almost feel my hands on the keys. Keys I hadn’t touched since curing myself. Keys I was afraid to touch . . .
“You’ll drink again, Tristen, of your own free will . . .”
I could have sworn that I heard my father’s—the beast’s—voice not in memory but whispered directly into my ear, and a shudder ran down the length of my spine. I honestly wasn’t sure if the cause was thrill or horror, but my hand trembled, too, and the formula sloshed loudly, breaking the spell. I spun on my heel, jamming the bottle into my messenger bag and heading for Mr. Messerschmidt’s classroom, walking quickly.
Hurry, Tristen. Hurry; hide the bottle from yourself and get moving.
Breaking into the room, I went directly to where the newly arrived rats moved restlessly in their cages, busy with their nocturnal lives, and although I was eager to be done with the tasks I had planned, I took a few moments to observe the animals, keeping an eye on a pathetic white runt that was missing half an ear. A weakling. A loser bullied by others. It lay curled in a corner as if trying not to attract the stronger animals’ notice.
Raising the lid, I sought him with my good hand, and he allowed himself to be lifted out. His little heart beat quickly against my palm, but he didn’t squirm or nip. I cradled him against my chest, stroking him, gaining his trust, and no doubt used to being handled by humans, he was soon playing along my arm, sniffing at my shirt.
As my new friend crept to my shoulder, I went to my lab station and first unpacked a small video camera, setting it up so it would capture what happened next, and then switching it on. Then I located an eyedropper in the equipment drawer.
The rat’s pink nose snuffled against my ear, and I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so grimly preoccupied with uncapping the Gatorade bottle, dipping in the dropper, and retrieving about an ounce of the formula.
Oh, the smell of that stuff. The smell of evil. Of power—
Stop, Tristen.
“Come now,” I told the rat, plucking it from my shoulder and cradling it again, offering it the dropper in view of the camera. “Have a drink, yes?”
The rat clearly didn’t like the smell, but with a little prodding at its mouth, it opened up, and I squeezed nearly the full dose onto its tongue.
The reaction was almost immediate. The animal stiffened in my hand, and its pink eyes rolled wildly as it squealed in pain. I placed it on the lab table, where it wobbled and collapsed, sides heaving—just as mine must have done.
Had I convulsed so violently, too? I couldn’t remember.
“Sorry,” I soothed him, glad that I hadn’t brought Jill with me. I’d known the creature would suffer when it swallowed the formula, and I’d wanted to spare her seeing that—again. “Poor thing,” I muttered, wincing as the rat writhed. “Believe me, I understand your pain.”
I swore those pink eyes were accusing me. And then they closed.
I rested my index finger against the rat’s side. Still breathing but barely.
We stayed like that for what seemed like a long time, and I had just given up the animal as doomed to die at any moment when its eyelids fluttered and its paws twitched, then opened and closed, not convulsing but flexing. Gradually, with effort, the rat stood on uncertain legs.
“Welcome back,” I said, lifting and resting
