NO.
Tristen would not drink the formula. And I was not done with my father’s murderer.
Lunging forward, I tore free of Tristen’s grasp and snatched the vial from Messerschmidt’s hand just before the beast could take it, and I tore off the stopper and poured every last drop down my throat, ignoring Tristen’s cry.
Stop, Jill! Don’t do it!
He was too late.
I turned on Mr. Messerschmidt and saw raw fear in his eyes.
Chapter 94
Jill
I DRANK THE last few drops . . . and nothing happened.
Maybe nothing had ever happened. Maybe all along the beast I’d unleashed had just been . . . me. Or maybe I was so full of rage that there was no room for a worse self to emerge. I was my worst self that night. “I hate you!” I screamed at Messerschmidt.
“Jill . . .” I heard Tristen calling my name, but his voice seemed to come from far away.
“I’m going to kill you,” I advised my teacher, who backed away from me. I wheeled to face the beast, who stood too close to Tristen. Behind them both the fire began to spread in earnest. “And then I’m going to kill you, too, you fucking monster.”
I think Tristen was too stunned to move. Either that or he wanted to let me have revenge. Regardless, he didn’t move as I bent and smashed the vial against the floor so the glass broke raggedly. Swinging my arm wide, I swiped at Mr. Messerschmidt’s face, wanting to maim him first.
I saw my teacher raise his hand, but I was too quick, and the glass caught him right beneath his eye. He howled in pain, and as he covered the spurting wound, I pulled my arm back again, aiming for his throat.
“Jill, no!” Tristen caught me, swinging me to face him. “Don’t become like him. Stop—for me!”
I breathed hard and raggedly, staring into his eyes. I wanted revenge. I wanted nothing less than full retribution. But more than that I wanted Tristen to love me again. I didn’t want to see the fear and dismay that I saw in his eyes then.
I dropped the broken glass.
“Jill . . .” Tristen was searching my face, and I knew he saw that I was still me. “Don’t kill him.”
Mr. Messerschmidt cowered on the floor, whimpering, and behind us the fire was still spreading, starting to consume the curtains. My mom struggled to free herself, crying, “Jill! Get out of the house!”
Yet the world seemed to stand still, revolving around me and Tristen.
“Kiss me, Jill,” he said, holding my arms. “Kiss me and share the formula.”
I shook my head. “No, Tristen. I don’t even know if it’s working . . .”
“It will work for me. You know it will. I am a Hyde.”
The beast was coming closer to us, taking its time before killing us all—and giving Tristen one last chance to drink from my lips. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the twisted smile of anticipation on its face.
“Kiss me, Jill,” Tristen repeated. “Kiss me goodbye. Then go save your mother.”
“We don’t have any more formula,” I said. “You won’t be able to come back . . .”
“It’s okay, Jill.”
I shook my head harder. “No.”
“I love you,” Tristen said. “I love you so much.”
They were the words I’d longed to hear. And although we were probably both going to die, I suddenly felt curiously at peace. “I love you, too,” I told him. “I’ll always love you.”
“Then do this,” he said.
I thought I’d gone beyond taking orders from Tristen Hyde, but how could I disobey as he bent his head to mine and pressed our lips together? And although I knew I was corrupting him again, ruining him, I kissed him so tenderly and so hungrily that, for the brief moment that we had, we really did feel like one soul. I felt like I lived and breathed as part of him, and shared that glorious strength that he always possessed, whether he was a man or a monster. For a moment I was Tristen and he was part of me.
Then he released me, and as I darted to save my mom, I saw Tristen Hyde turn to face his waiting father as the house burned down around them.
Epilogue
Jill
“I’M GLAD YOU came with me,” I told my mom, taking her hand in mine.
“I worry about you in this city.” She shook her head. “It’s not safe. Are you sure you want to live here? You could wait a year, reapply to Smith.”
“I’ll be fine,” I promised. “The NYU campus is very safe, and Tristen will be close by. I don’t want to go to Smith anymore.”
Mom looked at me with sad, worried eyes—the expression she always seemed to have since that night our house burned down. We never talked about it anymore, but I always saw a shadow of the experience in my mom’s face. “I don’t know that you being with Tristen reassures me,” she said. “It’s a big city.”
“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 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
