Hyde, Book Three of the Devil's Roses Page 2

  The forest cleared in a small meadow making her panic. She was not alone, the meadow had someone else in it. She couldn’t see who the other person was, as they lie on the ground in an awkward position. She stopped running as she got close, she knew the shoes, bright green DC runners.

  She screamed as she pulled her best friend into her arms. Thick red streams trickled from her mouth, eyes, ears and nose. The crimson was shocking against the powdered white skin. Her dark brown eyes looked up into the canopy above. She lay limp in Hanna’s arms. Hanna looked on the ground, horrified at the puddle of blood where her friend had laid. She screamed as loud as she could. She hugged the bloody body to herself crying for help. The trees surrounding the meadow seemed to grow into a wall, trapping her in. She rocked holding her friend and stroking her dark locks softly.

  Suddenly she shot up screaming. She looked at her surroundings gasping for air. She was alone in her room. Her face and hair were soaked from the tears running down her cheeks. She shivered looking around, remembering the events that had taken place before her wretched sleep. She felt like a child opening a five thousand-piece puzzle for the first time and sitting on the ground staring at all the pieces wondering where they all fit. Her life had fallen apart.

  Her door opened quickly, “Miss Hanna are you alright?” Roland entered looking deeply concerned.

  She shook her head, “I don’t know.” She looked at the bed and frowned, “I need to go home.”

  He shook his head, “No that’s impossible. They did this to you.”

  She looked at him puzzled by what he said, but also frightened he could be right, “When you found me, did you find my friend?”

  His eyes dropped to the floor suddenly, “It isn’t your fault, you mustn’t feel responsible. Until the elixir is completed you will not be able to control yourself when you change.”

  Her mind reeled, “What happened to her?”

  He smiled, “You need the other answers first, you can't start on a trail at the end.”

  Worry filled her, “I need to know if she is okay? I dreamt she died in a forest.”

  He nodded, “She did.”

  Her heart dropped into her stomach, "She died?"

  He held the door open for her, “There are clothes and towels, shower and change. All shall be revealed in your fathers study.”

  "We need to call the police. Immediately."

  His face looked as sickened as she felt, "No Miss Hanna, they know already. She was found days ago."

  "How? How did this happen? I have to get to her family. Did I do this?" Her breath began to explode inside of her. The world surrounding her grew hazy.

  He shook his head, "You must calm yourself. Most of all you must read everything Hanna, everything before I can even come close to that question."

  She nodded feeling ill. She knew deep down she had had something to do with Rebecca’s death. Roland wasn’t telling her something, she feared that something.

  Hanna shower and changed in a trance. She felt nothing. She knew she was lost in thought and fear. She grew increasingly afraid she would never come from the numb her heart seemed to be lost in.

  She walked slowly feeling every step of the cold wooden floor down the stairs to the hard granite main floor. Unbeknownst too her, her father had planned for every single one of the footsteps she took.

  The study was at the opposite end of the house to the storage room that had been a make shift bedroom for her ailing father. It was a massive room with maps and sketches of people lining the walls. To one side was a huge mahogany desk covered in hundreds of papers with writing at every angle. The huge leather chair looked warn but comfortable to sit in.

  Roland looked stricken as he held his arm out at the over sized brown leather chair, “Have a seat.”

  She nodded, "Where do I start?”

  She looked at the mess the office was. She wondered how she could be related to a man who kept his things in such disorder.

  Roland turned grabbing a huge pile of journals from the bureau behind him. He slumped them onto the table in front of her. She looked at the dust rise from the collection of decrepit artifacts and sighed, “You want me to read all of these?”

  He nodded, “They are the story I cannot tell you.”

  She looked up at his old gentle face. She pondered his place in it all for a moment before turning back to the heap of journals.

  “They are in chronological order already, top of the pile is book one.”

  She shivered still weak and exhausted, “I cannot sit here and read for the two days it will take, my family is probably looking for me. I can't miss Rebecca's funeral. They'll want to question me. I think I'm a witness.”

  Roland looked down at her and shook his head, “They are not your family firstly and secondly they are not looking for you my dear, just read.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Nothing about the last twenty-four hours seemed like the real world. She reached and picked up the first book as Roland left the room.

  The writing was her fathers, he spoke of tests on street cats. Hanna cringed imagining him torturing animals for science. He seemed like a mad scientist in his writings, too passionate about finding the answers he sought. The first journal seemed entirely about his desperate need to create some kind of formula. It would be an amazing creation. It sounded like it would transform a man into something more. She neither saw the need nor the reasoning behind his mad writings. Gasping she looked at the date of the last Journal entry of the first journal, June 7th 1803. She closed the book and looked at the cover again. It did seem as if it were handmade.

  She opened the book again and squinted her eyes shaking her head. She took a deep breath and looked at the date again. 1803.

  She looked up from the book to see Roland walking into the study with a huge tray.

  “1803?”

  He put the tray down and nodded, “It gets much more interesting the further you read. 1803 becomes the least of the fantastical things you need to understand.”

  She took the fresh steaming cup of coffee and sipped, “How do you know how I like my coffee?”

  He smiled, “You’re a teenager, you all like those two sugar two cream coffees. Only later will you discover espresso and its need for only steamed milk to make a perfect cup of coffee.”

  She sipped again enjoying it, “I'm not a teenager, I'm almost nineteen. I don’t think age has anything to do with liking espresso. I wont ever like it.”

  “Wait five years.” He muttered and left the room silently.

  She picked up the second journal. Her father's writing grew more and more fanatical and impassioned. He wrote of destroying his lab with fire, in anger. She noted how he wrote only of his lab work, he seemed to have no life outside of the lab. He wrote of no women, no friends, no relations. She couldn’t imagine what his life was like, living in isolation as he had.

  Halfway through the third journal something shifted, she stopped and reread the last few pages to see where the change took place. He seemed free of his lab, he spoke of people. He spoke of a woman, a girl named Mary. He seemed to love her. He went to a ball and danced the night away, with Mary. He was suddenly free of something.

  She read feverishly, as the story began to get interesting. He had met a man, a young man, who wanted to discuss his work. His name was Marcus Dragomir, her father noted he was more than he seemed. He was a young unmarried baron, who had helped her father finish the formula. He spoke of trials, but never mentioned animals again.

  Her father wrote of a string of murders that concerned him, people ripped to pieces or trampled within the city limits of London. Needless to say the third journal had grown increasingly alluring.

  “It’s bed time Miss Hanna, a quarter past one in the morning.”

  She looked up as her eyes focused on Roland standing in the hall. Suddenly she felt as if she were inside the story. The Tudor home, the English butler, mysterious journals, a dead father and a woman who killed him then vanished into t
hin air.

  She looked at the tray of dinner dishes in front of her but couldn’t recall having eaten the meal.

  She stood bringing the book with her. She wrapped the blanket, she couldn’t recall having around her back, tighter and walked along side Roland.

  “Engrossing isn’t it?”

  She nodded clutching the book, “Its insane, he was a madman. I feel like I know less about him thus far though.”

  “Its gets more divulging.” He opened her bedroom door and smiled kindly, “Try to sleep.”

  She nodded closing the door looking at the huge bed, knowing she needed sleep. She put the book on the nightstand and drifted quickly.

  She slept soundly again even though her dreams were vivid. She was standing in an alleyway. She watched as her father, dressed in Jane Austen period clothing, stepped out into the alley. He glanced around suspiciously and pulled a vial from his pocket, he drank the vial. Suddenly his clothes became colorful instead of black and white. The dream remained black and white, the only color being her fathers clothing. He smiled and greeted people. He seemed outgoing, not at all like he seemed in his journals in the beginning. He met a woman, she had black hair and a dark dress. The dress was not as dark as her hair, but in a black and white dream color wasn’t easily observed. They walked hand in hand. They laughed and strolled until a young man came upon them. He was devastatingly handsome. Even in black and white it was obvious, he was the most handsome man Hanna had ever seen. She could see nothing in the dream suddenly, as he was the only thing her eyes would acknowledge. He tipped his hat at the lady on her fathers arm. He smiled and spoke, his sensual lips moved slowly, making Hanna’s mind get lost for a moment. He smiled again and said farewell to her father. He walked away slowly. Before turning to mist, he made eye contact with Hanna. It was as if he knew she watched him. He smiled at her a knowing smile filled with a confidence in something she didn’t understand. She knew suddenly he was Marcus, the young baron. She didn’t question how, she just did.

  The next day the fourth journal proved to be as engrossing as the third. Her father wrote of successes with his formula and enjoyed his time with Mary. He even wrote more of his blossoming friendship with the young baron. He seemed to be at the top of the world, with the only bother being the amassing deaths in London and the sightings of the horrid monster causing them.

  She finished the fourth journal feeling the flourishing romance between her father and the mysterious Mary. The year was 1806 and all was well in the world.

  She looked out the window lost in the story, the yard was suddenly full of blossomed cherry trees. Her father was walking hand in hand with the remarkably beautiful Miss Mary. He wore his top hat as she imagined and bowed like a gentleman. He was kind and sweet, caring for the young lady more than anything in the entire world. A pang of jealousy rushed through of her as she wondered what it had been like to have his attentions. She couldn’t remember everything from before her mother's accident but she remembered what it had been like to see him smile genuinely toward her.

  The fifth journal again contained a switch, her father seemed to come to some kind of a realization. He awoke with blood on his hands and his clothing torn. She thought back to her own memories, wondering if finally she was at the part she needed to read, to understand her own dilemma.

  He again burned the lab, not in anger but in fear and desperation. He ran in terror, unable to understand the changes he had undergone. Somehow he had come to an understanding. He was, without a shadow of doubt, a monster.

  He didn’t fully recall how long he had been a monster, but he started to link the numerous deaths in London to his changes. She watched as he traced his vials of elixir with deaths and monster sightings. She trembled reading feverishly.

  The symptoms were exact, chills, torn clothing, blood, aching body, memory loss, weakness, exhaustion, and severe hunger. They were all there, every one of her symptoms.

  The worst was the missing memories, he seemed desperate to attempt to rekindle his mind with his memories.

  He missed Mary. He missed being normal. Slowly he became the same recluse he had been before the magical potion had saved him from himself.

  He recalled the smallest details, her lips, her smile. He remembered her eyes as they sparkled, speaking to him while her mouth remained unmoved. He wrote of the way her cheeks flushed when he touched her chin, lifting her face to meet his. His heart broke as his mind cracked.

  The ramblings of a madman returned, as he became lost in his work, hiding from the world and himself. He was crazy, insane even.

  She recalled her memories painfully. His insanity was no doubt hereditary. She too would lose her mind in it all.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks as she read feeling his pain. She knew why Roland had been so adamant for her to read the journals. She couldn’t help but see her father in a different light.

  Her father wrote of paranoia and mysteries he couldn’t solve. He was like a man with schizophrenia, who believed the world he lived in existed outside of everyone else. Even when the world tried to reach him and pull him back, he believed in his paranoia over the reality he saw.

  One page in hundreds contained sentences she understood, words that made her believe he had come out of his stupor. He would write of love and anger, but in a sensible way she could comprehend.

  The sixth and seventh journals were no different than the fifth, he remained lost and alone.

  The eighth journal brought back a character from previous journals. He was the same man who had so actively befriended her father. He was the young Baron, Marcus Dragomir. He had searched high and low, traveling everywhere, searching for her father. He found him in Paris, hiding below a church. He had survived on the kindness of a priest, who saw the man behind the madness. Her father's rarely occurring clarity had convinced the priest that he must help him. The priest believed it was possible god was testing him.

  Marcus brought him to an Inn with fineries he had not seen in years. He spoke of Mary who had long since married, as the year was 1810. She had mourned and waited considerably longer than was expected of her. Hanna’s father wrote of a pain in his chest he had never experienced. It was a pain that ripped through him, destroying the man he had been. He was left the cold and solitary man, she had known nearly all her life.

  Marcus then offered him a deal. As he was numb and closed off, he accepted without thought. What did he care what happened to him when everything had been lost? It would be the fresh start he needed to redeem himself. He suspected he was guilty of many crimes at the end of the eighth journal. Perhaps too many crimes to be redeemed, but he would try in Mary's honor.

  The ninth and final journal was a rebirth for her father. He seemed determined again. He started his experiments again in a new lab in Paris, which Marcus had built it for him. He tried to create a new elixir, one that would stop the changes he was aware of. He asked Marcus to watch him in the night, watch him sleep. He believed it was when he became the monster he assumed himself to be.

  Marcus confirmed his worst fears, in his sleep he transformed into something Marcus troubled at explaining. He roared, attempting to escape the chains and shackles he had donned before sleep every night.

  His clothes had ripped, his skin had stretched and he had become something he would call his alter ego, Mr. Hyde.

  She put the journal down.

  "Mr. Hyde?" She spoke her skepticism allowed to no one.

  She looked around the room.

  In disbelief, she continued reading.

  His first elixir had worked in creating a man who was more, but in the attempt he separated his good from evil. He had made himself something unnatural. He recalled the many times he had woken in the hall of his home or on the step of his back door, covered in blood. He recalled his tattered clothing.

  Some nights the blood on his clothing had been his own. He believed Hyde was trying to kill them both. His only chance at survival had been the blood of the young Baron. It had heali
ng properties her father had yet to experiment with.

  He knew what he had done, the murders in London had his name upon them.

  Marcus disagreed convincing him that he had no responsibility for what his alter ego did. He could only take the blame for what he did as a waking man.

  Her father listened to reason but knew deep inside he was to blame and the guilt would rule his life for nearly two hundred years.

  She put down the ninth journal. She felt sadness and confusion but she knew at least what had happened to her friend. The dreams were real, they were memories. She knew she had murdered Rebecca. Regardless of the fact her father wrote the words alter ego, she could not let go of the pain and guilt that wreaked havoc on her heart. Heaving sobs shook her.

  Roland entered the room with a tea and a box of tissue, “You must see it is not your fault.”

  "I have schizophrenia. I've murdered her like my father did in London. I'm a monster like he was. You need to lock me up."

  "No my dear. It's not what you think at all."

  She shook heaving, she felt as her father had. She remembered the smallest thing about her friend. Hanna remembered her smile, her tears over a broken heart only six months prior, learning to skate, laughing at the horror movies they had shared a love for.

  Her friend would never grow up, would never marry, would never have children, she would never become the nurse she always wanted to be. Hanna smiled softly recalling how odd Rebecca was. When everyone wanted to be a princess or figure skater or veterinarian, Rebecca had wanted to be a nurse.

  Hanna knew it stemmed back to her older brothers death. Rebecca had been four when her brother Tyler died of Leukemia. The nurses became part of her family, they lived at the hospital with him for nearly a year as he slowly declined. Only the nurses brought a smile to his face. Only the nurses knew the smallest sweetest things to make him happy, when the pain became too much for an eight year old to bear.