When they arrived at Wiscott Avenue in Pleasant Grove, it was midnight. Aunt Melanie instructed Alex to go to bed, as she herself was about to do the same.
“I can’t sleep,” Alex confessed.
“Try to,” her aunt told her before the two parted ways. “If nothing else works, read a book. Always works for me. In fact, I went to a bookstore today.” She pointed to a stack of novels on top of her coffee table. “They were practically giving these things away. Maybe a bit of bed time reading will help you out.”
Alex noted the suggestion.
“Thanks.” And she promptly began scanning over four paperbacks.
“Don’t mention it. Sleep tight.”
And with that, Aunt Melanie disappeared inside her room, droopy-eyed, shoulders sagging. Alex heard the door to her room gently close.
Alex’s thoughts went back and back to the deaths of her parents until an overwhelming migraine stole her senses, causing her to crash on the living room bed. The vibration from her bodyweight against the mattress echoed throughout the room. Vision turned hazy, and whatever sound she heard, she heard as though it were coming from a mile away. She closed her eyes, and took herself back to her house, on the day and scene of her parents’ deaths. From there, she could see Lord Combermere staring down at her mother and father in deep fascination, drawing long, relaxed breaths as he let out a perverse smile. His upper lip rolled up, revealing a set of yellow, shark-like teeth. Dressed entirely in black, he remained like a shadow in the afternoon. He had neither smile nor frown lines burned on his cheeks below his lips save for the lines of age. It was as though throughout his entire life, he hadn’t done either enough times to leave a mark.
Then, like thunder jolting from a darkened cloud, it struck her.
Lord Combermere took in nothing from the murder of her parents but gross satisfaction. Satisfaction, a smile running from ear to ear, even though he didn’t have a soul.
Alex had been far too preoccupied to sleep, so she read. Of the four books in the tiny living room, the one that piqued her immediate attention was a wrinkled copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It was a story that she knew well.
The tale of Jekyll and Hyde was about a man with a double personality. One who loved people and all things humanly considered good. And another, a darker being who surfaced at nights for no other reason than to cause mayhem. Not out of survival, revenge, or anger, but pleasure. He gained joy from doing the ravenous things he did.
Just like Lord Combermere. A man who, like her, did not contain a soul.
But if that was the case, did that mean then that Alex Frost was just like Lord Henry Combermere? Could she find joy in the same demented things that granted his heart emotions? The capacity to feel?
She lowered her spine against the mattress of her bed, thought of Tommy Hargrave, and a glowing bulb hung over her head.