Tris & Izzie

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  1. Death

  That was pretty much it. Both of us had to die. If I just killed Tristan, I would pine over his loss, and then I would end up dying of a broken heart anyway. Jumping off bridges, taking poison, or simply refusing to eat and wasting away were some of the top choices for ending the magical power of a love philtre, according to all the old stories, and the new ones, too.

  As tempting as it was to strangle Tristan with my bare hands on his bare, bare neck—

  Let me put that a different way.

  As tempting as it was to poison Tristan from a long distance, it wouldn’t really help. I would still be in love with him.

  And there was some disagreement on whether even death ended a good love philtre. I read several accounts from people who were sure that they had taken a love philtre in their previous life and were still searching for the one they had fallen in love with then.

  I wished I could talk to Mom about it, but she wasn’t home, and she would probably just give me a lecture, anyway.

  If only she had some secret magic books I could look in. But Mom kept no information about magic anywhere in the house. She’s always told me that we have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice, that we can’t leave behind any clues about the truth.

  The only thing I could really hope for was that I had used the love philtre wrong somehow. I didn’t have magic, after all. There might be some loophole, something that would give it an expiration date.

  Maybe my sweating and upset stomach were signs that the love philtre had gone wrong and would burn itself out. If so, I just had to live through the worst of it, and then I could go back to my perfect life with Mark. After all, he was the boyfriend I had chosen, and I still loved him underneath all those feelings for Tristan. I just had to focus on that and wait for the rest to go away.

  That night, Branna and I drove to the homecoming game in her car. We met Mark and his posse at the ticket booth by the front gate. Except for Tristan, they had all painted their faces purple and gold, Tintagel High’s school colors.

  I didn’t feel hot anymore, which seemed like a good sign.

  But when Mark bent down to give me a kiss, I jumped away from him. To cover it, I pointed to his face. “Don’t want to be purple and gold,” I said.

  He shrugged, blew me a kiss, and winked at me.

  “Luv ya,” he said.

  “Luv ya, too,” I said with a sigh.

  Branna gave me a funny look, but I ignored her.

  We went up to our seats, and I sat next to Mark, trying not to touch him, because it made me shudder; clenching my fists; and gritting my teeth. Occasionally I turned and glared at Tristan, who was sitting behind us.

  He had promised to leave me alone! He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. I could feel his presence there, attracting me, bringing out prickles on my arms and legs.

  The cheerleaders were done with their beginning cheers, and our team had gotten a first down. I wished I could focus more on the game, because I actually liked football most of the time. But right now all I could think about was the love philtre and Tristan and Mark.

  Finally, Tristan said, “Mark, could I offer to fetch some refreshments for the group?”

  “Sure. Thanks,” said Mark.

  He and the posse dug into their pockets for cash.

  Tristan nodded to me and then headed down the metal steps. Somehow, he didn’t jiggle them like everyone else did. His feet made a gentle sort of music with rhythm and melody.

  I should have turned my attention to Mark, but instead I watched Tristan’s backside every step he took from the bleachers to the refreshment stand. It was a nice view. And besides, I was only looking. What was wrong with that?

  “Is there some kind of problem between you and Mark?” Branna whispered to me.

  I turned toward her but kept my eye on Tristan. “What makes you think that?” I asked, falsely cheerful.

  “You haven’t said two words to him since you got here. And you’re like a porcupine. You won’t even let him touch you. Did he do something to make you mad?”

  “No, he didn’t do anything. I think I’m just feeling … sick.” I was sick, all right. Sick with feelings for Tristan. It would be so much easier if I just threw myself at him, covered him in kisses, let my body meld with his….

  But I was not going to do that. I didn’t want that, not really. That was just the love philtre talking.

  “Well, you’re acting like Mark has the plague,” said Branna. “You’re going to hurt his feelings.”

  I knew she was right. I tried to remind myself what had made me fall in love with Mark in the first place.

  His deep voice, spoken low, right in my ear.

  The way he treated my ideas with respect and always listened to me from beginning to end.

  How nice he was to me and to Branna.

  How fierce he could be if he thought someone was treating me badly.

  Which reminded me that I still hadn’t told Mark about Mel Melot. He wasn’t at the football game, luckily, but as soon as I could stop thinking about Tristan, I would bring it up.

  I thought about the time that Mark had jumped into the pool to save me after one of Branna’s swim meets. Someone had thrown me into the deep end, thinking I was on the team. I don’t swim, and it could have been a life-or-death situation.

  “You know, it seems to me like there is something going on between you and Tristan,” said Branna.

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just trying to be nice to him because he’s Mark’s friend.”

  Branna’s eyes went wide. “Really? Being nice? That’s what you think you’re doing?”

  “He’s interesting,” I went on. “Changing from his old school to this one after his parents died takes real strength of character. He has been through a lot. You can see it in his eyes, don’t you think?” I wished I could see his eyes right then.

  Branna muttered something under her breath about me sounding like a Hallmark card.

  “Well, he does have strength of character,” I said. And strength of legs, and arms, and, well, butt.

  This was going all wrong, I thought. I bit my lower lip to try to stop myself from thinking about Tristan, but it didn’t work. All that happened was that I thought about Tristan biting my lower lip.

  I shook my head. This had all started because I had tried to get Branna to fall in love with Tristan. Maybe that would still work. Not with a love philtre or anything, but with a few well-placed hints. If she fell in love with Tristan, wouldn’t that help break the power of the love philtre we had accidentally taken? At least it would be a good cover for me, until I could fight its power. If Branna was with Tristan, that would make him less tempting. “So, what do you think of Tristan?” I asked. “Cute, isn’t he?”

  Branna shrugged. “He’s a little flaky, if you ask me, changing schools his junior year. Not the most loyal guy ever. It seems like he’s just in it for himself, for his own glory.”

  Of course loyalty would be the first thing Branna would mention. “You think he should have stayed at Parmenie, even after his parents died and he had to move in with his uncle?”

  Branna raised her eyebrows. “I would have.”

  I couldn’t contradict that. She probably would have. “But that’s just a matter of personal preference,” I said. “You can’t say you see anything seriously wrong with him, can you?”

  We could see Tristan waving from the concession stand while holding up eight cups of soda. He didn’t drop any of them, which, if you ask me, showed amazing dexterity and balance.

  “He’s too blond,” said Branna.

  “You’re blonde,” I pointed out. It seemed like Branna wanted to dislike him just because I wanted her to like him.

  “He’s shorter than I am,” she added.

  “By a half inch at most,” I said. “If you stood together, people probably wouldn’t even notice.” Plus I bet he was the kind of guy who would tell Branna to wear heels if she wanted to, ev
en if it made him look shorter.

  “And he has a big personality,” I added.

  Branna snorted. “Too big, if you ask me,” she said. “He’s the kind of person who can’t be in a room unless all the attention is on him.”

  “He’s not that bad,” I said, although before I took the love philtre, I probably would have said the same thing about him myself. “I think he likes you. He was asking me if you had a boyfriend.” Lying in the service of friendship is not a bad thing, is it?

  “What did you tell him?” asked Branna.

  “Duh? What else? That you were free, and he should be really nice to you because you’re a great person.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “Well, he’s here, isn’t he?” I replied.

  “He’s paying a lot of attention to you,” said Branna.

  I shrugged that off. “That’s just because Tristan knows that you and I are friends. He figures the best way to you is through me.”

  “What about you? Do you think he’s cute?” asked Branna.

  “The cutest guy I have ever seen,” I replied, for once let-ting myself say exactly what I thought. “The best-looking guy on the planet, really. I mean, look at his eyes. You could get lost in there.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you can’t say he doesn’t have a good butt. You know what the human butt was made for? Running. And I bet it would be great to watch him run.” I would much rather have been at a track meet watching Tristan run than at this foot-ball game. Then I bet I could focus on the action on the field!

  “Uh-huh,” said Branna.

  “Plus he has that warm voice, smooth as butter. Don’t you think he is someone who falls in love hard?”

  “He’s not my type,” said Branna.

  “What? Hot isn’t your type? Is that what you are saying?” I asked her, nudging her in the ribs.

  “Not that kind of hot.”

  “You just don’t think you’re good enough for him. But, Branna, you are.” Please, I thought, believe you are.

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s hiding something.”

  “Branna, he’s a great guy. The kind you’re always talking about, who falls in love once, and hard. The kind who never gives up.” What was I saying?

  “Maybe,” said Branna.

  I heard footsteps coming up the metal steps and I went silent.

  “Ladies,” Tristan said in a low voice, like a song.

  I looked away. Tristan offered Branna one of the sodas, then handed the rest to Mark and his posse.

  He ignored me. Finally! I could have kissed him for that.

  Or not.

  Then Branna asked him to sit by her. That was just what I wanted! They chatted for several minutes before the game started again. Branna even laughed once.

  And I hated her for it.

  I couldn’t stop myself, though I was the one who’d tried to get them together in the first place. I didn’t like that she was sitting close enough to him that their knees knocked every few seconds. I didn’t like that she put her hand on his arm, that she offered him a piece of gum.

  I also didn’t like that he kept his eyes on her. Or that he stared at her hair and leaned into her when he whispered something.

  I wanted to jump between them and kick Branna in the teeth. I wanted to twist Tristan’s arm around his back until he begged for mercy and told me he would never, ever talk to or look at any other girl again.

  But I didn’t.

  Because that was just a feeling. An emotion. Completely irrational, based on a magical love philtre that was going to wear off—soon!

  All I had to do was make sure Branna and Tristan fell in love. That was logical and thoughtful and would lead to ultimate happiness in the end. My feelings for Tristan were just a little, teeny, tiny snag along the way.

  I stood up. “Excuse me,” I muttered. I might want this to happen with Tristan and Branna, but I didn’t have to watch it. For some reason, I was starting to drip sweat again. I stood up and told Mark I was going to the bathroom.

  “Oh, would you take this to the garbage for me?” Mark asked, and handed me his empty soda cup.

  “Sure,” I said. I wanted Tristan to fall in love with Branna so I could have Mark all to myself and take all his soda cups to the garbage every day. What a blissful life we would live together once the love philtre had worn off.

  Chapter 8

  As I walked away and dumped the soda cup, I told myself it wasn’t fair to think about Mark like that. He didn’t treat me badly. He asked me to do something for him once in a while, and he was usually appreciative—when a game wasn’t on.

  It had never bothered me before.

  Tristan probably wouldn’t be a better boyfriend in any real terms. It was just the grass being greener on the other side and all that.

  And the eyes bluer. And …

  I headed down the metal steps and found myself in a crowd of people who were moving toward the concession stand. When I got away, I was in front of the fenced gate that led to the ticket booth. Out in the parking lot was a big black dog. It was running back and forth with frantic, jerky motions, as if it was looking for someone.

  I like dogs, though Mom has never let me have one, despite my asking her a million times. And this one was beautiful, with a shiny coat, strong hind legs, and an up-right head.

  At first, I thought someone had just left it in the parking lot to wait. It wanted to be taken for a run, and now it had to wait, and it didn’t understand because it was a dog. Some-times humans are really cruel.

  I went over to the gate and lifted the latch, thinking I would pet the dog. I kept imagining Tristan talking to Branna, and I didn’t want to go back to that. I wasn’t paying much attention to the dog anymore, or I might have noticed something was wrong.

  As it was, I didn’t hesitate to open the gate and take a step outside.

  “Here, boy,” I said.

  That was when the dog turned, and I saw that it had two heads. Two heads full of white, shiny, slobbery, gnashing teeth, and a grand total of four eyes. The eyes had a greenish cast to them and stared at me with unnaturally focused interest.

  “Uh, nice doggie,” I said. I put up my hands and tried to take a step back.

  The dog moved quickly, getting between me and the gate. It snapped at my jeans with one head while the other head closed the gate hard enough that the latch fell down and locked in place.

  I was trapped now, on the wrong side of the gate.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. All because I’d wanted to pet a dog. Why had I assumed that it would be tame and safe?

  “Please, don’t hurt me,” I said. I could feel sweat trickling down my back. “Please, please.”

  The head that wasn’t pulling at my jeans snarled at me. “Help!” I tried to scream, but my voice came out squeaky.

  Then the dog’s second head pulled up and stared at me, eye to eye. I was terrified.

  Why had I come outside the gate?

  If only I still had the potion that I had thrown at Mel. Compared to this dog, Mel seemed like a guppy. I hadn’t even told Mom I’d used up the potion or that it hadn’t worked, so she had no idea I was vulnerable.

  This dog had to be magic. And I had no way to fight it.

  I felt a brush of rough fur on my neck and instinctively tried to pull away. But the dog’s other head was still clamped on my jeans leg, so I couldn’t escape.

  “No help,” said one head sharply.

  If I’d had any doubt that this dog was magic, it was gone then. A talking, two-headed dog? Not likely to be featured on the Discovery Channel anytime soon.

  I lifted a hand and tried to wave it at someone—anyone— on the other side of the gate.

  But the dog jumped up, letting go of my jeans just long enough for me to take one step. Then it chomped down on my hand.

  “No help,” it said again with its other mouth, the one not full of my hand.


  “No help,” I echoed softly. My heart was beating so hard I couldn’t hear anything else.

  I could feel broken skin, and blood trickling down my hand. Pain radiated up my elbow and into my shoulder. I could see the imprint of the dog’s upper teeth along my little finger. There was blood oozing out of it, but it looked half healed to me already.

  How could that be?

  I watched for another few seconds as the skin healed up completely. It was bruised, but it wasn’t dripping blood any-more, and the pain had settled back into my hand.

  How had that happened? I hadn’t taken a healing potion.

  “Magic,” barked the dog. “You magic.” It moved the head that wasn’t chomping on my hand to my other leg and sniffed it all the way up. Then it sniffed my crotch. And my nearly healed hand. And up my arm.

  When it came to my dripping forehead, it stood back on all four legs. “Magic,” it said again, in a low snuffle. “Much magic.”

  “It’s not mine,” I said with a shaky voice. “It’s my mom’s.” It had to be from her love philtre, unless she had secretly slipped me a healing potion. But why would she do that when she thought I had the protection potion?

  “Kill magic,” snarled the dog.

  Apparently, subtlety was not its strong point.

  I kicked awkwardly at the dog’s left head and somehow made it let go of me.

  I didn’t wait for a second chance. I started running and shouting, expecting the dog to chase after me, jump on my chest, and throw me to the ground, then chew into my face. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  I ran south toward the school, because I figured the doors would be open, and I knew there was no chance I could open the gate outside the football field in time.

  I could hear the dog snarling behind me, could feel its breath on my neck. I screamed, really loudly this time, a death scream, sure my last hope was gone.

  There was the sound of something heavy falling behind me.

  Don’t look back, I told myself. Just run.

  But I looked back. I couldn’t help it.

  There was blood splattered all around the asphalt, and the dog didn’t have two heads anymore. It had only one head and a stump on the other side, which was quickly dissolving into a regular smooth, one-headed dog neck.