Copyright©2015byJennaMoreci
Allrightsreserved.Thisbookoranyportionthereofmaynotbereproduced
or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author exceptfortheuseofbriefquotationsinabookreview.
Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitherarethe product of the author ’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica
FirstEdition,2015
ASIN:B00XKSLHPQ
CHAPTER1:THEYOUNGCHIMERA
Everydetailofthatdaywasvividlyimprintedonhermemory.Thebreeze
wasgentle,theairripewiththescentoffreshlycutgrassandtheheatofIndian summer. The sun was setting in the distance, painting the sky with streaks of pinkandorangeliketheswirlsofherfavoritesherbeticecream.
Evewasonlyeightyearsold:alittlegirlwithbouncybrowncurlsandafresh
Californiatan.Shesatinherfrontyard,thebladesofgrassticklingher
toes as she hunted for ladybugs, snails, and any other critters she could find crawlingthroughthesod.Herauntwaswatchingherfromthekitchenwindow,
asshedideveryweekdayafternoonuntilherparentsarrivedhomefromwork.
Theywouldbehomesoon—withpizza,noless—andinthatmoment,Eve
knewitwasgoingtobeagoodevening.
Asingleladybugcrawleddownherarm,acrossherpalm,andontothetipof
herindexfinger,whereitlauncheditselfintothesky,quicklyflutteringaway
with the breeze. Eve’s eyes followed the insect until they caught sight of somethingelse:asmallbluecarglidingupthestreet.Herparentswere
coming.Shesprangfromthelawn,herkneesandbottomstainedgreenfrom
theturf,andskippedalongthesidewalktowardthecornerofherblock,where
she stood and waited. The car stopped at one stop sign. Another. She could makeouthermotherinthedriver’sseat—hermomwavedandsmiled.The
momentwas perfect,asiftakenstraightfromthepagesofachildren’spicture book.Ifshecouldhavefrozentimeinthatinstant,shewouldhavedonesoina
heartbeat.
Andasplitsecondlater,afieryredtruckhurtledthroughtheintersectionand
smashedintothelittlebluecar.
Thecrashsoundedlikeathunderclapinthemiddleofthestreet—aturbulent,
ear-piercingexplosion.Herparents’carflippedonce,twice,threetimes,then slammedintoanearbytelephonepoleandwrappeditselfaroundthewooden
post.Withadeafeningboom,thetrucklandedupsidedownatopthewreck,
crushing what remained of the car until it was nothing more than a mangled, aluminumcarcass.
Assuddenlyasitbegan,itwasover;therewasnothingleftbutsilence.
Evewasmotionless.Shestoodathercornerandgazedatthedestruction,her
bodyparalyzed,hereyesvacant.Herheartandlungswerefrozenandheavyin
herchest,andthoughsheknewwhathadhappened,thoughshehadseenevery
detail,sheremainedstillandunresponsive.Inthosefew,agonizinglylong
seconds,shewashollow,ashellofthepersonshe’dbeenjustmomentsbefore.
Allshecoulddowasstandandstareatthedistantscrappileofmetal,rubber,
andblood.
Movement:abloodyarmdangledfromtheshatteredwindowofthetruck,
finallybringinglifetothecrumpledheap.Itfranticallysearchedforthedoor
handleand,withanarduoustug,swungthedooropen.Amantumbledoutof
thetruckandlandedface-firstontothepavement,hisbodylimpandpatheticas
hestruggledtogetup.Heforcedhimselftohisfeet—hisclothesweretattered,
hisfacesmearedwithblood—andashestumbledawayfromthewreckage,his
eyesdartedarounddesperatelyuntilfinallylockingontoEve.
“Don’tyoutellanyone,littlegirl,”heslurred,staggeringtowardher.“Don’t
youtellagoddamnsoul,y’hearme?”
Ithitherthenlikeatonofbricks;hersenseswereabruptlybroughttolife, workingatoncewithadrenalized,feverishintensity.Herheartpoundedasifit
couldescapefromherchest,andanuncontrollablepulsingsurgedinherbrain.
Itwasapainshehadneverknown,atorturousthrobbingthatspreadthrough
ofenergyshehadwithinher,sheletoutagut-wrenchingscream.
Andasshescreamed,somethinghappened—somethingthatEvecouldnot
predictorexplain.Thecontortedtrucklurchedfromitsrestingspot,
seemingly coming to life in an instant, and shot high into the sky like a horrifyingrocket.Itdisappearedfromsight,then,justasquickly,reappeared,
plummetingdowntothegroundandcrash-landingonlyafewyardsaway,
rightontopofitsdriver,smashinghisbodyintotherubblebeneathhim.
Evesprintedtowardherparents’car,hercryechoingdownthestreet.Herhair
wasplasteredtoherwetfaceasshehowledforherparents,desperateto
see their faces, but all she could see were scraps of metal and a stream of smokeoozingfromthemutilatedcarhood.Shehadn’tnoticedthetruck’s
sudden resurrection or the death of its driver. She hadn’t seen her neighbors pouringfromtheirhouses,nordidsheheartheirshrieks:“It was her! ” they cried. “She killed him! ” She didn’t feel her aunt snatch her up and grip her tightly.Allshefeltwastheheavingofherlungs,therawnessofherthroat,and thestrange,defiantpulseinherbrain.
“Didyouseewhatshedid?”
“She’soneofthem!”
“She’ssoyoung…”
Theirwordsreverberatedinthebackground,fadingawayuntilallshecould
hearwasthesoundofherownpiercing,terrorizedscream.
Eve’seyesshotopen,andshegaspedforair.Sheproppedherselfupatop
her mattress, cradling her aching forehead in her hands as her breathing slowlynormalized.Itwasanightmare—anall-too-familiarnightmare.The
samenightmareshehadbeenhavingeverynightforthepastelevenyears.She
turnedtohersideandcheckedherclock:7:53a.m.Withanobscenity-riddled
grumble,shedraggedherbodyoutofbedandbeganhermorningroutine.
Evestumbledacrossthestudioapartmentandparkedherselfinfrontofthe
bathroommirror.Shewasn’talittlegirlanymore:shewasnineteenyearsold,
nearlyagrownwoman.Hercorkscrewcurlshadsoftenedintolongwavesof
coffee-coloredhairthatcascadeddownherfreckled,oliveshoulders.The
spitting image of her late mother, she had large brown eyes, full lips, and an angularface,withsharpcheekbonesandapointednose.Shewasslender,
gangly,andawkward,withlegsthatextendedendlessly,herheightclearly
inheritedfromherlatefather.Asshehurriedlybrushedherteeth,shestopped
for a moment and stared at her reflection—at the subtle hints of her parents lookingbackather—andthenquicklyspatinthesink.
Theabruptringingofherphoneinterruptedthesilence.Evecheckedthe
clock—8:02a.m.—androlledhereyes,ignoringthenoise,lettingthecallgo
tovoicemail.Withouttheslightesthintofurgency,sherummagedthroughher
measlyclosetandpulledoutagreyhoodedsweater,apairofcutoffshorts,and herfavoriteblackcombatboots,thenshimmiedtheclothesontoherbodyand
combedherhairintoplacewithherfingersbeforeheadingforthedoor.She
grabbed her skateboard, yanked at the doorknob and stopped; her phone still satonhernightstand,itsmessagelightblinkingbrightlyasiftotormenther,
and she sighed with irritation as she shoved the device into her pocket and slammedthedoorbehindher.
SanFranciscowassunnierthanusual.Normally,Evewouldn’tevenfathom
wearingshortsinthemiddleofJune,buttheskywasalittlebitmorebluethan
grey,andstreamsofsunlightperforatedtheclouds.Shedroppedher
skateboard to the ground and pushed off, gracefully gliding down the street andswervingaroundthepedestriansmeanderingacrossherpath.Thewind
tossed her hair across her shoulders and the sunshine warmed her hands and cheeks,buteveninthatmomentofpeaceshecouldn’thelpbutnoticethem:the
disparagingfacesofthosewhowatchedherspeedby,theirmouthstwistedinto
grimaces,theireyesbeadyandscornful.Shepulledherhoodoverherheadas
sheskateddowntheroad,thoughsheknewitwouldn’tdohermuchgood.
Theystillwatchedher.Theyalwaysdid.
EvereachedHaightStreet,skatingbyagroupoflosttouristswhogazed
disappointedlyattheirless-than-impressivesurroundings.Shepassedtherows
ofalternativeboutiquesandhole-in-the-wallrestaurants,andstillthescathing
staresfollowedher.Itwasofnoconsequencetoher—thatwasalieofcourse,
butoneshetoldherselfsofrequentlythatshenearlybelievedit—andbesides,
shewouldonlybethereforashortwhile.
TaqueríaandtheShangWuHolisticPharmacy.Bobhimselfsatoutside
smoking a pipe with his old German shepherd, but aside from that the entire block looked startlingly unfamiliar. A line of police cars circled the corner, theirlightsflashingastheofficersclutteredthesidewalk.Thepharmacywasa
mess:thewindowswerebashedin,andcautiontapecoveredtheentire
storefront.Theowners,anelderlymanandwoman,werecryingastheygave
the police their statements, their voices frantic and distraught. Suddenly, they stopped and stared at Eve, and soon the officers followed suit, their faces wearing the same look of disdain that had haunted her since she’d left her apartment.Withoutamoment’shesitation,shetuckedherskateboardunderher
armandmadeherwayintothepawnshop.
Theshopwasdingy,poorlylit,andlayeredwithsomuchdustthatshecould
feelitinherlungs.Afewpatronswerescatteredacrosstheroom;theytalked
tooneanother,gigglingattheobscureartifacts,untiltheyheardthedoorclose behindEveandsawherwalkintotheroom.Theirfacesdropped—thereitwas
again,thathorrible,uglyscowl—andtheroombecameeerilyquietasidefrom
the slight hum of the vintage radio. One of the patrons, a regular whom Eve had seen before, pointed her nose in the air and, with her little finger raised, turnedupthevolumeoftheradio.
“Thechimerapopulationhasplagueduswithdisorderandmayhemsince
theyfirstappearednearlyfortyyearsago.It’sanatrocity,really— onethatthis countryisclearlyunpreparedtodealwith.”
Eve’sphonerangfromwithinherpocket,bringingherbacktoreality.She
staredatherphone,frowned,andimmediatelysilencedit.
Apaunchy,baldingmanscurriedfromthebackofthestore,hisfaceriddled
withanxiety,beadsofsweatformingatthetopofhisshinyhead.HewasStuart,
Bob’ssonandthetrueheartandsouloftheshop,thoughEvequestioned
whetherhehadeither.Hewaddledbehindtheglasscounterandglaredather.
“Whatdoyouwant,Eve?”
Shenoddedherheadtowardthedoor.“Whathappenedatthepharmacy?”
“Therewasaraid.Interloperstorethewholeplaceapart.”
Eveflinchedslightly,herfingerstenseastheydugintothesideher
skateboard.“Interlopers?”shesaid.“Why?”
“Apparentlytheownerswererunninganundergroundmedicalclinic.For
chimeras.”
Theshopfeltsmall,toosmall,andsuddenlyEverememberedtheotherpatrons
staringather.Sheturned—theywerestillstaring,ofcourse—and
pickedathercuticlesnervously.
“Look,whateveryouwant,makeitquick.I’vegotcustomers,”Stuartspat.
Eveploppedherboardontothecounter.“Iwanttosellyouthis.”
Stuarteyedtheskateboard,runninghishandsalongthenoseofthedeck.“Is
thisa vintageFlipskateboard?”
“Yes.Releasedin2019.”
“JesusChrist,it’smadeofwoodandeverything.”Heliftedtheboardand
examineditclosely.“Goodpop.Theartworkislimitededition.Thisbrand doesn’tevenexistanymore.Whyhaveyoubeen ridingit?”
“Ihavetogetaroundsomehow.”
“Well,your‘gettingaround’hasbeendevaluingthispiece.”Herestedthe
boardbackonthecounterandwipedthesweatfromhisbaldhead.“How’dyou
getyourhandsonthisthinginthefirstplace?”
“Itbelongedtomygrandpa.Hegaveittomydad.Nowit’smine.”
Hescowled.“Youknow,Istillthinkit’sterriblewhatyou’redoing,selling
yourparents’stuffoff,Godresttheirsouls.”
“Well,I’dlovetogetajobsoIwouldn’thavetosellanyoftheirthings,but
forsomeoddreason,noonewillhireme,”Evegrumbled,hertonelacedwith
sarcasm.“Howaboutyou,Stu?Do youwanttohireme?”
Stuartlookedawayuncomfortably.Eve’sphonerangagain,andshequickly
sentthecalltovoicemail.
“Ifthisboardwasinmintcondition,it’dbeworththousands,butthegriptape
iswearingoffandthetailisscuffeddownprettybad.”Hefoldedhisarms
anddippedhischin.“Icangiveyoufourhundredfifty.”
“Areyou insane?”
“That’sthehighestIcango.”
“I’vedonemyresearch,andboardsinworseconditionaregoingforthree
timesthatamount.”
“Yes,butdidthoseboardsoncebelongto EvelynKingston?”hehissed.
“Look,ifpeopleaskmewherethiscamefrom,I’mgoingtobehonest.Your
namealonedrivesdowntheprice.”
Eveglaredbackattheman—athisroundcheeks,brightrednose,andthe
grosssweatthatdrippeddownhistemples.Shecouldfeelherhandstremble—
she resisted the urge to ball them into fists—and she could sense her vision starttohazeoverintoadeep,overpoweringblackness,butshestoppedherself.
“You’rearealdick.”
Hesmiledsmugly.“AndyetI’mtheonlyonewhowillbuyyourshit.”
Evenoddedatthecashregister,bitingherlipresentfully.“Fine,”shemuttered.
Stuartfiddledwithhisold-fashionedregister,pressinghisstubbyfingers
against the touch keys in such a way that made Eve cri
nge with disgust. The registerdrawerflungopen,andashecountedoutfourhundredandfifty
dollarsintwentiesandtens,Eve’sphonerangyetagain.Sheimpatiently
silencedthedevice,shovingitbackintoherpocketasStuartwatchedheroutof
thecornerofhiseye.
“You’reawfullypopulartoday.Didn’tknowyouhadfriends.”
“Myschoolkeepscalling,”sheexplained,apathetically.“Theywanttoknow
ifI’mcomingtomygraduation.I’mthesalutatorian—I’msupposedtomakea
speech.”
“When’syourgraduation?”
“Today.”
“Whendoesitstart?”
Thefaintesthintofasmirkgracedherlips.“Twenty-sevenminutesago.”
Andagain,herphoneletoutaring,andstillsheignoredit.Shecouldhear
oneofthepatronsclearherthroatandthenraisethevolumeoftheradioeven
higher.
“To disregard the threat that chimeras pose to this nation is moronic—and downright dangerous. Are we just supposed to sit back and watch without takinganystepstocontrolthem?Tocontainthem?”
Stuartploppedthewadofcashontothecounterandletoutalong,
aggravatedbreath.“Look,I’vegottoputmyfootdown.Youcan’tcomeback
here.You’re—”
“Badforbusiness,Iknow,you’vetoldmeathousandtimes.”Shescooped
upthemoney,countedit,andshoveditintoherbackpocket.“Fortunatelyfor
you,you’llneverhavetoseemeagain.I’mmoving;leavingforcollegeintwo
months.”
“College?Where?”
“BillingtonUniversity.”
“Billington?”Helaughed,hisentirefaceturninganobnoxiousshadeofpink.
Evegrowled.“What’ssofunny?”
“You’retellingmeatalltale,Eve,Iknowit.There’sjustnowayyoucould
evergetintothatschool.”
“I’msmart,youknow.I’mthesalutatorianofmyclass,remember?”
“I’llbelieveitwhenIseeit.”
Eveyankedherphonefromherpocketandfuriouslytappedatthescreen,
activatingtheimagedatabase.Alargeholographicpictureappearedabovethe
screen; it was a digital acceptance letter, the text twitching and colors fading from green to grey to blue, the quality poor and hardly functional but the messageasclearasday: