by Emery Skye
HYBRID
HYBRID
She’s Next
Emery Skye
Copyright © 2019 by Skylar Colclazier
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedication
For Rocky.
Table of Contents
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINTEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
More by Emery Skye
Acknowledgements
ONE
"L exi... Hello? Earth to Alexis!"
Pierce shoves me; I lose my balance, slipping on the bleachers.
I glare at him and he throws his hands up in mock defense. I roll my eyes at his exaggerated protective maneuver. Big baby!
"What?" I ask, feigning irritation.
His straw-colored, short hair falls into his silver eyes, he brushes it back. He wears his blue and black basketball jersey; it fits well to his perfect frame. His arms have been sculpted from the years he’s dedicated to athletics.
"I've been shouting your name for an hour," he huffs. An hour? Please.
He's breathing heavy and I get a good whiff of allspice and sweat.
He adds, "From across the court," I tilt my head in puzzlement. "You know, the basketball court?" he sighs, his frustration obvious.
I habitually zone out and it irritates Pierce.
He adds, "You were almost nailed by a few stray balls."
I chuckle and sit.
"I still don't understand why that brought you over here," I say. I'm on edge and my temper's sporting a short fuse.
Once upon a time, I could sign my behavior off as that time of the month, but not anymore. I'm this way every day, all day.
Pierce points out my unruly behavior often. What an awesome buddy, huh?
He shakes his head; beads of sweat stream down the sides of his face. "Never mind. I should know by now that you would come to gym and do anything but pay attention to the game." A frown builds on his lips. "What are you doing, since you’re clearly not watching the game?" he asks.
I contemplate whether I should tell him. Pierce and I have discussed this a dozen times and I know it only worries him.
I love him and avoid upsetting him when I can. He's dealt with my crazy for years, there's no reason to add to his stress.
I gaze down, in submission, at the newspaper article I finished reading. There's no reason for him to be stressed...I tell myself in a meager attempt to convince myself it's true.
He pulls the newspaper from my grasp and scans it.
"You're not still reading about the murders, are you?" his brows draw together. At this point, I would probably be concerned for my mental health too. Everyone else seems to be.
I don’t know what to tell him. So, I say, "I can't explain it, but Pierce--" he raises a flexed hand.
I swallow hard, knowing that he is going to unload on me. Right here. Right now. In the gym. This should be interesting.
"No, not this again," his nostrils flair. He sits on the silver bleacher next to me; the metal groans against his weight. There are no words for a minute. "Lexi, we talked about this and we agreed that this has nothing to do with you.”
"This has to stop," he leans toward me and whispers. "This obsession is unhealthy," he says with a nervous timbre in his usually easy-going voice.
I drop my chin and Pierce laughs. It's a sultry laugh I would recognize anywhere. It's the laugh of my best friend.
I know the murders are connected to me. I can't explain it, but ever since I read the first article on the Mid-West Ripper, I can't stop. I am obsessed and... scared.
"Pierce," I gaze up at him, causing thick locks of my black and red hair to fall away from my face.
I conjure the biggest puppy-dog eyes I can muster. They’re either pleading or scary.
He exhales deeply and rolls his neck like I'm the biggest crick he's ever dealt with.
"Yes, Lexi?" he hedges.
I shift in my seat; this bleacher is going to leave an imprint on my butt.
"Don’t you think it’s a little weird? The killer is getting closer to Colorado, closer to us, and he's killing girls my age who look exactly like me! You can’t honestly believe it’s a coincidence."
A few students stare at me from neighboring bleachers and their conversations quiet. I'm reminded that Pierce and I are not alone. The fear in student’s eyes registers in my mind, but I don't care.
Everyone looks at me that way.
I lift the newspaper article so Pierce can see the pictures of the newest Ripper victims. They’re each strikingly like me: same height, same birthdate, similar hair and same eyes. Hazel eyes aren't even that common.
I know I'm a freak. No one has eyes like mine: bloody near the pupil with bits of crimson and blue flaring outward like a firecracker went off in the pupil. They’re unusual in the least.
Freakiest of all- All the girls were orphans, just like I am.
Pierce studies the pictures before shoving the newspaper back at me. "It doesn't mean anything, Lexi," he barks. He wipes his face with his jersey.
I know he doesn't mean to snap at me. Pierce is one of my best friends. He's just concerned for me. He's always concerned for me. Poor guy.
The chitchat of our fellow peers distracts me from the conversation, the bounce of the orange basketball on the rubber gym floors, the tick-tock of the plastic clock are all signs of my high school career. I sigh.
"Lexi," he taps my shoulder. "Did you even hear me?" he asks.
I glance at him, apologetically.
Maybe I am a little paranoid. Okay, maybe I'm a-lot-a-paranoid.
I fold the newspaper and stuff it into my black book bag. I slip on my puffy jacket and climb down the metallic bleachers. My shoes squeak when they connect with the rubber floor.
I leave Pierce sitting on the bleachers. I know he deserves a better friend. I'm an emotional basket case with more baggage than a guy with eight kids and four divorces.
Yeah, I'm that girl.
Things weren’t always like this. I once lived in a nice, little house with a normal family. Well, as normal a family as one could hope for. I had a mom, dad and annoying big brother. Everything changed on my twelfth birthday and now, I'm a seriously deranged (that's the word I once heard my shrink use to describe me) seventeen-year-old with no family.
TWO
(A few weeks later)
It can’t be time to wake up. No matter how much I will the clock back, my phone won’t shut up. With resistance, I accept that today marks the first day of the last semester of high school—for that, I would have thanked God, if I still believ
ed in him.
I stare at the empty queen-sized bed to the left of mine in relief.
I had a roommate once, but she complained about sleeping in the same room as me, because I scream all night. I think she was being melodramatic. I only wake up screaming a few times a night. I mean, please. It's not that bad. Or maybe it is.
The thought of a counselor telling a girl she doesn't have to stay in the same room as me should make me sad, but I don't feel anything. I wouldn't want to room with me either.
I nearly slip on the books sprawled across the carpet. My toe catches on a piece of uplifted carpet. I narrowly avoid falling on my face, but my wrist is now sore from the crooked landing. If this is some sort of bad omen for today or the next semester, I wouldn't be surprised.
As I pull the lightweight door open, a creaking erupts. Bright light overwhelms my eyes and the familiar smell of evergreens makes my nose itch. The itching ceases quickly as the glacial weather freezes my nostrils.
Today is a typical January day in the snowy mountains of Colorado. The snow stands four inches off the ground, but the cobblestone sidewalk’s clear.
I approach the dining hall: logs and bricks line both the exterior and interior. The warm smell of eggs, sausage and coffee wraps around me upon opening the door.
I scan the room; Pierce waves me over. While walking through the congregating groups of students, I trip.
I catch myself on someone's chair before landing on my face for the second time today. It’s not even eight in the morning. I groan.
Standing tall, I turn to see the school divas: Cayla and Ashley. They snicker like hyenas.
"Walk much, freak?" Cayla sneers.
"Yeah! You got dirt on my brand new Uggs!" Ashley adds, lifting up one of her perfect cream-colored boots.
Ashley and Cayla are the most despicable and equally wealthy girls at Fairmont Boarding School.
They rule the school and the hoity-toity social circle, with help from their daddies’ wallets. They both wear expensive boots and painted-on designer jeans.
Just because it zips, doesn't mean it fits.
"You do know you're in the mountains? Snow and dirt are unavoidable," I say. I’m not going to bring up that the mess is Ashley's fault since she tripped me.
"Colorado or not, you could live with some semblance of cleanliness," Cayla scoffs with a perfectly arched eyebrow as she scans my cheap wardrobe; her eyes linger on my muddy boots.
Most of my belongings burnt in the fire five and a half years ago, with the rest of my life.
My assigned caseworker explained how I had enough money for a lucrative shopping spree, but the local Goodwill sufficed then and still does. I don't feel like spending my family's hard-earned money on frivolous items.
"You know, my stylist could help you, Lexi." Ashley pauses for a moment, a sly smile curling on her face. I know she's thinking up something crafty to say. I glance down at my dirty nails. "Oh wait, that's right. You can't afford it. Whoopsie," she adds with mock sadness. I imagine my fist colliding with her face, but she isn't worth the effort.
"Maybe her family could help?" Cayla jeers.
I can imagine the repulsion plastered on my face. Low. Blow.
"What lit the fuse on your tampon?" I ask. They're stunned into silence and I find relief. My mom would be ashamed of how I handled the situation, but that's not exactly something a girl with no parents worries about. My heart aches at the thoughts of loneliness and despair that plagues my mind.
I turn and saunter away.
The pointed stares of students follow my every step. They’re probably waiting for me to catch fire or something equally stupid.
Pierce hands me a cup of hot chocolate. I inhale the smooth aroma with eyes half-massed.
…
"Kicking off another great first day, huh?" He's nose deep in a magazine.
If a tornado was headed for him, he'd casually stroll to the cellar, while the rest of us ran around like chickens with our heads chopped off.
"Don't ask." I sit across the table. He gazes up at me with those deeply penetrating silver eyes. Pierce has always been hospitable, since I walked into my first class at Fairmont Boarding School. I was a lost, little twelve-year-old, with a habit of running out of my classes. Sometimes, the tears would build in my eyes, until there was no dam capable of holding them back. That’s when I fled.
Pierce found me sitting outside on a nearby swing. He sat next to me for a long time not saying anything at all. After that, he was my shadow, always by my side.
He has no reason to be so pleasant. Pierce has everything going for him: he’s wealthy, a great student and an amazing athlete. He's the type of guy I should be dreaming about dating, but I don't.
The all-too-familiar lump grows in my throat and I cut the thought off. Let's just say, I don't dream anymore. I only have nightmares.
He closes the magazine. Long, black rifles fill the front cover.
I give the magazine one perplexed glance and shake it off. "What's up, Lexi?" He leans forward and sips his coffee. His tone is level and yet, I hear that everlasting bit of concern that always seems to lace his voice when he speaks to me. That's Pierce; always thinking I'm so delicate. He speaks in a way that makes me feel like I'm a porcelain doll on the verge of shattering.
"Ugh...it's just..." The heat rises in my checks. The word-vomit is coming. "Those two girls are infuriating, and I am pissed that I let them get to me."
A huge grin covers Pierce’s way too perfectly structured all-American boy face.
"What!?" I huff.
"I don't know why you let them get to you either. They're jealous," he says in a matter-of-fact way.
"Mmm hmpff. Jealous. Jealous of what? They're rich, beautiful, a little stupid, but nowadays, stupid is the new smart, isn't it," I retort sarcastically.
I slump in my seat; my shoulders sag in defeat. Sometimes, I feel like I belong in another time and place, and that somehow, I was accidentally shipped here.
"Jealous that once school is over, you'll be going on to bigger and better things, and they'll be--"
"Bribing and buying their way into some amazing university that I would never be able to pay for, even with scholarships." I sound more cross and whiny than I mean to.
Pierce sits back and sips his coffee, maintaining perfect composure. His coolness paws at me.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap..."I twiddle my thumbs. I want to crack my knuckles, but I know how much that irritates Pierce. He constantly reminds me that one day my hands will be arthritic and disgusting. I don't see a huge problem with this, until he also reminds me that I won't be able to shoot a gun when I'm a private detective.
"It's okay, I understand," he smiles across the table. My muscles relax.
“Yikes,” I say. An electric current ripples beneath my skin. I scratch my arms to fend off the discomfort.
“What?” Pierce’s eyes narrow.
The feeling dissipates. “Never mind,” I say.
"I want my last semester to be different. I wish I was invisible," I mumble the last part incoherently, but know Pierce heard me. He hears everything...not in a creepy way or anything. He has impressive hearing.
He reaches across the table and pushes my overly long bangs out of my line-of-sight. "You could never be invisible, Lexi." It's one of those awkward moments we tend to be having lately. It's in these moments that I catch myself considering how great Pierce is and how lucky I am to have him as a friend.
I pull back and toy with my hair. I glance around and wonder if anyone feels as uncomfortable as I do, but everyone seems to be going on normally: shooting paper airplanes, sipping their coffee, talking amongst themselves; the boys stabbing eggs and sausage with their forks, the girl's nibbling on their fruit. Cliché actions, but that's Fairmont for you.
"Besides, if you wanted to be invisible, why did you put more red in your hair. It draws more attention, don't you think?" he questions with a raised brow.
" I already had red. Just t
hought I'd give it a little more flare."
Truthfully, I lost a bet playing poker and voila, more red. It’s unfortunate because it brings out the red of my eyes, but I couldn’t back out.
"So, what's with the gun stuff, anyway?" I ask to distract myself from the foreign emotions infiltrating my body.
Pierce retracts his hand with an expression of resignation drawing down the sides of his mouth.
"What do you mean?" he counters.
I am frazzled and have no idea why. This playful and cocky demeanor is what I love most about Pierce. I love just about everything about Pierce, but this, I find especially charming.
"What do you need a gun for anyway?" I purse my lips.
"Hunting," Pierce responds, cursorily.
"Hunting?" I repeat. I know Pierce's family is full of sportsmen. Pierce often leaves for extended periods of time for their outings, but this is the first I have heard of hunting. "I didn't know your family hunts?" I raise an eyebrow, curious.
He sips his coffee and forks some eggs into his mouth. It never ceases to amaze me the amount of eggs the boy can eat. Still, I question his actions. I know he's buying time, and this is odd. I don't imagine Pierce lying to me, but his actions tell a different story.
He swallows loudly. His eyes water.
"Are you okay?" My eyes widen; I pray he's not choking.
Pierce pounds on his chest like a guerilla. Oh my God, he's choking! My heart beats fast. I frantically dig around my mind for knowledge of the Heimlich maneuver. There's not much there. I curse myself for not paying attention in health class.
The whole “that'll never happen to me” phrase nibbles at my mind. I panic. I reach for throw a water bottle at him. "Here, drink this!" I order. I
Instead, he pounds harder. I stand up quickly, about to run for help. The loud bang of my chair hitting the wood floor seems far away.
Pierce's loud coughing draws my eyes back to his red face. He's breathing again.
I exhale. My heart’s sore.
I reach across the table and punch him.
"Hey, what was that for?" he coughs; he’s clutching his wounded arm.