Khimaira

By Daniel Genovese

In ages past, legends walked the land. Perseus, Theseus, and the mighty Herakles rescued distressed damsels and slew menacing monsters. History calls them heroes, and I was a fan-that is, until their descendants wanted me dead.

Hi, my name is Kimberly. I'm sixteen, and I'm a monster. I wasn't always. You see, I'm just an ordinary teen whose interests range from fencing to role-playing games to ancient architecture. So when I'm awarded a fellowship that sends me on an archaeological dig in Greece, I'm ecstatic. I mean, c'mon, who wouldn't want to go to Athens?

But when I'm separated from my friends and stumble upon an undiscovered ruin, things get weird. Some paramilitary force shows up, seeking an ancient burial site hidden within. Lucky me, I find it first, and like an idiot, I touch something I probably shouldn't...awakening the spirit of the most fearsome creature to step out of myth, the chimera, and becoming her.

So now endowed with powers I don't understand, my world turns upside down. Myths are real, and the supposed heroes want my head. So to keep from literally losing my mind, I need to embrace my inner monster, quiet the nagging oracle in my dreams, and...ow! What the heck is growing out of my back? Are those wings?!?

My life doesn't just get complicated. It gets mythical.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887630984

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

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About the Author

cover.jpg

Khimaira

Daniel Genovese

Copyright © 2023 Daniel Genovese

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

Cover Art by Bill Cook

Khimaira Cover Font by Daniel Genovese

Title Page Art by Daniel Genovese

ISBN 979-8-88763-097-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-098-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To Lauren, my rock, my heart.

Acknowledgments

I'd like to thank a number of people who helped bring this myth to life:

The team at Newman Springs Publishing, especially Kaylynn Vincent, my publication director, whose guidance has been invaluable, and the editors who had to slog through the horror that is my purposeful love of sentence fragments. Like this one.

Bill Cook for creating another incredible cover.

Mom and Dad for their inspiration and encouragement throughout my life, Barbara Laliberte and Sarah Laliberte for reading and advice, and Danielle Cameron for her amazing art.

Lauren Genovese for, well, everything.

Of course, big thanks to our cats, Jester and Finley, for showing us what is truly important in life: knocking random things off shelves in the middle of the night.

chimera (kī-mir'ə) n.

An absurd creation of the imagination; a horrible fancy.

In Greek mythology, a horrific fire-breathing monster, part lion, part goat, part serpent, defeated by the hero bellerophon. Also spelledChimaera, [

1

Mr. Cooper's dulcet tones were not what awakened me from my dream of tramping the stars with Captain Kirk. It was the petrified end of the number 2 pencil jammed into my spine. Why the heck are they so hard, anyway? Most of the time, they just smear red across the paper instead of erasing anyth—

The pencil jabbed me again, lurching me forward in my chair. Before I could turn to fight off my attacker, a heavy silence settled around me. I blinked toward the front of the classroom, where my very blurry English teacher stood before the even blurrier chalkboard. Seems my glasses had gone all askew during my latest nodding off. Askew—there's a good SAT word. See, I pay attention in class.

Ahem. Ms. DiNapoli? Mr. Cooper peered down his long nose at me, his deep frown lengthening his oval face.

Ah, there were the dulcet tones. And when I say dulcet, I mean it: Mr. Cooper is an English English teacher, complete with a fine British accent. It must kill him every day to teach our bastardized version of his mother tongue.

"Care to give the class your impression of Romeo and Juliet, Ms. DiNapoli?" He tap, tap, tapped a finger on the spine of the hardcover book in his hands. The room's bare fluorescent bulbs caught the gilded pages of what was probably a first edition or something.

Realigning my glasses, I focused on Mr. Cooper and the chicken scratchings on the board. With the black look he gave me, I think I preferred the blurrier version. I glanced down at the dog-eared, crack-spined book open on my desk, noting the dark stain where I must have drooled on it. Shakespeare—not my favorite. Why couldn't we read Tolkien or Weber or Eddings? Something to fire up the ol' imagination instead of the same ol' thing read in every English class since the beginning of time or, well, at least since there was English and, you know, Shakespeare. Still, I suppose it could be worse. Could be Faulkner.

Ms. DiNapoli? Mr. Cooper's voice took on a dangerous edge.

Um, my impression of Romeo and Juliet? My Christopher Walken is much better.

To my credit, I did wince as those words crossed my lips. My classmates laughed. I earned some precious points with my peers but lost the game with Mr. Cooper. He doesn't appreciate humor in his class. Not sure if he appreciates it if it isn't in iambic pentameter. His face reddened behind his wire-rimmed bifocals, his thin close-cut gray beard and hair seeming almost snow-white in contrast. I slunk down in my chair, the right-handed desk chair-combo thing doing a poor job of hiding me. Sorry, Mr. Cooper, I squeaked.

After class, Ms. DiNapoli. As he turned away, I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees. Anyone care to contribute something more substantive?

Hands shot up around me, but I paid little heed to the ensuing discussion. I kept my eyes deep into my secondhand copy of Romeo and Juliet, wishing the day would end.

It didn't—English was my first period.

2

I remained in my seat after the bell rang. The school erupted with sound as my fellow students gathered their backpacks and chatted with friends, all while checking their cell phones to make sure they hadn't missed some life altering event during class. They shambled into the hallways, barely aware of the world around them, a vast lumbering zombie mob. One day, I expected to find the front doors locked and chained with the words Dead inside, do not open scrawled across them in chalk. Looking up at Mr. Cooper, I figured I might just be patient zero.

Kimberly. He came around to sit on the front of his desk.

A hand rested on my shoulder as my literally backstabbing best friend rose from her seat behind me. The touch was brief but comforting. I willed Deia to remain, hoping her presence would deflect some of Mr. Cooper's ire. Instead, she hefted her backpack and fled. But after she passed Mr. Cooper, she turned, mouthed, I'll wait outside, then puffed her cheeks and crossed her eyes.

Damn her.

I snorted a laugh. Classy, Kim. I turned it into a cough, covering my mouth with my hands. Mr. Cooper arched an eyebrow.

Sorry, sir. I spared a fierce glower for Deia's retreating derriere before returning my attention to my teacher.

Whatever is with you, Kimberly? He leaned forward, looming like an expectant vulture waiting for the life to exit its prey. You've been distracted, and your work has suffered, not to mention this morning's…display. He pursed his lips.

I know, and I'm sorry, Mr. Cooper. Just some…life stuff…has got me all frazzled. I glanced out the windows overlooking the football field. The grass shone bright green in the late-April morning sun, fresh chalk lines carefully laid out for the lacrosse team's use. Coach gathered up small orange cones left over from her first-period gym class. Beyond, the great metal bleachers caught the sun in a blazing glare. I blinked, dark-purple blobs spotting my vision.

Mr. Cooper tsked as he crossed his legs in that tight feminine way some men do that looks way too uncomfortable for the male anatomy to accommodate. His brown corduroys swooshed with the motion. I must say I was surprised by your behaviour today. You never act up in class. He peered over his glasses, and for a moment, I met his gaze. There was lingering anger there, yes, with a dose of disappointment, but there was something else too. The corners of his eyes crinkled just a bit as if he fought a smile.

I shifted in my seat, wanting to be somewhere—anywhere—else.

You are one of my best students, Kimberly, and I don't want to see that change. If you need to talk to someone, please do so. Perhaps your guidance counselor can help. The hint of a smile vanished. Whatever is on your mind, don't let it follow you into this classroom. He sighed, glancing at his watch. Now, hurry along, or you'll be late for second period.

I will, sir. Thank you, sir. I tossed my books into my backpack and hurried out.

"And please read Romeo and Juliet."

As I was smothered by the oncoming crowd pressing through the doorway, Mr. Cooper added under his breath, Hmm, I should like to hear Shakespeare read by Christopher Walken.

3

Good to her word, Deia waited, leaning on a nearby locker just out of the mob's reach. You had to be careful between periods; you could be sucked into the flow like falling into a flooded river's rapids. Hugging the banks of lockers was marginally safer.

As I approached, she scowled at a trio of girls passing by, her eyes dissecting their matching wardrobes of skinny jeans, beat-up black-and-white Converse All Stars, and T-shirts proudly displaying the names of bands I'd never heard of. I couldn't tell if they ignored Deia or just couldn't see her fiery disapproval through the heavy bangs shielding their eyes.

Hey, I said, don't stare at the Goths. They bite.

She rolled her eyes. "They aren't Goths. They're emo. Big diff. Posers." She tossed her long, straight black hair with a sniff and started down the hallway.

I looked at the three girls then at my friend in her black lace blouse, matching skirt, and calf-length black leather boots. I smirked. Yeah, real big diff.

She stuck out her tongue. I laughed.

To the casual onlooker, we made quite the unlikely pair. Deia Vassallos rocked the mistress-of-broody-steampunk look, with her black eyeliner and bangs cut evenly across her forehead. If it weren't for her olive complexion, she'd make a great Vampirella. She'd tried powdering her face once to get that whole pale vibe going, but after a sweaty gym class turned it to paste, she opted to forgo artificial skin lightening.

Me, I rocked the doesn't stand out in a crowd, easily missed look. My light-brown hair fell to between my shoulder blades but couldn't quite decide whether it wanted to be straight or curly, so I settled on letting the local humidity choose the do of the day. I'd long since given up on my curling and flat irons—took way too much time. Some judicial brushing and some hair spray and I was good to go. Today, I wore simple blue jeans, white sneakers, and a pink Supergirl T-shirt, which, despite itself, hadn't made me feel super.

Deia found an opening and pulled us into a current headed toward math. So what did Doctor Who say? she asked, dodging a freshman who dared cross the stream.

Mr. Cooper? Mostly just straighten up and fly right, pip-pip, cheerio, wot, and all that.

She stopped short, eliciting a Hey! from a kid who had to dodge to avoid her. Pretty graceful, actually. What…was that? Deia stared at me. Was that an English accent? Stop. Just, no.

Bloody yank, I replied as she pulled me forward again. Anyway, he's concerned I'm turning into either a delinquent or the class clown.

Giving Jimmy Wilcox a run for his money, eh?

Yeah, well, star-crossed lovers aren't rating very high on my things to angst about right now.

Arriving at math, we settled into our desks, and this time with Deia sitting next to me, my back was safe.

I'll be with you in a moment, class, Ms. Spencer said, copying something onto the board that had more letters than numbers.

Deia leaned over. I figured when I didn't hear from you last night, you still had no news.

I shook my head. Not even a damn rejection letter. At this point, I just want to know either way. I'm in frakkin' limbo here. I gripped my pencil, unaware I'd taken it from my pack. What if they don't accept me? Without their recommendation, I won't get a scholarship! I'll have to go to community college or end up as a barista at the Grind House, serving the rest of our class who couldn't escape Jersey after graduation. Oh my god, what if I don't graduate? The pencil creaked in protest as my fingers bent it into an unnatural curve. My breathing matched the acceleration of my heart.

Deia put her hand over mine, stopping my assault on the innocent number 2. Ease up there, Ms. Armageddon. Not getting the fellowship won't be the end of the world. It'll be fine. Breathe. She took a deep breath to show me how it was done. Besides they won't let you be a barista at the Grind House without a degree from coffee school. Really, the most you can hope for is to bus tables or clean the bathrooms.

I moaned, thunking my forehead down upon my desk.

Deia patted my shoulder. Hey, hey! Kim, you know I was just kidding, right? Really, it will all work out.

Sitting up, I shot her a half-hearted glare through the strands of hair now fallen in front of my face. Yeah, I smirked, that kind of optimism from a Goth girl has to mean it's true, right?

Har, har. Sit up and fix your hair. You're a mess.

Tell me something I don't know, I muttered, running fingers through my hair and turning my attention to the blackboard, where Ms. Spencer was beginning her lesson.

4

After a few more classes, I was very ready for lunch, even looking forward to the Friday special: cardboard covered in sauce and cheese. The lunch ladies called it pizza, but I wasn't entirely convinced. Deia and I headed to the cafeteria, which as school lunchrooms went, was pretty nice. Instead of long rows of tables divided by cliques, we had cushy booths…divided by cliques. Oh, there were the typical folding tables too, but those were generally reserved for the kids who weren't cool enough to warrant a booth—like us.

Well, look who it is: nerdy and the beast.

Oh, joy. What tale of teenage angst would be complete without a high school nemesis? You know, someone to make the already hell of high school even more unbearable? Well, like any wannabe heroine of her own life story, I had one too. So who was mine? Captain of the cheerleading squad, who was dating the quarterback I secretly pined for? Serial killer lunch lady? Nope. Mine was a drama queen. Literally.

Madison Scott planted herself in our way as we neared the cafeteria. Her gaggle of cohorts giggled and tittered like a circling flock of sparrows: Samantha Lane, Maria Reyes, Jasmine Song—or as I liked to call them: the Evil Three Musketeers.

Which is which? lead gaggler Samantha Lane asked from her permanent place at Madison's right hand.

Madison smirked, tossing her perfectly coiffed golden blond hair, not a strand out of place. Who can tell?

Deia turned to me, pouting. Children can be so cruel.

Madison moved in, seriously violating my personal space. Mrs. Walker posted the summer musical. Don't bother auditioning. She waved a hand at her goon squad. We've got all the parts locked up. Although…you could probably be a tree or something. She poked me in the sternum, hard. I fell back a step, unable to stop myself from giving ground.

That'd be ‘Groot'! I replied with a pasted on smile that came nowhere near my eyes. Deia laughed.

Madison furrowed her brows, and damn if she didn't look beautiful doing it. What?

You know, Groot, the talking tree from that superhero movie, Deia said but, when she got nothing but blank looks, continued, Oh, never mind! C'mon, Kim, I'm hungry.

As we made our escape, Samantha stepped forward, shouldering Deia into the nearby bank of lockers before striding off laughing.

Ow, Deia said, rubbing her shoulder and adding a venomous, Bitch! under her breath.

You okay?

Yeah. Let's go. I can hear the pizza calling my name.

That wouldn't surprise me at all.

As we joined the food line, I asked Deia, Does it still count as a good comeback if they don't get the reference?

Eh, count it a draw. Can't help if brain-dead Barbie isn't up on comic book movies.

Hey, don't insult Barbie. I like Barbie, I said. It's her little sister Skipper I don't trust.

Shut up, Kim.

Shutting up, sir.

Deia frowned as she looked over at me. She pulled at my white-knuckled fingers, releasing their death grip on my backpack's shoulder strap. Geez, Kim. Relax, or you're going to pop a vein. Don't let those drama club nerds get to you.

"Deia, I'm a drama club nerd."

Her lips curled, her eyes full of pity, as she patted my shoulder. Aw, poor dear, no. You're a geek.

5

In many stories, you'll find the heroine and her greatest enemy were once the best of buds and inseparable until the big fight tears them apart. Could be over a boy, a toy, or ruining the other's favorite pair of shoes. After years of bloody war, they finally come together in a touching, tear-jerking moment to resolve their differences, forever swearing no boy, toy, or shoe will ever come between them again. Cue sunset.

Madison and I were never friends, and the only ways I could see our differences getting resolved were if fate put us on opposite ends of the world or threw us into Thunderdome.

Ever since our elementary school performed Beauty and the Beast and I beat her out for the part of Belle, Madison has had nothing but hate in her heart for me. We always seemed to cross swords over the choicest roles and choir solos. But honestly, if she weren't such a bitch to me, I wouldn't care. But she is, so I do, and thus, the battle rages on.

*****

After lunch, Deia and I parted ways until reuniting in last period: history, my favorite class of the day—and no, not just because it was the last one. I'm not a history buff or anything like that as events in time generally don't interest me, nor do the famous people who caused them. What fascinates me are their creations: buildings, art, sculpture—what they left behind. I find that a people's art and architecture can say more about them than the words they put to stone or paper. Kind of a show, don't tell sort of thing. Plus I am more apt to stay awake looking at pretty pictures than reading a passionless recitation of bygone events in textbooks that only cover up to 1999.

I tend to frustrate my history teachers with my less-than-typical reports, like the paper I did on the pilgrims, focusing on their architecture and how it helped them survive those first harsh winters as well as shape their society. I really thought it would be refreshing for my teacher to read something other than another rehashed Thanksgiving story. Turns out some teachers want the rehashed stuff—easier to grade. It was my paper on the influence of pre-Greek Etruscan architecture that brought me to the attention of my current history teacher, Mr. Parker.

As I entered the classroom, he looked up from his desk, where he was busy marking papers. Any news, Kimberly?

No, sir, not yet.

He tapped his pen against his chin. I'll give them a call tonight. Even for the fellowship, this is longer than usual.

Thank you, sir. Not knowing is killing me.

He nodded, giving me a comforting smile as he motioned me to take my seat. I slid into my desk, retrieving a notebook and pencil from my backpack before stowing it under the chair. Deia waved at me from across the room. Mr. Parker had somehow figured out who were friends with whom from day one, managing to shatter years of carefully crafted social circles with his seating chart. When the rest of the class settled in, Mr. Parker stood and began writing on the chalkboard.

I felt a poke between my shoulder blades. What the what? Had someone painted a giant target on me when I wasn't looking? I leaned way back in my chair, tilting my head so I looked upside down at my rearward neighbor Jackson Kelly. Sup? I whispered.

You coming to the game after school? he asked, one hand brushing along the side of his head, causing his close-cut carrottop to stand on end. "Dean's putting us through the Dungeons of Devora. We could really use your warlock."

From this angle, the freckles spanning his cheeks and nose reminded me of a negative of the night sky. It was a little dizzying. I lifted my head upright to face front, and the world stabilized. Can't. Feeding orphaned whales at the shelter.

His lips curled. Hanging with Deia, eh?

Yeah, we have a project due for Spanish.

I sensed him lean forward. Dónde está la biblioteca? His whispered words tickled my ear, sending a shiver down my neck and a sudden blush to my cheeks.

Like Deia, Jackson was a friend I'd grown up with, though we'd only recently reconnected. We spent our early years as neighbors before his parents moved to the richer side of town known as The Crest. It wasn't just a metaphor for the lofty bank accounts dwelling there; the west side of town was built on a hill, enabling Crestlanders a nice view down their noses at those of us living on the east side of Crestridge. There was even a train line dissecting the town, so we could say we were literally from the other side of the tracks.

Jackson stayed true to his roots and his friendship, but time, separation, and going to different junior highs turned us into mere acquaintances, which is probably why we escaped Mr. Parker's seating chart scramble and ended up next to each other.

And then there was gaming club.

Jackson was a bit of an enigma to his friends. On the one hand, he played sports, favoring football and looking the part—all lean and toned. He did pretty well too, earning a starting spot as tight end, though he was only a sophomore, and hoped to someday land a scholarship to Notre Dame.

On the other hand, he was a gamer and not the socially acceptable cool kind who plays Madden and Halo on their Xboxes. Nope, he, like me, plays games that have never been cool. Like Dungeons & Dragons. At least no one thought we were devil-worshiping, animal-sacrificing nutjobs one bad die roll from committing mass murder, not that I knew of anyway. There were some members who could fit that profile, but for the most part, we looked normal, blended in, and could be standing right next to you and you wouldn't even know it. Cue evil laugh.

At the beginning of the year, when we both walked into the classroom where the gaming club met after school, all those years apart vanished, and we were buds again. Too bad for Mr. Parker; he'd already written his seating chart in stone—figuratively, I think. I could see him with a hammer and chisel carving out lesson plans and the like. You know history teachers.

You remember the last time we played without you, Jackson said. We got slaughtered. Poof!

That last blast of air was too much. I jumped, flinging my pencil into the air. Jackson's hand shot forward, snatching it midflight. Thanks, I muttered out the side of my mouth as he returned my pencil, resting it across the top of his other hand, as if bestowing Excalibur.

Milady.

Next week. Definitely.

Cool.

As I felt Jackson's presence recede, I turned my attention back to Mr. Parker while trying to forget the feeling of warm breath upon my neck. Mr. Parker was going on about the Industrial Revolution. He was not so much of an enigma.

In his early thirties, Mr. Graham Parker was one of the younger teachers at Crestridge High and the subject of many of my female classmates' daydreams. Short, wavy blond hair framed his sharp, smooth features while his pale-blue eyes turned schoolgirl legs to jelly. I don't think I'd ever seen a hint of stubble on the man, and he always dressed like he was going out on a date after class: crisp shirts, tailored suits, and bright silk ties, all with a hint of some expensive musky cologne. I often wondered if he might be a game show host in his spare time.

The gold pin on his lapel caught my eye as the afternoon sun glanced across it. Even with my glasses situated properly on my face, I couldn't see the pin clearly, but I knew what it was: a trowel and chisel crossed in front of a down-pointing sword. The symbol of the Campbell Fellowship and the very source of my long-standing bout of angst.

The Campbell Fellowship was a foundation dedicated to archaeology and the preservation of antiquities. Every year, they gave out a scant handful of invitations to deserving high school students to join them on digs around the world. It was a great opportunity, and having the fellowship's blessing could almost guarantee entrance into your college of choice. This year, they were traveling to Greece.

My enthusiasm for Mr. Parker's class plus my keenness for ancient architecture prompted his recommendation. But my architectural focus also hampered my application: I was one architect wannabe against hundreds of students dreaming of being the real-life incarnation of Indiana Jones, minus the gun-toting Nazis and face-melting artifacts. Frank Lloyd Wright could never compete with the man with the hat.

Though, Mr. Parker noted, I did have one advantage: I could draw, so my application emphasized the idea of my cataloging and documenting digs in the time-honored-though-soon-to-be-forgotten technique of putting pencil to paper. In an age of digital cameras and CAD programs, being able to draw was rapidly becoming a lost art. Lost art—ha!

It was a romantic notion designed to appeal to the elder members of the fellowship. Months of no response suggested it hadn't, and with summer vacation only two months away, time was running out. I held little hope for a stay of execution.

As class continued, I dwelled more and more on the fellowship's silence. By the time the final bell rang, I had no desire to talk