Perfect Pitch (The Chameleon Effect Book 2)

by Alex Hayes

  Perfect Pitch

  The Chameleon Effect - Book 2

  Alex Hayes

  Copyright © 2019 by Alex Hayes. All rights reserved.

  http://www.alexhayesauthor.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotes in a review.

  All characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 9781595730060

  Shaking the Tree Press

  Cover design: http://www.milagraphicartist.com

  Cover photograph: Kesu01 / depositphotos.

  BOOKS BY ALEX HAYES

  THE CHAMELEON EFFECT SERIES

  Silken Scales (Book 1)

  Perfect Pitch (Book 2)

  Siren Song (Book 3)

  The Golden Thread (Tie-in Novella)

  Steel Strings (Tie-in Novel) Coming Soon…

  To friendships, everlasting.

  All Dean wants is to escape…

  But he can’t leave his younger brother, Ty, in the care of their alcoholic mother. And when their abusive father shows up, Dean has to get Ty out. Which means joining Shri—his best and only friend—in taking a job out of state and breaking the law by stealing his brother away.

  Cadi’s life is almost back together after Dean blew it into a million pieces. She’s a shape-shifting alien who has just reunited with her bond mate, Idris, and has a freshly planted crystal tree to protect from a vicious race that wants to devour the remnants of her people.

  As if Cadi doesn’t have enough to deal with, Dean’s about to land on her front doorstep, forcing her to decide whether to let him into her secret alien world or slam the door in his face.

  Contents

  1. Cadi

  2. Dean

  3. Cadi

  4. Dean

  5. Cadi

  6. Dean

  7. Cadi

  8. Dean

  9. Cadi

  10. Dean

  11. Cadi

  12. Dean

  13. Cadi

  14. Dean

  15. Cadi

  16. Dean

  17. Cadi

  18. Dean

  19. Cadi

  20. Dean

  21. Cadi

  22. Dean

  23. Cadi

  24. Dean

  25. Cadi

  26. Dean

  27. Cadi

  28. Dean

  29. Cadi

  30. Dean

  31. Cadi

  32. Dean

  33. Cadi

  34. Dean

  35. Cadi

  36. Dean

  37. Cadi

  38. Dean

  39. Cadi

  40. Dean

  41. Idris

  42. Dean

  43. Cadi

  44. Dean

  45. Cadi

  The Golden Thread

  1

  Cadi

  I sprint up the dusty slope to a sandstone ledge, my chest bursting with anticipation. A smile overtakes me because half of that anticipation belongs to Idris.

  Ahead, a cliffside rises fifty feet. The narrow ledge is blocked part way along by a granite boulder resting against the cliff’s vertical face.

  Behind the boulder is a cave.

  I know this because I rolled that ginormous rock to one side and discovered the hidden chamber.

  Idris catches up and laces his fingers into mine. “Great location, Cadi.” His head shifts, side to side, as he takes in the towering pines that crowd the forest around us.

  “A hand, please, Idris,” Mr. Scrim calls up the incline behind us. He guides a floating metallic travel case. The device levitates, but it doesn’t do so well on steep slopes.

  Idris backtracks and grabs the handle on top to steady the case as Mr. Scrim pushes from behind.

  Mr. Scrim’s my social worker. Over the years, he’s settled me into and rescued me from countless foster homes—until I found the perfect parents. He also comes from a planet called Daïzani. Yeah, and so do Idris and I. But more importantly, he’s a Livran carer, someone trained in the nurturing of Livran children. And ar’n bala trees.

  More commonly known as a crystal tree, the ar’n bala produces the symbiotic crystals that all Livran receive at birth.

  Mr. Scrim scans the rock wall and nods. “Looks good.” He’s currently in human form, boasting a mass of curly black hair and impeccable taste in charcoal gray Canali suits. Mind you, even in his scaly green Livran shape, he rocks in business attire.

  He adjusts the sleek leather backpack on his shoulders. “Okay, Cadi, you’re up.”

  With a quick nod, I hold out my hands, palms forward and eyes focused on that SUV-sized rock. Then I reach out with my mind and push.

  The stone moves. Loose dirt tumbles down the slope as the granite boulder rolls sideways, revealing an opening wide enough for us to pass.

  Idris flashes me a smile, his dark eyes twinkling.

  The first time I used telekinesis in his presence, I threw him across a parking lot, after which, I passed out from exhaustion. Since then, I’ve learned to throttle my energy.

  Mr. Scrim pockets his thick-frame glasses—which I suspect he wears solely for the look—and draws the shiny floating case through the gap.

  Idris gestures me after the man and follows.

  We gather in the cave center, which is about the size of an average living room. The echoey drip, drip, drip of water into a stone hollow reminds me of a leaky showerhead from a past life, but I can’t remember from which foster home.

  The cave smells musty and its details are hard to make out. I squint through the shadows toward Mr. Scrim. “Should we shift now?”

  “Yes.”

  Coolness flushes over my scalp, slides down my throat and into my chest. My extremities tingle as pale skin and dull blonde hair transform into well-defined cheekbones and delicate green scales. I breathe in deeply, feeling a momentary rush, as my chest expands, drawing in oxygen more efficiently than human lungs.

  Infrared vision enhances my view of Mr. Scrim and Idris as they shape shift, bodies shimmering like quicksilver, into their Livran forms. My eyes stick to Idris, whose short black curls and tawny skin have been replaced by smooth cranial ridges and short preocular horns.

  Cream and sea-green scales, caught by the light slanting through the cave entrance, form chevron patterns that angle up his throat, and golden rings circle the inky depths of his larger-than-human pupils.

  He is definitely my kind of eye candy, and the thought of reaching out to touch his silken skin makes my toes curl.

  Mr. Scrim clears his throat.

  I jump, realizing I’m practically drooling over my boyfriend.

  A hairless eyebrow twitches on Idris’s face and his lips stretch into a smile.

  I blink. “What?”

  I can’t hide my feelings because Idris can sense them through our twin crystals, but that doesn’t stop me trying.

  “Your hormone levels just spiked,” Mr. Scrim comments dryly.

  Ugh. I put on a disinterested shrug. “So what?”

  The carer chuckles. “Mating season.”

  If my cheeks weren’t green, they’d be glowing hot pink. I like to think I’m chill when it comes to sex talk, but I’m discovering that’s not so much the case when the talk is fixed on me.

  Idris rubs a ridge on his head. “Um, does that mean we need to be careful?” He says it like he’s talking about crossing the street.
<
br />   I seriously want to disappear under a rock.

  We’re a bonded pair, meaning, by Livran standards, a couple. But I’m seventeen and have lived by human standards most of my life. I need to maintain some kind of dignity. It’s not like we haven’t had sex over the past several months, which Idris has just made abundantly clear.

  The carer crosses his arms. “That depends on what form you take during intercourse.”

  Blah! Blah! Blah! Could we, maybe, go back to talking about caves and crystal trees?

  Idris shifts a hand to his hip, taking on this relaxed, yet attentive pose. “Meaning?”

  The carer smiles. “Pregnancy can only occur when you’re both in Livran form.”

  I pretend to cover my ears.

  Idris clearly wants to hear more. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?

  “Like, in Livran form during what parts of, you know, um… intercourse?” he asks.

  I cross my arms and turn away. Like that’s going to stop me listening. Because, let’s face it, I want to know too.

  Scrim coughs quietly, like he’s calling the class to attention. “From ejaculation to fertilization.” Jeez, his baritone voice is so calm and clinical, he could be a biology teacher describing the process of cell division. “Which could take anywhere from a few hours to several days, depending on where in the reproductive cycle the female,” —meaning me— “happens to be.”

  Turning back, I say with no little sarcasm, “How lovely.” I plant my eyes on the dirt floor and wonder how long this reproductive cycle lasts, but don’t ask because this conversation is cringe-worthy.

  Mr. Scrim digs through his backpack and pulls out several shrink-wrapped packages. “Any further questions?” he asks, without looking up.

  “That’ll do, thanks.” Idris winks at me, meaningfully.

  Warmth blooms inside my chest, along with intense desire.

  Or wait? Is that his desire I’m feeling?

  I shake away the heat and shift my eyes to Mr. Scrim as he slices a utility knife through plastic, allowing a dusty cloud to billow across the cave floor.

  Idris steps closer to the carer and squats, granting me a few seconds to regain my composure. “So what’s that?” he inquires.

  “Wood ash for carbon.” The carer empties the bag and opens another. “And this, pink salt from the Himalayas.” He distributes the granules in a ring close to the cave wall. He grabs a third bag from the pack. “This contains trace elements. Iron, chromium, vanadium, titanium and others that will feed the crystals and provide them with their variegated color.” He dumps what looks like metal filings in an arc across the floor.

  “Fascinating,” Idris says, straightening up.

  I pinch back a smile because he’s anything but fascinated. Growing things is as interesting to Idris as a crack in the sidewalk. Unless, of course, ejaculation is involved.

  Mr. Scrim stows the spent bags and zips up his pack. “Now for the exciting part.” He releases the locks on the sides of the levitating travel case. A soft hum rises from the curve-edged box.

  “B-flat,” Idris murmurs, thanks to his perfect pitch.

  Before I can roll my eyes, the hover-container splits open like a Kinder Surprise, revealing a glowing pinkish mound that looks nothing like I imagined a crystal tree cutting would.

  Scrim leans over the box.

  Idris stiffens, keeping his distance. “What happened?”

  The carer frowns and bends closer. “What do you mean?”

  I sidle up to Idris, eyeing the box with concern.

  “To the crystal cutting,” Idris asks. “Did it melt? Get too hot or too much water or something?”

  Mr. Scrim glances up, his foot-long horns pointing straight at us. “It’s fine.”

  Curiosity gets the better of me. “Seriously?”

  The carer reaches for the strawberry-colored mass. The moment his fingers make contact, tentacles sprout from the lump and engulf the carer’s hand like an ooze monster from some low-budget horror film.

  A scream stops midway in my throat because the carer doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. He lifts the gelatinous blob, which pulses like a beating heart.

  Then the creature—if that’s what it is—takes a leap, straight for his chest and casts out tentacle arms like starfish points until they extend around Scrim’s neck and circle his torso.

  Idris gasps and hauls me toward the cave opening. “I’m ready to get the hell out of here.” His words echo around the hollow space.

  Mr. Scrim chuckles. “The ar’n bala cutting feels the same way about that storage container.”

  Idris’s smooth scaly hand tightens around mine, his entire body tense. “You sure that thing’s not gonna suck your guts out?”

  The carer strides to the cave edge. “Yes. It’s attracted to my crystal.” The one embedded in his chest, which explains why the cutting’s central mass is positioned directly over his breastbone.

  “And it’s made a connection,” he adds.

  Idris and I have embedded crystals too. I brush my fingers across the spot where my crystal implanted itself six months ago. Our symbiotic stones are twins, like those given to every bonded pair.

  The crystal cutting loosens its hold on the carer and leaps the distance from him to the cave wall where it splats like a popped gum bubble.

  Mr. Scrim’s hands drop onto his hips. “Perfect.”

  “Are you serious?” Idris throws me a sideways glance.

  The carer nods.

  I bite back my grin. “Um, when Valdar said crystal tree cutting, I figured it would be made of crystals.”

  The carer stands back as if to admire a work of art, rather than a gummy mess. “The ar’n bala produces crystals similar to the way a tree on Earth bears fruit.”

  The splatter inflates until it looks like something between Silly String and ladies’ shaving gel. In a word, nasty.

  “Looks like we’re off to a good start.” Scrim closes the floating case, then glances at me. “You’ll need to come back and check the cutting twice a day.”

  “Me?” The thought of entering this cave alone, with that pink thing residing here, doesn’t infuse me with enthusiasm. I turn to Idris. “You’ll come too. Right?” The words pop out of my mouth like a desperate plea.

  “When I can.” He doesn’t sound happy at the prospect.

  Great. “Why does growing things always fall to the women in society?”

  “Because it’s in their genes?” Idris ventures.

  I elbow him.

  “Livran carers can be either sex.” Mr. Scrim has a point. He’s our local—and only—expert on growing crystal trees, and he’s a guy.

  My lips twist. “Well, I should tell Mama and Papa about the tree. It’s growing on their property, after all.” Which, it turns out, covers more than a hundred acres.

  When Mama Jacobsen told me about her cabin in the Adirondack Mountains, I’d imagined a place like Uncle Tom’s or the Little House on the Prairie, with crisscrossed logs and sun-faded roof shingles. Not the six-bedroom extravaganza the cabin turned out to be, with its log-beamed barn and kidney-shaped swimming pool. The cabin’s fancy inside, too. Slate floors, wood paneling and a stuffed moose head over a fireplace big enough to spit-roast the rest of the unfortunate animal.

  “Besides,” I add, “we might need their help protecting the tree.”

  The carer rubs his scaly jaw as he looks at me. “Of course, you can tell them, but don’t bring them here until the tree has rooted. And it’s important you’re in Livran form when you enter the cave, too, Cadi.

  “The ar’n bala collective has never seen a human. Once the tree takes root, it will be self-sustaining and less sensitive to alien species. At that point, you won’t need to visit as often. But until then, the cutting is extremely vulnerable.”

  And it’s the only one we’ve got, because the wormhole connecting Earth to Daïzani has been closed, and there’s no way back to get another.

  I swallow. “How long before it’ll be saf
e?”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Scrim’s eyes turn thoughtful. “That’s hard to tell with Earth’s climate being more temperate than Daïzani’s.”

  My forehead puckers. “Shouldn’t more temperate be a good thing?”

  He cocks his head. “Not necessarily. Rooting takes about a month under normal conditions. Here it could take longer.”

  Phew! Not years then, and we’re heading into summer. If it were midwinter, I’d have something to complain about. The trip from the cabin to the cave and back isn’t short.

  “Which means, of course,” the carer adds, “that you’ll be responsible for protecting the cutting, in addition to monitoring its progress.”

  I lift a hand to my chest. “As in protecting it from the Evatenon?” Meaning the aliens who followed us to Earth. Aliens who want to consume us.

  Scrim’s face tightens. “Indeed. The Evatenon care only to dominate, but they need to neutralize their biggest threat first.”

  Idris groans. “Their biggest threat being us, I assume?”

  “Exactly.” The carer unzips the front pocket of his backpack. “They will assimilate as many Livran survivors as they can and kill the rest.”

  By assimilate, he means they will suck the life essence out of and absorb the memories and abilities of their victims.

  I bite at my lower lip. “And the crystal tree?”