by Alex Hayes
Siren Song
The Chameleon Effect - Book 3
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: 9781595730084
Shaking the Tree Press
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019913098
Cover design: http://www.milagraphicartist.com
Cover photograph: Irochka / depositphotos.
ALSO 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…
Love has wings.
For Rachel and Joseph.
Connell Kurēn doesn’t love being a paparazzo…
He’s a member of the most scorned profession in Hollywood, but he’s good at it, and a hard-ass to boot.
He might also be called an ambulance chaser, though not for the disreputable reason he chases celebrities. Connell has the ability to heal, and at the sound of a siren, he is drawn to those in need.
Life is just fine until his pushy paparazzi nature almost gets someone killed.
Rowan Bren suffers post-traumatic stress and a permanent headache following a near-death experience at the hands of her mortal enemy. After months, she still isn’t right, but she won’t be held back from seeking her bond mate, Con, any longer.
She travels to Los Angeles motivated to help her friend, Idris, with his brilliant plan to locate their missing people. But Rowan’s top priority in the City of Angels is to find Con. She doesn’t know where he lives, but she’s not worried, because her crystal will lead her straight to him.
When she trips into his world, she finds a man so different from the person she expects, she fears he might not be Con at all. That he might be possessed by an evil force like the one that almost killed her.
Contents
1. Connell
2. Rowan
3. Connell
4. Rowan
5. Connell
6. Rowan
7. Connell
8. Rowan
9. Connell
10. Rowan
11. Connell
12. Rowan
13. Connell
14. Rowan
15. Connell
16. Rowan
17. Connell
18. Rowan
19. Connell
20. Rowan
21. Connell
22. Idris
23. Connell
24. Rowan
25. Connell
26. Cadi
27. Rowan
28. Connell
29. Rowan
30. Connell
31. Rowan
32. Connell
33. Rowan
34. Connell
35. Rowan
36. Connell
37. Rowan
38. Connell
39. Rowan
40. Connell
41. Rowan
42. Idris
43. Rowan
44. Connell
The Golden Thread
1
Connell
My wings beat against the rising air currents, their feathers—like the rest of me—invisible. Up here, I’m weightless. Untethered. Free.
After a deep inhale of early morning cool, I cast aside euphoria and focus on the skyline. The sun breaks the horizon, flashing like a full carat diamond on the edge of a golden ring.
Eyes narrowing to the glare, I lift a hand instinctively, then drop it again. Being transparent has advantages but shielding my face isn’t one of them.
The wind jostles me. I drop my chin and squint at the ground. Far below, luxury homes speckle Beverly Hills, most wrapped like Christmas gifts in thousands of twinkling lights.
A final check on my phone’s maps app, and I zero in on my target, a gated Tuscany mansion with a red-tiled roof and manicured lawns that carpet its sprawling grounds.
Maybe I should feel guilty that I’m breaking the law hovering over this place, or that I happen to be stalking one of the rich and famous.
One Maxine Judas Slate to be precise. Actress. Single mother of two. And soon to be leaving.
How soon is the question, and my job to find out.
I spear downward, cutting a path through the air, until I’m five hundred feet off the ground. With a twist and a turn, I spread my wings and hover within comfortable spying distance.
Thanks to my enhanced vision, I perceive the shapes of four people moving about the house.
Based on hours spent trawling social media and news sites, I conclude the occupants are Maxine, her two kids and their nanny. One visual hotspot heads toward the mansion’s four-car garage. That’ll be Maxine, leaving her kids with the nanny for the day.
I activate my earpiece with a sharp tap and dial Azera’s number, then switch to my locator app which tracks her phone. She’s in position at the side fence, the only location with a clear view of the garage doors through the azalea bushes surrounding the property.
“Hey, Az. Maxine’s entered the garage.” I hold position, eyes glued to my target.
“Okay, Connie. Which door?”
With her 400mm telephoto lens, she can see up close, but she needs to know exactly where to look. As long as Maxine drives out the door I’m betting on, Azera will get a clean shot of the actress leaving.
I glance at the wrought iron gates where a dozen photographers mill around, waiting for Maxine to exit onto the street. By the time she gets there, her tinted windows will be closed, sun visor dipped and expression—if anyone can see it—irritated, at best.
“East door. It’ll be the Maserati.”
This could be the first picture of her since rumors broke last night that she and fellow actor, Jay Hinkelbeck, got engaged. Let’s hope Maxine has her window open when she rolls out.
The automatic door starts to lift.
Tension mounts in my feathered belly. If Azera gets this shot, rent will be covered for the month. “Definitely the Mas. Get ready.”
“On it,” she chirps.
“Hey, you!” A growling baritone voice shouts across the lawn. Its owner, a man in a black suit and shiny leather shoes, squelches through the freshly watered grass, arms waving. His tailored jacket billows, flashing a holstered pistol.
A security guard, and he’s spotted Azera.
My eyes dart toward the garage as the pale silver Maserati slides into view. From high above, I can’t tell if a window’s open or not, but that doesn’t matter if Azera can’t get this shot.
The security guy barrels toward the gap in the azaleas. “This is private property. Get out of here!”
He can yell all he wants. Azera’s standing on the sidewalk. Public property. Even so, she dodges out of sight.
The Mas rolls down the driveway toward the entry gates.
“Az, did you get it?”
No answer.
“Azera?” Did I lose her?
I tap my earpiece frantically. Too frantically. The damned thing drops out and plummets toward the ground.
My eagle eyes zero in on the falling earbud. The device hits the grass.
<
br /> With a groan, I flap in an arc, dropping altitude until I’m less than a hundred feet above the security guard’s head.
Seems he’s on an intercept course for my earpiece.
His giant feet plod across the green blades, closer and closer, and squelch. His foot misses the device by an inch but lands on the hind quarters of a dark green toad hunkered down in the cool grass.
My insides twist into a knot. Ugh.
The security guy keeps going, heading for the front gate.
The paparazzi outside have tightened into a cluster, eyes to cameras. Maxine and her Maserati disappear through the entry, followed closely by the guard.
The guy starts yelling at the photogs waiting outside.
What is his problem? They’re not doing anything illegal.
Jeez, I hope Azera stays out of sight. It’s not unheard of for an overzealous type like that security guard to grab a photographer’s camera and yank out the storage card, doing who knows what damage in the process.
The coast is clear while Mr. Security hassles the photogs out front. Heart pounding, I flutter down to the soaked lawn. My clawed fingers curl around the earpiece. I pop it back into place, and pause.
The toad pulls himself across the grass with his front feet, flattened back legs dragging.
I slide a clawed finger across his back. Crushed legs and ruptured organs in his nether region. I push healing energy into him.
His hind legs fill out and his internals reshape back to normal.
One side of my mouth lifts as the rejuvenated amphibian hops with gusto across the lawn. I spare him a wink, then race across the grass in the opposite direction and take off.
Technically, my reconnaissance is illegal, but as long as I’m not taking pictures, who’s to know? I mean, I’m invisible.
Even so, I want the hell out of here.
Crossing the Slate property line, I choose an empty section of tree-edged street to touch down. Utility cables are my greatest enemies. Around here, roads make the safest landing strips.
Greeting the tarmac at speed, I take a dozen strides and draw in my wings. I hate the bone-jarring sensation of meeting solid ground and the awkwardness that doesn’t exist when I’m airborne. I bet birds feel the same way.
Not that I’m a bird. Exactly.
I pass a fancy stone-walled entrance as a blue Mercedes pulls into the street right in front of me.
I dive out of the way, flapping my wings in a partial take off.
The side of the Mercedes collides with my hip as the vehicle turns. The impact knocks me over. My knees take the brunt of the force, feathers doing nothing to prevent my skin being grated like cheese across the asphalt.
My skinned knees burn like a son of a gun. Road rash is the worst.
Can this morning get any worse?
I scramble to my feet, checking my sores by touch and trigger healing. The pain recedes as I stagger along a pristine sidewalk, thankfully deserted.
Nobody from this area travels on foot. Too much chance of running into a schmuck like me, a paparazzo.
Grumbling inwardly, I jog down the street naked—except for the few million invisible feathers blanketing my body—until I reach my aging green Taurus.
After a swift glance around, I pop the trunk and retrieve my waiting pile of clothes. A nearby bush offers cover while I pull underwear on over my plumed legs.
I know this feathery physique by touch well enough to be glad the creature is invisible. In my mind’s eye, I’m an oversized crow with a hairless humanoid face and hybrid limbs. Six in all. Two scrawny legs, two wings and two hollow-boned arms with slender fingers that grip like crow’s feet.
Once my private parts are covered, I transform, feeling a faint tingle from the crystal embedded against my breastbone. Liquid silver morphs into a tanned chest and arms.
A sheet of jet hair takes shape and flops across my jaw. I tug a hairband from my jeans pocket and secure the straight curtain into a ponytail at the base of my neck, then finish dressing.
Clad in shades of gray and shod in worn Nikes, I sidle up to the Taurus and check my hair in the wing mirror. A face that reflects my Korean ancestry peers back. A face four years older than my seventeen years. One I adopted at age twelve because I needed to look old enough to qualify for a job.
Satisfied with my state, I return to the rear of the vehicle and snag my camera from its hidey-hole in the wheel well, then slam the trunk.
Man, that was too close. I should have spotted the security guard before he picked out Azera. I must be getting overconfident. Sloppy.
As I approach Maxine’s front gate, Azera’s brown bob cut comes into view. The security guard has disappeared.
Azera is chatting with the competition, a shooter who should’ve left in pursuit of his next photo op by now. I hate it when she talks to those guys.
Getting closer, I recognize the dude. Dirty-blond hair, leather jacket and black wraparound shades. Ryker.
A couple of weeks ago, he tried to weasel intel out of Azera, like he thought being a girl meant she was a pushover. Quite the reverse. In this line of work, females need to be tougher than nails.
At twenty-two, the girl’s put up with more BS than most people twice her age. And she has more skill as a photographer than Ryker’s entire team of halfwit amateurs combined. Most of whom are twice her age.
Azera said she put Ryker in his place, so what’s that jerk after now?
He situates himself up close. Too close for a professional conversation from where I’m standing. And close enough that he’s pissing me off.
She laughs at something he says, her gray-green eyes sparkling.
My fingers clench as the adrenaline, already coursing through my body after this mess of a morning, spikes higher.
What is she doing? Talking to a loser like that is bad enough under normal circumstances, but our situation is anything but normal.
My mind reels through a dozen fight scenarios, every one of them ending with Ryker on the ground in a TKO. I’m pretty good at street fighting. Even the Jujitsu guys I practiced with when I worked at Hyun’s respected my skills. Not that I’ve had to use them in a while.
But times may be changing.
Azera notes my arrival and takes a step away from Ryker.
Was she flirting with the guy?
Her self-satisfied smile meets the accusing frown puckering my brow.
If she got the picture, she’ll have already emailed a low res proof of Monica out to her news agency contacts and received an offer. But she knows better than to tell me anything in front of this idiot.
Azera shows her skills the second a celeb passes in front of her lens. She knows how to get the best images and negotiate the best prices. It’s my job to get her to the right places at the right times.
That’s what makes us such a great team.
Except for today. Because I screwed up. I should’ve been paying better attention. I should’ve seen that security guard coming.
“Think about it,” Ryker says, his head shifting my way.
I square my shoulders. “Think about what?”
Ryker’s lips curl into a sneer. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Better-Late-Than-Never.”
My jaw tightens. “So, what’s he want you to think about, Az?”
Her eyes slide from him to me. “Ryker was asking if we’d be interested in signing on with his team.”
His team? What happened to our team?
“If you were interested,” Ryker interjects. “I don’t hire the habitually late.”
Azera shrugs. “Well, my brother and I come as a package, so I guess the answer’s no for today.”
For today? What the hell is she thinking giving this guy a follow-up opportunity?
“Like I said, think about it,” Mr. Redundant says, like no isn’t a definitive answer. “We’ll talk again.”
She gives him a bright smile.
I want to reach out and shake some sense into her. Why’s she leading him on? The a
nswer is a billion times no.
As Ryker walks away, I reiterate, “There’s nothing to talk to that asshole about. Nothing to think about.”
Azera lets out a sigh as she turns and heads for the car.
I hurry after her, pulse quickening. “You’re hearing me, right?”
She slows while I catch up. “I’m hearing you, Connell,” she says, voice snippy. “But I don’t think you’ve been hearing me for the past three months.”
I roll my eyes. “Job security. Benefits.” She’s said the words a thousand times. “If that is what’s important to you, you might as well take a minimum wage gig with the burgers and fries guys. Regular hours. No stress. You take a job with Ryker, and you’ll be running your ass off, working around the clock and barely scraping by.”
Azera’s face tightens. “Plus a bonus for every image sold, and we sell images.”
“While he takes the lion’s share. What’s the point? We take great images and we get paid for them.” I wish I understood her obsession with security. Or the illusion of it. Like Ryker wouldn’t fire her the second she didn’t meet quota. I haven’t missed his turnover rate.
“But a regular paycheck, benefits and a team of people to work with. I’m tired of the isolation, of being in competition with these guys. I can’t even talk shop with them.”