Connell KurÄn is a paparazzo, one of the most scorned professionals in Hollywood.
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 isnât right, but she wonât be held back from seeking her bond mate, Con, any longer.
She travels to LA motivated to help her friend, Idris, with his brilliant plan to locate their missing people. But Rowanâs top priority is to find Con. She doesnât know where he lives, but sheâs not worried, because her crystal will lead her to him.
When she trips into his world, she finds someone 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.
Siren Song is the third novel of the Chameleon Effect series.
Connell KurÄn is a paparazzo, one of the most scorned professionals in Hollywood.
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 isnât right, but she wonât be held back from seeking her bond mate, Con, any longer.
She travels to LA motivated to help her friend, Idris, with his brilliant plan to locate their missing people. But Rowanâs top priority is to find Con. She doesnât know where he lives, but sheâs not worried, because her crystal will lead her to him.
When she trips into his world, she finds someone 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.
Siren Song is the third novel of the Chameleon Effect series.
My wings beat against the rising air currents, their feathersâlike the rest of meâinvisible. Up here, Iâm 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 isnât 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 phoneâs 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 Iâm 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.
Her ostentatious home, that is.
How soon is the question, and my job to find out.
I spear downward, cutting a path through the air, until Iâm 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 mansionâs four-car garage. Thatâll be Maxine, leaving her kids with the nanny for the day.
I activate my earpiece with a sharp tap and dial Azeraâs number, then switch to my locator app which tracks her phone. Sheâs in position at the side fence, the only location with a clear view of the garage doors through the azalea bushes surrounding the property.
âHey, Az. Maxineâs entered the garage.â I hold position, eyes glued to my target.
âOkay, Connie. Which door?â
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 Iâm 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 expressionâif anyone can see itâirritated, at best.
âEast door. Itâll be the Maserati.â
This could be the first picture of her since rumors broke last night that she and fellow actor, Jay Hinkelbeck, got engaged. Letâs 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. âDefinitely the Mas. Get ready.â
âOn it,â she chirps.
âHey, you!â 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.
Shit. A security guard, and heâs spotted Azera.
My eyes dart toward the garage as the pale silver Maserati slides into view. From high above, I canât tell if a windowâs open or not, but that doesnât matter if Azera canât get this shot.
The security guy barrels toward the gap in the azaleas. âThis is private property. Get out of here.â
He can yell all he wants. Azeraâs standing on the sidewalk. Public property. Even so, she dodges out of sight.
The Mas rolls down the driveway toward the entry gates.
âAz, did you get it?â
No answer.
âAzera?â 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.
With a groan, I flap in an arc, dropping altitude until Iâm less than a hundred feet above the security guardâs head.
Seems heâs 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? Theyâre not doing anything illegal.
Jeez, I hope Azera stays out of sight. Itâs not unheard of for an overzealous type like that security guard to grab a photographerâs 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 Iâm not taking pictures, whoâs to know? I mean, Iâm 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 doesnât exist when Iâm airborne. I bet birds feel the same way.
Not that Iâm 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 nakedâexcept for the few million invisible feathers blanketing my bodyâuntil 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 mindâs eye, Iâm 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 crowâs 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 Maxineâs front gate, Azeraâs brown bob cut comes into view. The security guard has disappeared.
Azera is chatting with the competition, a shooter who shouldâve 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 girlâs put up with more BS than most people twice her age. And she has more skill as a photographer than Rykerâs entire team of halfwit amateurs combined. Most of whom are twice her age.
Azera said she put Ryker in his place, so whatâs that jerk after now?
He situates himself up close. Too close for a professional conversation from where Iâm standing. And close enough that heâs pissing me off.
She laughs at something he says.
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. Iâm pretty good at street fighting. Even the Jujitsu guys I practiced with when I worked at Hyunâs respected my skills. Not that Iâve 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, sheâll 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. Itâs my job to get her to the right places at the right times.
Thatâs what makes us such a great team.
Except for today. Because I screwed up. I shouldâve been paying better attention. I shouldâve seen that security guard coming.
âThink about it,â Ryker says, his head shifting my way.
I square my shoulders. âThink about what?â
Rykerâs lips curl into a sneer. âWell, well, if it isnât Mr. Better-Late-Than-Never.â
My jaw tightens. âSo, whatâs he want you to think about, Az?â
Her eyes slide from him to me. âRyker was asking if weâd be interested in signing on with his team.â
His team? What happened to our team?
âIf you were interested,â Ryker interjects. âI donât hire the habitually late.â
Azera shrugs. âWell, my brother and I come as a package, so I guess the answerâs no for today.â
For today? What the hell is she thinking giving this guy a follow-up opportunity?
âLike I said, think about it,â Mr. Redundant says, like no isnât a definitive answer. âWeâll talk again.â
She gives him a bright smile.
I want to reach out and shake some sense into her. Whyâs she leading him on? The answer is a billion times no.
As Ryker walks away, I reiterate, âThereâs nothing to talk to that asshole about. Nothing to think about.â
Azera lets out a sigh as she turns and heads for the car.
I hurry after her, pulse quickening. âYouâre hearing me, right?â
She slows while I catch up. âIâm hearing you, Connell,â she says, voice snippy. âBut I donât think youâve been hearing me for the past three months.â
I roll my eyes. âJob security. Benefits.â Sheâs said the words a thousand times. âIf that is whatâs 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 youâll be running your ass off, working around the clock and barely scraping by.â
Azeraâs face tightens. âPlus a bonus for every image sold, and we sell images.â
âWhile he takes the lionâs share. Whatâs the point? We take great images and we get paid for them.â I wish I understood her obsession with security. Or the illusion of it. Like Ryker wouldnât fire her the second she didnât meet quota. I havenât missed his turnover rate.
âBut a regular paycheck, benefits and a team of people to work with. Iâm tired of the isolation, of being in competition with these guys. I canât even talk shop with them.â
I pull back my chin. âI see you talking to them all the time.â
She shakes her head. âBut thereâs always this pretense. Like they think Iâm out to get something from them.â
âAzera, if you want to talk, then talk to me. Iâll talk shop all day long. You know I will.â
âItâs not the same.â
Frustration quivers through me. What is it with the female brain? Why do girls need to be friends with everyone?
âMaybe you should find other women photographers to hang out with.â
She stops short. âThere arenât any. Not in our profession.â
And for good reason. The paparazzi is made up of mostly jerks. And pretty nasty ones at that. Iâve been on the receiving end a time or two over the year weâve been doing this. Come to think of it, Iâve delivered once or twice, as well. Every single shove totally justified, I might add. But women donât stick at this job for long. Seems like they get tired of the muscling in and pushing around.
For some reason, Azeraâs different. Most of the guys treat her with respect.
But thatâs not going to last forever. The more successful she becomes, the more resentment sheâll run into. Itâs a cutthroat industry, and itâs getting tougher every day.
âMaybe you should join a womenâs group. Thereâs got to be an organization for female photographers.â
She grumbles softly. âI donât have the time or money to join an organization. Besides, I want to be part of a community. Have a circle of friends.â
I really donât like where this is going, but I need to keep my cool, make light of it, because angering Azera isnât going to help. I give her a sideways glance, eyebrows rising. âWhat? Iâm not good enough?â
She bumps into me. âYou know thatâs not what Iâm saying. Weâre family. A unit. Thatâs not going to change, but I need more.â
I hear what sheâs saying, but I donât understand it. Weâre making ends meet. Which reminds me, âDid you get Maxine?â
Azera smiles. âEngagement confirmed. I got the rock on her finger and the smile on her face.â
All the pain suddenly seems worth it.
I lift a hand and she high fives me. âAnd you sold it?â
Azeraâs smile stretches into a grin. âFor three thousand.â
I blow out a breath. I love it when we score big. âThen I guess youâre taking me out to dinner tonight.â
Still grinning, she unlocks the car on approach and tosses me the keys. âWhat else have we got on tap for today?â
âA couple of celebrity arrivals at LAX this afternoon, and the usual slew of holiday parties. Iâve got my top picks. Figure on some late nights this week.â I slip into the driverâs seat and start the engine.
âFine. Letâs go home.â She slumps and closes her eyes. âI need to sleep if youâre keeping me up all night.â
I pull into the street. âHey, Iâm sorry about that security guard.â
âItâs fine, Connie. Your eyes were on the prize. You canât see everything.â
âYeah, well, sorry, anyway.â Because I shouldâve noticed that guy from the get-go.
She straightens in her seat. âWe just made three thousand bucks. A security guard having a hissy fit isnât the worst Iâve had to deal with. Not by a long shot.â
Well I know it. And if it werenât for my healing ability, sheâd have plenty of scars to prove it too.
We havenât made it five miles when weâre greeted by siren wails. Ambulances and fire trucks.
I throw Azera a sideways glance. âI should check them out.â
Sheâs already sitting up, eyes scanning the road ahead. âYeah, I guess.â
I pull into an empty restaurant parking lot and climb into the back of the car.
Azera takes the wheel while I pull off my hoodie and T-shirt, and turn invisible. My wings crumple around me. I adjust them and wiggle out of my jeans and underwear.
Naked, I check no oneâs around, then push open the door and slip from the vehicle. âSee you at home,â I murmur through the driverâs window.
She looks toward me, though she canât see anything. âJust be careful and choose someone good this time. Drug dealers are a waste of space.â
âHey, Jax is a good kid. Heâll change his ways. Guaranteed.â
Azera cocks her head. âKeep dreaming, Crow Boy.â
I jet across the parking lot and take to the air. The wind slices across my face, but in this form, the cold never gets to me. I could stay up here forever.
A rueful smile comes. The idea of leaving behind the weight of earthly responsibility forever is sweet, but thatâll never happen.
Some ties will always bind, but Iâm a better person for having them.
Wheeling in a wide arc, I triangulate the siren songs and fly in their direction.
At first glance, if it looks like a human and talks like a human, you wouldnât generally assume that it would be anything other than human, right? Now, if you saw someone with an ability to do things that were unnatural or completely morphing into something with scales, what would you think then? Would you think that they were still human? Hayes will continue to entertain, mystify, and captivate readers in the third installment of The Chameleon Effect series.
Rowan has now partially settled in with Cadi and the Jacobsen's, but there is just one thing missing. Her bond mate Con, or at least that is the name she called him when they were kids, before Mr. Skrim separated them and forced them into multiple foster homes. Some had it good, like Cadi, but hers not so much. While Cadi is unable to do much these days with a baby on the way, Idris invites Rowan out to LA to find Con, short for Conathar. The story is primarily their adventure as they find their way back to each other, but things are rarely ever easy, right? There always seems to have to be some blood, sweat and tears that go into even those who are destined to be together. As Rowan gets closer to Con, there are secrets and with the darkness still looming over their kind, Rowan knows that another mission awaits for her and her new family of Livran. The only question is if Con fits into that picture by her side or not.
Hayes has a gripping story, filled with creativity, originality and fascinating characters. This story is one that will grab the reader from the beginning and lure them further into a depth of adventure and magic. Hayes has well-developed characters that are captivating and likable. The only qualm with the context is that it does break consistency and throw Idres in as a main focal point around halfway through instead of remaining Rowan and Connell's story. The story is very well-written with little to no spelling or grammatical errors. One of the best aspects of this story is the learning curve that these characters have to face in order to survive. The strength that Hayes conveys regarding the desire to forge the Livran community on Earth is impeccable and perfect for a young adult audience. Depending on the audience, some may be perturbed about a teenage pregnancy, but if you factor in that this is supposed to be another race of people who are fighting extinction, the reader should be fine with acceptance. If you are a reader of young adult fantasy and paranormal fiction, you may want to pick up this third installment; however, since it is a direct continuation of the previous installment, it is recommended to read through the second book called Perfect Pitch prior to diving into this one.
An electronic copy of this book was provided to Turning Another Page by Reedsy Discovery and in no way affects the honesty of this review. We provide a four-star rating to Siren Song by Alex Hayes.