Siren Song (The Chameleon Effect Book 3)

by Alex Hayes

  I slip through the peach-colored apartment. The place has seen better days, but it’s neat and clean. I reach the door as the sirens cut. An ambulance is right outside, two stories below. I release the chain, unlatch the deadbolt and turn the doorknob lock.

  Good to go, I hurry back through the apartment. My wing catches the edge of a table, rattling knickknacks. I save a porcelain statue of Mary holding Baby Jesus, set it straight and rush into the kitchen.

  The old lady’s sitting up, rubbing her head. I left the swollen bump on her cranium resulting from the fall, a surface wound that will heal quickly on its own. If I healed every injury, the paramedics might get suspicious.

  While her back is turned, I pull open the rear door, but its soft squeak makes her look around.

  My breath falters. I’m invisible, but being stared at disturbs me. Hopefully, she’ll put the open door down to the wind.

  She squints in my direction as I tease the door wider. Sunlight floods the kitchen, turning the discolored linoleum tiles at my feet bright white.

  A gentle smile lifts her lips. “Thank you, dear.”

  I freeze.

  A sharp knock at the front door.

  “Hello? Anyone in there?” comes a muffled shout. “Emergency Services. We’re responding to a Life Alert alarm.”

  The lady glances in the direction of that voice, then returns her gaze my way. She can’t possibly see me.

  Her smile widens. “Now, off you go, angel. I’m sure you’ve got plenty more people to save today.”

  Without further hesitation, I slip through the door, race down the fire escape and take off from the alley.

  Flight is the only antidote to an experience like that.

  Did she spot me?

  I shake the thought away. If she had, she wouldn’t have called me an angel. If I were visible, she’d have called me an ugly crow.

  It was the open doorway, the bright shaft of sunlight. Who wouldn’t imagine a celestial being had just paid a visit? I might have myself, and I don’t believe in angels.

  Landing in the back alley behind our apartment complex, I stop in the shade of a skinny palm tree and wait for my heart to slow.

  Only once before has someone sensed my presence, a businessman who’d suffered an early morning heart attack outside an office building. He must have felt the brush of my hand or maybe a wing, and spoke, quoting some line from the Bible. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

  Maybe it wasn’t me he was talking to. Maybe he was making peace with his maker. Maybe he saw nothing at all.

  I’d backed away slowly, without a sound. When the emergency team arrived, the guy got distracted and I took off.

  Calm once more, I cross the street and hop onto a low shed, then jump-flap to the building’s fire escape and climb to our third-floor apartment’s bathroom window. We keep it soft latched so I can tap it open and get inside without being seen.

  After a quick knock to warn Azera, should she be in there, I scrunch my wings tight against my body and squeeze through the opening, then somersault onto the bathroom floor.

  “Home, sweet home,” I mutter, transforming back to human.

  After a hot shower in the dated pink-tiled stall, I wrap a faded towel around my waist and make for my bedroom.

  I emerge fully dressed minutes later and head to the kitchen.

  Azera sits at the island, bent over a mug of breakfast java. “Hey, how’d it go?” she asks, without looking up from her favorite photo tech zine. Camera porn, I call it. Canon just came out with a new range of bodies she’s been lusting over.

  I grab orange juice from the fridge and pour myself a tall glass. Fast energy is what I need after healing, followed by a high fat, high protein meal and a nap.

  “Fine. An old lady with a stroke. Fixed her up and took off.” I don’t mention the woman talking to me. Azera would panic at the possibility I’d been spotted.

  Once I’ve downed the OJ, I pull out eggs and cheese. “Wanna share an omelet?”

  Azera smirks. “No, thanks. I’m heading to Hollywood Boulevard. Okay if I take the car?”

  “All yours.” I slide my fingers through the damp hair hanging loose around my shoulders. “I need sleep before I go anywhere.”

  She tolerates my hobby.

  Can one call saving lives a hobby? A non-paid on-call part-time job, then. One that wipes me out.

  That’s got to annoy her.

  Azera grabs the keys from a hook by the door. “See you in a while.”

  I watch her go, then crack three eggs into a bowl.

  Azera comes home from her gig to the smell of Chinese food and white takeout boxes spread across the scratched kitchen counter.

  “Anything good?” I ask before stuffing a greasy crescent-shaped potsticker into my mouth.

  “We got three hundred for a shot of Delia Taylor planting her hands in cement. I wasn’t the only one to get the pic, but I submitted first.”

  I express my enthusiasm with a rapid nod. Three hundred isn’t bad. I waggle my chopsticks. “Want some?”

  “Hyun’s?”

  “Like I’d get lo mein and potstickers from anywhere else. I got you fried rice with extra cashews.”

  She smiles and hops into a seat facing the kitchen sink that has more nicks in the porcelain than the worn chopping block beside it. She swallows a mouthful of eggy rice. “This is the best.”

  “There’s wonton soup too.” I push a cardboard tub toward her.

  “All my favorites. Now I’m suspicious.” But that doesn’t stop her spooning the lukewarm liquid between her lips.

  “So,” I say, between bites, “seen Ryker lately?”

  She scowls. “I knew this food would cost me.”

  “Nuh-uh. Just making conversation.”

  “Yeah, right.” She slides off her chair and grabs a beer from the fridge. “I’d offer you one, but…” She rolls her eyes.

  Her stalled gesture has nothing to do with my being underage. I can’t handle alcohol. Something weird about my metabolism. The stuff makes me sick to my stomach.

  She cracks open the bottle. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Is it?”

  I lift an eyebrow. “From my point of view, yeah. He’s the competition, remember?”

  “For now.” She crosses her forearms over the countertop and taps her fingers across its surface to an impatient rhythm. “I need to be part of something, Connie.”

  I feel bad, but not enough to give in. “Then we’ll find something to be a part of because socializing with the competition is way beyond a bad idea.”

  Her jaw twitches. “Maybe we shouldn’t look at them as competition.”

  I do not roll my eyes. “We have to, Az. Because that’s how they look at us. We’re people they can spy on and steal leads from. I’ve seen that guy, Justin, following you around.”

  She shrugs. “He’s a nice guy. We talk about gear, nothing else. He’s just being friendly.”

  Resistance is futile, and I surrender to a dramatic eye roll. “You can’t trust him. You can’t trust any of those schmucks.”

  “We are two of those schmucks, remember?”

  “Yeah, and like them, we’re in it for ourselves,” I grumble, pushing away an empty container. “If we’re gonna survive out there, we’ve got to stay ahead of the curve.”

  “Unless we join them.” She purses her lips and grabs her beer.

  This is a circular argument I can’t seem to squash. “Why should we hand over a cut of the money? We get more sales than most of those guys. That’s the only reason Ryker wants you.”

  “But it’d be a regular income, less pressure to make the rent each month if we knew it was coming in.”

  “You’re forgetting Ryker has no interest in hiring me.” Not that I want him to. “Besides, without competition, there’d be nothing to get our asses out of bed to make it to the airport in time to catch Sia or Will Smith arriving for a six a.m
. flight.”

  She stares at the perforated ceiling tiles, newly stained thanks to a leaky faucet in the upstairs apartment. Her eyes drop back to me. “There’ll still be plenty of competition, Connell.”

  “You know I don’t work well with others,” I toss onto the pile of reasons we shouldn’t consider anything Ryker proposes.

  She lifts an eyebrow.

  I sigh. “Other than you.”

  She takes a slower sip.

  “Look, if you like this Justin guy…or Ryker, even, go out for a drink with whichever one. Maybe what you need is some romance in your life.” Though in my opinion, that fluffy stuff is overrated. “Give it some time, get to know him, and if you decide teaming up is still what you want, then go for it. At least you’ll have tested the waters first.”

  “But you won’t come with me, if I do.”

  “Ryker doesn’t want me.” And I don’t want him.

  She gives me a look that says that could be negotiated.

  “Oh, no.” I lean back in my chair. “If joining those guys is what you want, that’s your call. You can count me out. My shots’ll never be as good as yours, but I’m no worse than any of those other guys. I’ll pull my weight without you.”

  “But I won’t have your intel, and you can’t be in the sky and on the ground at the same time.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She shakes her head. “And don’t even think about taking pictures from the air. You’d never be able to explain how you got them, not even with a drone. And the legalities around drone photography is so messed up, it wouldn’t be worth the risk. We need each other.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I concede. “But if you want to join Ryker’s team… Look, you’d be the best photographer among them, even without my intel. I’ll get a job doing something else. I can wash dishes for Hyun and he’ll keep me fed. But I won’t put myself under anyone else’s thumb. I’ve been there…”

  “So have I.” Azera’s jaw goes rock hard and her eyes become laser points. “Dad is the biggest effing jerk alive.”

  Understatement. Azera’s father runs a wedding photography business. With his sagging jowls and massive belly, he looks like a Diego Rivera of the twenty-first century, only uglier. He hasn’t shot an event himself in more than a decade. He hires cheap talent to do the work, except for Azera and me. We worked twelve-hour days most weekends and never saw a dime for our efforts.

  And when business slowed or he’d had one too many, he took his frustrations out on his daughter.

  I grind my teeth and stare at my empty plate. I’ll never work under a photog pimp again.

  4

  Rowan

  Cadi flops sideways onto the iron-framed canopy bed in my room and tucks in her legs, flashing a pair of floppy-eared bunny slippers. Her blondish-brown hair sweeps across the plaid quilt as she buries her face into its soft cotton and groans. “I can’t do this.”

  It’s six o’clock on the morning of our flight. The sun won’t be up for another hour, but the overhead lights blaze to aid my search for items to pack.

  Cadi’s human, but her skin looks green. Her body turns liquid silver as she shape shifts to Livran form, the iridescent markings on her scales glimmering in the sharp light.

  “Half an hour, that’s all I can manage. I might make it to the airport, but then what? The journey’s ten hours.” She sits up, looking better already. “I don’t know how I put up with being human for all these months.”

  I sit on the bed and wrap an arm around her shoulders. “You looked more wiped out than ever this time.”

  She twists her hands together. “I can’t see a way around it. I can’t go.”

  “What if we drove?”

  She shakes her head. “That would take days. Days of having to disguise myself while in the car. We’d have to stay in hotels, eat in restaurants. Someone would spot me for sure.”

  I jump to my feet. “You could shift for short periods.” I blink away the intensifying ache in my head and face her. “From the car to the hotel. We could order takeout.”

  “But imagine stop-and-go traffic in LA.” She shudders. “What if we get stuck in gridlock for hours? The trip will have to wait until after the baby arrives.”

  “That’s another five months.” My turn to groan, though I do it more softly. Livran pregnancies are eleven months long.

  Cadi purses her lips as tears slide down her cheeks. She offers a halfhearted shrug. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  I rub her back gently. “Five months and it’ll be over. You’ll survive. Idris will have to take a break and come visit you. It’s no big deal.”

  “But he said he needs help with his promoting, and I’m his backup vocalist.” Her lower lip folds into a pout as she pokes a slippered foot at the beige carpet.

  I chew on my lip. “I’ll help him. It won’t take long to find Conithar, and I’ve nothing else to do while I’m in LA. I’ll do whatever administrative work he needs until you can go.”

  She nods, but crushing disappointment radiates off her. I can empathize. The closer I get to this trip, the more urgency I feel.

  LAX overwhelms me.

  Head pounding after too many hours in the air, I squint at the glare off the polished floors and pick up my pace. Oncoming travelers hurry past, wheeling suitcases in a kaleidoscope of colors, as I push against the flow like a salmon swimming upstream.

  Boarding announcements and last calls morph into abandoned luggage and curbside parking warnings. The constant noise crackles in my ears and my stomach churns.

  Slowing to a measured stroll, I focus on my crystal and pick up the familiar hum from Idris’s stone.

  The vibration in my chest kicks up as I detect a second resonance coming from the opposite direction, a persistent tug to the north. Its signature triggers a memory. A burgundy flower with a honey scent that makes my nose tickle.

  Anticipation tingles. Con is somewhere in this city. All I have to do is follow that tug, and I’ll find him.

  My phone buzzes. Idris texted ten minutes ago. He’s circling the airport, keeping one step ahead of the no-parking police. I read his message. Outside Terminal Four.

  Almost there, I type, pausing to dodge a family with three kids.

  The eldest boy meets my gaze and smiles. There’s a sympathetic twist to his lips and a twinkle in his eyes.

  Do I look that travel worn?

  I offer a half smile back as I pass him.

  Glass doors swoosh open and I step into the cool outdoors. A couple of deep breaths, and the heavy fog in my head begins to clear.

  My crystal points me in the right direction, straight toward Idris. I scan the road and spot his silver-gray BMW. A parking officer strides his way, gesticulating at waiting motorists to move along.

  Waving, I jog to the car, duffel bag slamming against my hip, my nagging headache intensifying.

  Idris hops from the driver’s side and rounds the vehicle. He looks sharp in a white dress shirt brightened by the contrast of his tawny skin.

  Pulling back dramatically, I look him over. His hair is freshly trimmed at the sides, but his new style is longer up top, tight black curls reaching two inches in length over his crown. “You had your tips bleached.”

  He drags a hand over his head. “Yeah. Pain in the ass having it done. Do you like it?”

  “It looks amazing. Definitely LA.” I grin. “And definitely you.”

  The trunk pops as Idris grabs my bag and deposits it into the rear of the car.

  I swing off my heavy backpack and lean in for a hug. “Great to see you.”

  “Let me take that.” He unburdens me and places the pack next to my duffel.

  I dump my Polar-rated winter coat over my bags, and Idris slams the trunk. The bang makes me jump.

  “Oh. Wait,” I call as he makes for the driver’s side. “I promised to take a picture of us for Cadi.” I search my sweatshirt for my phone and realize it’s in my coat pocket in the car’s trunk.

  �
�I’ll take one.” Idris pulls out his phone and angles it toward us as I slide in close and grin. He snaps a couple of shots, then stows the device, eyeing an approaching officer. “I’ll post it later. Get in before the traffic cop gets here. The sign says, ‘Five-minute park and wait,’” he grumbles, “but they won’t let you stand for more than a minute.”

  We climb in and he inches the vehicle into the flow of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  “I can’t believe Cadi couldn’t make it.” Disappointment weights his words.

  “Be glad we figured out what was wrong. You wouldn’t believe how exhausted she was in human form. Especially this past week.”

  Idris squeezes between two taxis. “Yeah, that was one detail I didn’t pick up from Mr. Scrim. Makes sense though. On Daïzani, we’d have stuck to our Livran forms most of the time, not lived permanently looking like something else.” He glances at me. “I’d love to get her out here though, even if she has to hide in the apartment.”

  “She’d go stir-crazy trapped indoors for months. At least in the mountains, she can take walks and visit the crystal tree.”

  Idris smiles, affection brightening his eyes. “Wish I was over there with her.”

  “You can go visit.” I throw him a sideways glance. “Surely Hollywood shuts down over Christmas.”

  He sighs. “Not so much. I’ve meetings scheduled both sides of the holiday, but I’ll carve a couple of weeks out of January. We need some serious one-on-one time.”

  I chuckle, trying not to carry that image too far.

  “Well, meanwhile, I’m here to help.” I rub my palms together. “But first, I need to find Conithar.”

  Idris glances at his watch. “Have you picked up his crystal?”

  A smile stretches me inside and out. “Yes, actually. I was hoping you’d drop me nearby.”

  “Today?” His eyes widen as he clicks the indicator to switch lanes. “But you just got here.”

  “No time like the present.” I’m practically bouncing in my seat.

  “Yeah, but it’ll be dark soon.” He glances over his shoulder and slides into the next lane.