SHORTLISTED for
the 2017 Dante Rossetti Awards
for Young Adult Fiction!
If you love the
vibes in "The Orphanage," "The Craft" and "Pretty
Little Liars," you'll enjoy this mess-with-your-head, YA
supernatural/psychological thriller!
Title: Chameleon
Author: Zoe Kalo
Genre: YA, Paranormal, Psychological suspense
Release Date: 2nd February 2020
BLURB supplied by Silver Dagger Book Tours
FIVE GIRLS. AN
ISOLATED CONVENT. A SUPERNATURAL PRESENCE. A DARK SECRET.
I can't believe
it has come to this. The way things have blown out of proportion. I only wanted
to contact my dead father. Ask his forgiveness.
Seven months.
Seven months isn't that long, is it?
I'll go through the motions, no need to make friends that I’ll never see again.
When you get close to people, you end up getting hurt.
Puerto Rico, 1973
17-year-old Paloma only wanted to hold a séance to contact her dead father. She
never thought she would be kicked out of school and end up in an isolated
convent. Now, all she wants is to be left alone. But slowly, she develops a
bond with a group of girls: kind-hearted Maria, insolent Silvy, pathological
liar Adelita, and their charismatic leader Rubia.
At night, the waterfall’s dark music haunts her dreams of drowning…
When Paloma holds another séance, she accidentally awakens an entity that has
been dormant for years. The body count begins. Someone doesn’t want the secret
out…
Are the ghost and Paloma’s suspicions real—or only part of her growing paranoia and delusions?
Are the ghost and Paloma’s suspicions real—or only part of her growing paranoia and delusions?
PURCHASE LINKS
A certified
bookworm, Zoe Kalo has always been obsessed with books and reading. Reading led
to writing—compulsively. No surprise that at 16, she wrote her first novel,
which her classmates read and passed around secretly. The pleasure of writing
and sharing her fantasy worlds has stayed with her, so now she wants to pass
her stories to you with no secrecy—but with lots of mystery…
She’s had the
good fortune of living on 3 continents, learning 4 languages, and experiencing
a multicultural life. She holds a BA in Creative Writing and an MA in
Comparative Literature. She lives in Belgium with her husband and two evil
cats.
AUTHOR LINKS
EXCERPT
I cannot
clearly say how I had entered
the wood; I was
so full of sleep just at
the point where
I abandoned the true path.
--Dante Alighieri, Inferno 1. 11-12
Chapter 1
Puerto Rico, 1973
Oak trees
dripping with Spanish moss embraced us from both sides, but not enough to
shield us from the prison that would be my home for the next seven months. The
high stone walls and neo-Gothic bell tower loomed over us as my stepfather
drove his Mercedes through the spiked iron gates and into the sloping, curving
driveway.
A spider of
dread crawled up my back. Prison indeed.
I couldn’t
believe it had come to this. The way things had blown out of proportion. I’d only
wanted to contact my dead father. Ask his forgiveness.
My mother reached for my hand
from the front seat without turning around to look at me. I stared at her
perfectly polished red nails and the glittery square cut emerald on her ring
finger. Her fingers flicked, silently pleading for my attention, but I was
frozen inside. Her hand retreated.
I stared at the
convent, my eyes studying the dark arched windows, the worn, age-blackened
stones. The place looked haunted. Perfect for my state of mind. What was my
mother thinking?
Something moved
behind one of the windows. A face. For an instant my pulse raced at the sheer
paleness of it, at the two dark holes that made up its eyes.
“What are you
looking at?” Sara, my six-year-old half sister, asked.
I pointed. “A
girl.”
She followed my
line of vision. “Where?”
“There. High
up. In the window.”
She dipped her head so she could
have a better look. “I don’t see anything.”
I felt a shiver, but not from the
cold. It’s white. It’s watching us.
Then the car moved too close to
the building, and the face vanished from view.
“Is this your new school,
Paloma?” Sara asked.
I nodded. Sara was the child,
female version of my stepfather. Her bottomless dark eyes, framed by velvety
lashes, stared at me with misery. “I don’t like it,” she whispered, grabbing my
hand.
“It’ll be okay,” I whispered
back, and gave her hand a little squeeze.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Well, here we are,” Domenico
said in his strong Castilian accent, stopping the car in front of the entrance.
He climbed out and opened the door for my mother. Then he proceeded to take out
my suitcases from the trunk.
My mother was silent. She stepped
out like a wooden mannequin, her eyes shimmery with unshed tears.
I climbed out, followed by Sara,
the gravel crunching under our shoes. The early morning air was cool and a
blanket of mist still lingered—not surprising, since the convent was on the
outskirts of El Yunque, the island’s rain forest. More Spanish moss hung from
the oak trees and rippled in the breeze like long, shivering memories. I could
smell the dew on the leaves and the rich perfume of moist earth, redolent of
open graves.
I glanced at the ominous clouds.
“Beautiful morning.”
An ongoing
distant hum resonated all around us. One, two beats passed, before it struck
me: Waterfall.
Something
within me shut down—or exploded, I couldn’t be sure.
I shut my eyes
for a second, wiping out memories of chilled water searing my lungs.
I repeated the eighth
multiplication table in my head.
“After you,”
Domenico said, interrupting my thoughts.
I wanted to
loathe him. Tried to, anyway. I could see what my mother saw in him: a
powerfully charismatic, handsome man with the infinite skill to make people do
his bidding. My mother, with her small delicate features and petite frame,
looked invisible beside him. A mere spectre. But that was just a façade. I knew
better.
The big oak door opened and a nun
clad in black habit and a wimple came down the steps to greet us.
Sara wrapped her arms around my
waist. Her gesture both comforted me and heightened my anxiety. Nuns in habit
made me think of great black birds.
“Bienvenidos,” the nun said. Like
my stepfather, she also had a Castilian accent. “I’m Madre Estela and I’m
second in charge to Madre Superiora. You must be Señor and Señora de Aznar.”
They exchanged small talk. Madre
Estela sounded polite enough, but she didn’t offer to shake hands with my
parents, which I found strange. Maybe nuns weren’t allowed to shake hands. I
wouldn’t be surprised. I noticed the wedding band on her ring finger. Married
to God. Absurd.
“You must be Paloma,” she said
tonelessly.
“Yes,” I said. Wasn’t it obvious?
I didn’t know what else to say.
The cross on her chest caught my
attention. It had a crucified Christ on it and I noticed the thorns cutting
Christ’s forehead, the little drops of blood glistening on His fragile body.
“Welcome to our school, Paloma.”
Her critical gaze scrutinized my makeup, my tight jeans. “I’ve heard much about
you.”
I didn’t miss
the hint of cold disapproval in her voice. I wasn’t sure how much my parents
had complained about my behavior, but considering I had been kicked out—well,
actually, kindly asked to leave—my previous school in the middle of October, it
couldn’t be good.
“Are you ready to resume your
senior year of high school?” Stress on resume.
“I can’t wait,” I said. There was
no point in being nice—or pretending to be. That just wasn’t me. I felt
miserable and couldn’t hide it. Besides, I could tell from our short exchange
that she’d made up her mind not to like me long before meeting me, and I had
the sinking feeling that no matter what I said or did, her opinion wouldn’t
change. I had already been stamped in her Inquisition book, tagged a criminal.
Madre Estela’s stony eyes moved
to Sara. My little sister’s arms clutched my waist even tighter. From the nun’s
expression, I could tell she was wondering if I had infected Sara with whatever
plague ailed me. She dismissed us and turned back to my mother and stepfather.
“Madre Superiora is expecting you in her office. Let’s not keep her waiting, shall we not?
Don’t concern yourselves with the suitcases. Someone will come for them
shortly.”
They thanked her and followed her
up the steps.
“I don’t want to go in,” Sara
said.
“It’ll be
okay,” I said. I glanced at the window. I wanted to see the pale face again.
But there was nothing.
A drop of rain hit my cheek and I
wiped it off. Then I held Sara’s hand and together we walked up the steps and
through the arched doorway.
I felt my
throat closing up.
Seven months.
Seven months
wasn’t that long, was it? Besides, Thanksgiving break was just around the
corner. Six weeks, to be exact. I had already marked my calendar. I couldn’t
wait. I would go through the motions, no need to make friends that I’d never
see again. When you get close to people, you end up getting hurt.
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