Chameleon Book Tour & Giveaway

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Chameleon by Zoe Kalo Genre: YA Paranormal Psychological Suspense

FIVE GIRLS. AN ISOLATED CONVENT. A SUPERNATURAL PRESENCE. A DARK SECRET. SHORTLISTED for the 2017 Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Fiction! 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? 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! Add to Goodreads Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Smashwords * Website

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. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

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