The deceivers, p.1
The Deceivers, page 1
The Deceivers
The Deceivers
By
Elizabeth Mitchell
© 2021 by Elizabeth Mitchell
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or in social shares.
Book Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com
Edited by Erika M. Weinert, dba The Werd Nerd
Dedicated to those who believed in me, inspired by those who didn’t.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgements
Prologue
The rays broke through the overcast sky and filtered through the skylight above the two men sitting in the dining hall.
“It’s days like this that remind me of one of the worst days of my life,” Maxwell shared, lifting the coffee mug to his mouth. He gazed up through the wide transom above them, lost in thought.
A newspaper crinkled across the table. “Why do you say that, Your Majesty?” Kelan asked as he laid down the paper he’d been reading and took a sip of his own steaming coffee.
The king seemed too uncomfortable to answer the question and sat the fragile cup down. He propped his leg up and leaned back in his oversized chair with a thoughtful expression. “Reminds me of the day my wife gave birth.”
The newspaper began to crunch as the narrow-faced man lifted the reading material back up. “Sounds like a happy occasion,” he commented dryly.
Maxwell drummed his fingers on the table and shot a thoughtful expression over at his comrade. “Ah, Kelan. Always the optimist.” He let out a slight chuckle. “Quite the opposite.”
Kelan jerked the paper down, peering over it at his king with one eye. “How so?” His streaked raised brows and abnormal, discolored patch that surrounded his left eye only encouraged the king to tell more of his story.
“My wife had been poisoned; my daughter not yet born. I had just received word that she had fallen ill, and our son was at her side, but he was much too young to be there alone in all of that. When I rushed to her side and asked her what happened, she was barely able to tell me that my brother and someone posing as a handmaiden had tricked her into ingesting the poisoned spring water.” The King leaned in over his coffee before continuing, “I was faced with a decision—a most difficult one. My brother had betrayed me—betrayed our family. He’d committed treason. But I had no choice …” He trailed off, lost in thought again.
Kelan smirked as he smoothed the paper over the table and folded it neatly in half. “Wise decision. One I would have made, Your Majesty.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier. Antonia was—is—the love of my life. I’d give my life for hers. My brother had to be brought to justice for his crimes, even if meant weakening our kingdom with his loss.”
Kelan crossed his arms holding his coffee mug out in his hand while he asked, “So how’d the poor bastard die?”
King Maxwell sharply glanced his way. Kelan’s hand shot up, immediately abandoning his question with the aversion of his prying eyes.
A slow smirk formed on the king’s stubbled face. “I couldn’t bear to do it anywhere around here. I took him to somewhat of a daunting place that we had become familiar with as boys growing up. We stood up on the cliffs with my best guards at my side, and he admitted to his plans to dethrone me, to take the power as his own. He said that I was not the rightful heir, that it was our father’s wish that my brother rule our kingdom. He proceeded to share that if I killed him, his ambitions and the plans he’d made would not die with him; that there would be others who follow in his footsteps. One of the last things he told me, I never forgot. He told me to be careful when the darkness fell upon the kingdom, that I would never be able to sleep soundly again knowing that those I love would never be safe from him, even in death.”
Kelan took a sip of his coffee. “Intense.” He mustered up a deep frown and an inquisitive brow. “What did you do?”
“I grabbed him by his throat lifting him from the ground. I told him he was right to envy me because I was capable of more strength, love, and power than he’d ever have the privilege of knowing. And then I threw him over the cliffs into the Skeleton Sea.”
With his long arms crossed, Kelan finally asked, “Do you regret it?”
Maxwell thought a moment before responding, “Once, I thought I did, but no, I don’t. If I hadn’t done what I did, it would have been at the expense of myself, my family, and my legacy.”
“Sounds like you made the right choice then,” Kelan snickered.
Chapter 1
My stomach was filled with butterflies, the kind that fluttered around so much it made me feel like puking. I gulped back the lump of emotions in my throat long enough to make it to the detective’s desk. I was sure he was tired of seeing me. I intertwined my fingers in front of me to keep from unnecessarily tugging at my clothes. They were appropriate enough, dark-washed jeans and a burnt orange top my grandmother allowed me to get from a thrift store. It was comfortable enough and not anything to draw attention, but the patronizing man recognized my face right away.
His wide grin cut dimples into each cheek, revealing overly whitened teeth. “Back again already, sweetheart?” He barely paused to give me a second to answer.
“Yes. I—”
“Yeah, I’m sorry …” he began, leaning back in his seat, throwing his feet up to rest on the scattered papers across his desk. “We don’t have any new leads, sweetheart.” As many times as I’d heard it before, I didn’t think the news would come off as disappointing, but it did.
“Oh,” I waited to say something more, but I wasn’t fast enough.
“I know you want to find your mom … what’s her name?” He snapped his fingers. I was certain he had to know it by now. I’d been sneaking up to the station every month for the past two years in hopes of hearing good news.
“It’s—” I attempted again.
“Ah, yes, that’s it. An … Give me a second.”
I cut my eyes at him. “Antonia,” I blurted, sensing the tension in my jaw.
“Precisely. Antonia Knight. As I was saying, we want to find her too—that’s part of our job. I’d love to get rid of another one of these.” The condescending man placed both feet on the ground long enough to pat on the stack of folders that towered over on the edge of his desk—a lot more than most of the desks around him. I wasn’t sure if it was because they assigned more work to him or if he had a very poor work ethic. I was inclined to go with the latter. “But I’ll call you if we have any new developments in the case. There’s really no need for you to keep coming down here, sweetheart.”
I rubbed my fingers together in a poor attempt to keep myself calm, eventually moving up to wring my wrist. If he called me sweetheart one more time, all bets were off the table.
“I-I don’t think you understand, Sir. Th-this wasn’t like her. She would never—”
The way he cocked his head to the side and deliberately scratched his nose stopped me mid-sentence. He scoffed, “What? Leave you?” He intercepted my thoughts and stood up. His short chair rolled from underneath him. With his back as straight as a board, he angled himself until he towered over me. His eyes had the ability to shrink me down to feel shorter than normal. “I get it, and I’m not saying she would, but then again, when you’ve done this job as long as I have, nothing is out of the question. Heck, she could’ve just wanted a long vacation for all we know,” he snorted, “without you.”
I found myself hugging my arms now, trying to keep it together. With a smug, satisfied smirk, the detective fell back in his chair carelessly. Intertwining his fingers in his lap, he shoved the chair back from the desk, and dipped backwards. It made my skin crawl the way he didn’t have a care in the world. I wasn’t debating that there weren’t other cases. From where I was standing, the place was bustling with activity. People rushed in and out and the waiting room was scattered with discouraged faces. I briefly glanced at the other detectives. Everyone else sat upright, busy on their phones, staring at the printed black and white papers in their hands. Their voices sounded professional; helpful. I struggled, trying not to succumb to the indifferent, sharp words of the informal detective, all while keeping in mind how many witnesses there would be if I spontaneously jumped across the desk and punched him. It would feel pretty good to knock his lazy ass out of that stupid chair. My hands kept moving up my arms until I basically had myself wrapped up in a hug. Despite being so upset, I managed to keep the appearance of being calm and collected. It was probably for the best since I was in a police station and all. Assaulting a police officer seemed like too big a jumpstart for a criminal record.
“Thank you,” I managed through gritted teeth, attempting my best fake smile.
“Anytime. I’ll call you when I have more information.”
There was nothing more for me to say. The looks of pity and mumbles from those who were within ear shot followed me as I headed for the closest exit. I hung my head. Counting the tiles from his desk to the double doors was my only attempt at saving face and holding back the tears that were threatening to break through. I dismissed it as just another side effect of being heartbroken and lost.
Before I hailed another twenty-minute cab ride back home, I plastered flyers that depicted the last photo of my mom on the telephone poles and convenient store windows. Most store owners were more understanding than others, but I didn’t waste time arguing or trying to convince them otherwise. All I could do was hope that someone would see the missing posters and come forward with useful information—no matter if it was bad news, as many already expected. I tried to keep those thoughts from entering my mind. As I came to the last window, I stopped and stared at the customers inside. Regulars filled their seats at most tables and booths. I hesitated. If only I could slip through the door unnoticed. The owners at this diner had become good friends and I’d hate to leave without visiting. The uncertainty in my big eyes showed in the glass. With a deep breath, I caught the door as another woman was leaving. A few of the customers looked up when the door chimed and then went back to drinking their coffee.
“How are you, dear? Come—have a seat.” Mrs. Mayweather didn’t miss much, and I was no exception. She was placing a steaming plate of food in front of a local. The sweet, plump woman always insisted I come inside and sit awhile. She’d give a welcoming smile and begin to ask questions about my mother. The busy woman would take time to listen as I’d share memories and recollections that made me happy. Mrs. Mayweather was the only one I really confided in. I was always grateful for our small visits. She was currently behind the counter wearing her usual apron. Putting a dab of whip cream on top, she slid over a slice of pie and smiled.
“Any luck today?”
“No ma’am, not yet.” I said as I picked at a piece of the apple that fell out from between the piecrust.
She wiped off the counter and put her hands on her wide hips.
“Did you talk to the same detective again?”
I stabbed the pie.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll find her soon. Don’t pay his attitude any mind, dear.”
I almost believed her optimism.
“This is on the house until then.” She winked at me and went back to clearing off a table.
I stared out the window at all the people passing by, watching them as they stared at their phones or carried on conversations with one another. No one was paying attention to the flyers. Why would they? It wasn’t their loved one. Mrs. Mayweather was right. I’d hang onto the ember of faith I still had deep inside—the one that told me my mother was out there somewhere and that I was meant to live a better life.
“Cami!” My mother stretched out her arms toward me, straining, her face twisted in agony. She tried tirelessly to grasp my fingertips. “Help, please Cami! Help me!” The shadows enveloped my mother or at least what I remembered of her, adding to the distance between us.
“Mom! Mom!” I cried out, willing my legs to move forward in hopes of reaching her in time, but the air was too thick. I choked on the grey fog that filled my lungs, gasping, grabbing at the fire that I felt fueling in my throat.
My eyes shot open. I fought to breath, pushing myself up, aware of my racing heart thudding in my chest. My dreams always felt so real. One of the beads of sweat that had collected on my forehead dripped down my burning cheeks and landed on my already soaked tank top. My curls stuck to the back of my neck but when I tried to tie the unruly strands up to cool off, my fingers became entangled. It was too early in the morning. Not wanting to exert any more energy than I needed to, I gave up in defeat and pulled my knees to my chest. I waited for my body to calm as I sat staring into the open country through the bars on my window.
What I couldn’t figure out was why I kept having these nightmares. My mother was the one who left me without warning, or at least that is what the police report indicated. Even after years of her absence, the last months of my life had been the most depressing. I missed the woman in the faded black and white photo hanging on my grandmother’s worn wall in the living room. The faint memory of my mother’s comforting arms wrapped around me, holding me a second longer than expected, plagued my thoughts each morning I awoke. I’d give anything to hug her again, and this time I wouldn’t pull away the way I normally did when people tried to embrace me. My dreams had been clouded with memories of our time together, but the hurt and betrayal of abandonment tainted them. No matter how much my mind argued its case, subconsciously my heart believed it was her choice to leave me here.
Being left in the dark with no letter and no explanation added to my heartbreak, feeling unwanted, whether intentional or not. I wanted to hear my mother’s loud laughter from the other room, to watch her push her ebony hair from her olive face as she muttered that she was going cut it again. She’d listen to my rambling about the school day, and how I didn’t want to do my homework, but now I had no one except my grandmother, and that wasn’t saying much. The old woman hated me. Truly.
I tugged once more on the knots of my hair as I watched the array of colors shift from the dark night blue to the orange and yellows that burned in the morning sky. The serene horizon was more comforting to admire than the dryness of the land we were situated on. The trees were bare, with nothing more than the bark chipping and peeling from the branches, flaking from the drought that had syphoned all the remaining life from its roots.
One tree stood outside my confining window, barely out of reach. Its branches were once full, but since my mother left and the drought worsened, the tree lost all appeal. Some mornings I’d wriggle my arm between the cold steel of the black bars just to see how far I could stretch. The action only reminded me of how imprisoned and neglected I considered myself to be. The colors of the sunrise eventually penetrated the dense fog that washed over the property. I sat for a moment longer waiting. Waiting for the only friend I felt I had in the world to come within arm’s reach. Then I saw it. A white spec flashed across the tree line and soon the familiar bird landed on the lone branch that extended outward toward my window. It hopped toward my hand offering its company.
“Hi there,” I softly greeted. The overgrown bird skipped across the branches, shaking the entire tree, its light color a stark contrast against the dreary scenery I was subjected to every day. Short bursts of gurgling croaks erupted from the raven’s beak, returning my salutation. I could hear the stress in the cracking from the unexpected weight and light movement of the rather large bird. Usually, a bird this size would have frightened me, but not this timid friend. It had never given me a reason to fear it. Its small eyes shot over at the sun cresting on the horizon, and once satisfied, it turned and blinked back at me. The feathered being must have sensed that I would be awake, awaiting its return. In the last couple of months, it had begun making its visits more frequent; so frequent that I looked forward to seeing this albino bird at the start of every day.
Since the start of my junior year, I had the freedom from reliving the same mundane and awful sweaty days that I would have otherwise spent at home. The seven classes a day in a school full of kids that would gossip and pass rumors about the “stuck up” girl, and the stories they were told or overheard from their parents about my mother’s abandonment of her only daughter, filled the school with additional drama it needed to fulfill the high school experience. Surprisingly enough, I preferred enduring the side looks and whispers than being stuck at home. With the small size of this Texas town, a missing woman with an orphaned daughter held its spot as front-page news for everyone to chime in with their opinions and explicit renditions of what may have happened. I accepted the idea that the chatter and whispers would follow me around until graduation or until I moved. After graduation, I could turn my back on Dripping Springs and seek out a place where I could start all over—or until my mother returned, if she did.
