Deception: Rogues of the Red League, Book 1

by Blackburn, Briana

  Copyright © 2018 by Briana Blackburn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Fiona Jayde Media

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  brianablackburn.com

  * * *

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  13. Chapter 13

  14. Chapter 14

  15. Chapter 15

  16. Chapter 16

  17. Chapter 17

  18. Chapter 18

  19. Chapter 19

  20. Chapter 20

  21. Chapter 21

  22. Chapter 22

  23. Chapter 23

  24. A Sneak Peek of Persuasion: Rogues of the Red League, Book 2

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The winters were terrible in the capital city of Adalin; the winds it heralded crept and lashed like a bitter, chilled whip. Everything was crisp and white, and beneath, a city divided neatly in two. The Glitter, where the rich bustled, and the Sludge where the poor hustled.

  Usually, they were kept separate, seeing a member of one in the realm of the other was baffling.

  However, in winter, the divided city became one landscape of frost and chill. And then, the one truly lovely thing Adalin boasted was its beauty; bewilderingly in its majesty. Most evenings the sun set, lowered like the crimson epicenter of a falling fire, the sienna sky burning beyond, ready to embrace the setting inferno of the ancient star.

  Luci worked as a scullery maid in the service of the young Don de Rossi, and she took great pleasure in creeping out from her chores in the evening to watch such a sunset. It was quite the thing she had to orchestrate. She had to come up with some creative way to tell the cook she’d been back shortly, often selecting the excuse of forgetting to grab something he’d asked for earlier in the evening. Because of this, he’d taken to calling her Goldfish, or Goldie for short, since her memory seemed to be such an equally vapid thing.

  But it was worth it, as more than anything, Luci wanted to see pure magic, for Adalin was not known for having a dense population of it. Once the land had none of it, not until the elven and elvish people came over the mountain; the elves were tall and beautiful, human in appearance save their tapered ears, the elvish looked as if they were magic incarnate. They existed together with the dwarves who clambered out from under that same mountain, beards bristled and burned with the heat of their forges. But before it all, it had only been humans. Yet as these three other races emerged, magic found the city of Adalin like it was a flare in the darkest of nights. Within a century, they had mixed into the population. Within two, their kind sat atop the throne. Within three, many of their genes were so watered down they left nothing behind but the physical traits. Every once in a while, of course, someone might have power sprinkled in liberally or literally, and it might manifest in some term of true manner but it was few and far between. And the other magical beings which kept their powers usually did not mix with the likes of men, so men wrote them into legend.

  Tonight, Luci would see magic. Tonight would be startling in its beauty. The night before had been filled to near opaque blankness as a blizzard reigned over the kingdom. Filled with glee, Luci awoke with snow clinging against the windowpanes of her small room, glowing in the faint dimness of her own alchemical light. Beaming, she’d gone about her day, chipper and pleased. As the day wore on, she loyally monitored the progress of the afternoon sun as it faded through windows she was cleaning, and in the small opening above the sink where she scrubbed the dishes that evening.

  Finally deciding it was time, she let go of the dish she scrubbing in the sink, ignoring the little clatter as it met another ceramic surface.

  “Oi! Watch it, Goldie!” snapped the cook, startled by the noise, red face with sweat dripping in the swelter of the kitchen.

  “I forgot the cardamon!” she cried.

  He rolled his eyes. “Well, I hardly need it now, girl. I’ve already—”

  “It’s no trouble! I’ll go grab it!” Ripping off her apron, she didn’t give him enough time to protest before the door was swinging at her heels.

  She hurried through the massive de Rossi house, nodding to people as she rushed past them, exclaiming every once and a while to a raised eyebrow, “I forgot the cardamon!”

  No one tried to stop her, and before she knew it she was at the back door with a shawl hastily strewn about her shoulders. She pushed with all her might as she hauled open the thick slab of oak. It groaned, admitting a small spill of powdery snow into the mudroom, which glittered in the fading light. Her excitement throbbed. It would look so utterly lovely, with the sun on it entirely—like falling diamonds.

  The de Rossi manor was perfectly situated against the surrounding landscape. Its sprawling back acreage stared up at the Castle of Adalin where the elven King Solia lived with his two sons; the Dauphin and the spare. The heir apparent Marius who was clever and kind and the white-haired, odd little boy, who was his brother. Or half-brother, if the rumors were to be believed. A bastard the king put upon a witchress from another land.

  Not that the monarchy had ever fessed up to such an indiscretion. Luci was sure that if she managed to sneak a little closer to the inner circles of the servants working up at the castle, she’d know soon enough just whose belly the second son had come from. Until then, she wouldn’t concern herself about the grandeur of life inside the palace. Instead, she’d continue to remain content with the view that surrounded it, especially the sheer majesty of the sun as it set on the snow-covered palisades.

  When she arrived, someone else was already in her spot. Two little someones, to be precise. A boy and a girl.

  She halted, nearly bowling over the red-headed children sitting at the top step. They couldn’t have been more than six years old. The boy was fast asleep, head cradled in the girl’s lap, and a thumb in his mouth. The girl, however, didn’t flinch at Luci’s sudden arrival. She didn’t move a muscle, although her shoulder-length curls appeared to radiate and glow like fire in the reflection of the setting sun.

  Stunned, Luci walked around the pair, down the first couple steps so she could look at the girl’s face. Her dark, titled eyes flickered at Luci for but a moment, paid her little mind, eyes trained on the sun. She and her brother were wearing nearly identical outfits, jackets black and better suited for late spring. Their pants were short and their shoes too big. The little boy had a cap on his head and the little girl a scarf around her neck. Neither of them looked particularly cold.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked. “And hardly wearing anything! Does your mother know you’re out here? Can I fetch her?”

  “No,” the little girl said absently.

  “Then what are you doing here? Surely you’re aware who owns this property? He’s not a man you want to trespass upon.”

  “Our papa is here.”

  “Your papa works inside?”

  The little girl sighed and sullenly focused her attention onto the scullery maid. Forcefully, like a l
ittle queen, she repeated, “No.”

  “Oh. Well...where is your mother?”

  The little girl pointed at the horizon, where the sun Luci so loved winked, inching behind the castle. “Gone.”

  Baffled, Luci weighed her options, following the girl’s unwavering gaze at the sunset. Together they watched it sink behind the castle and beyond the landscape.

  “Are you...hungry?” she asked reluctantly.

  “Killian is,” the girl said, petting her brother’s hair. The little boy stirred, eyes opening through thick lashes. Like a cat he sat up and yawned, small arms stretching for the sky.

  “What?”

  “She’s going to feed you,” said his sister, putting her elbow on her newly vacated knee and her chin in her palm. “You go with her. I’m going to wait.”

  “She won’t come back,” said Killian.

  “I know.”

  Killian sighed and stood up, moving towards the slightly open back door. He pulled it open with ease, casting a raised eyebrow back over his shoulder to the scullery maid.

  The presumptuous little bugger.

  “Are you coming?”

  “I—I, well, I should probably just bring you food out here and then we can send you on your way...maybe I can get you a blanket?” she offered weakly. She could only imagine the head stewardess’s expression if she brought a couple of underdressed rugrats through the Don’s sparkly, newly purchased house. It might’ve appeared to be clean, but it was purchased with dirty money, speckled with blood and drugs and unsightly things. Things everyone only whispered about. But that only meant the Don would be even less forgiving if she dirtied his marble floors with the likes of these two.

  “He can go inside,” said the little girl.

  “I can,” echoed Killian. “I live here now.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Papa would want me inside.”

  Luci was a strong girl of near twenty summers and even she was beginning to feel a bit cowed by this child no taller than her hip. Taking a deep breath, she fisted her hands on her waist.

  “Look here, little boy. I’m not sure your papa would care for you wandering into the house of his master. In fact, that would reflect quite poorly on him, don’t you think? He could lose his job.”

  “The master? Do you mean Papa?”

  Luci opened her mouth to say how foolish that was, but the little girl cut in and said, “She doesn’t know who our papa is, Killian.”

  “Shut up, Tiana,” he snapped. “You’re such a stupid girl.”

  Utterly unimpressed with her brother’s insult, the little girl cut him a cool look over her shoulder.

  “Tch,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

  “Look here, young mistress and master,” Luci began, “I really do think it might be best if you go. I don’t appreciate your joke and to be honest, it is simply much too late for you to be out and wandering about, let alone trespassing.”

  The little girl called Tiana sighed, stood up like a woman much older than her handful of six summers and looked Luci dead in her face. “Our Papa is Don Phillipe de Rossi. We are not trespassing.”

  “And I’m hungry!” piped her brother. Luci looked over at him aghast, he’d wiggled the door open wide enough she could see the head stewardess, Berna, standing behind the pane of glass with a scowl on her weathered, wrinkled face.

  “Oh, dear,” said Luci, feeling dismal. For now, she was the one in trouble.

  “Luci,” snapped the matronly woman confronted by Killian, who gazed up at her, mouth hanging open. More specifically, he gazed at the large mole perched and wobbling on her upper lip.

  “Whoa,” he said. Luci winced.

  “Young man, what are you doing in my mudroom?”

  “It isn’t your mudroom,” said Killian. “It’s my papa’s.”

  “Your papa’s?”

  Luci cleared her throat, staring down at her feet. “They seem to be, uh, under the impression that Don de Rossi is their father, ma’am.”

  The old woman surveyed the two children, her eyes beady and as cold as the snow seeping into Luci’s thin slippers. “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Killian. “Now, please take us to the kitchens. I’m hungry.”

  “And what proof do you have of your parentage?”

  Killian blinked and looked back at his sister. “Proof?”

  “Yes, how can you prove your father is the Don de Rossi? You must realize it is no mere man you’re claiming is your father.”

  “No mere man? What kind of man is he?” asked Tiana, tilting her head in a spill of red curls.

  Berna pursed her thin lips. “A very powerful one.”

  Luci was startled by the glee with which Killian looked over at his sister. There was a broad smile on his face as if he’d won the lottery. This, of course, merely soured Berna’s already disapproving look, but the boy hardly noticed. The girl, however, noticed everything. Her pretty plump lips turned down with suspicious curiosity.

  “May we see him?”

  “One does not simply see the Don, child!” Berna admonished. “You might request an appointment, but even then, I doubt he would have time for anyone of your...stature.”

  Luci, who was growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment, nearly lost her heart through her throat as she spotted, coming up the hall, behind Berna, Don de Rossi himself.

  He was a handsome man, with his curled hair slicked back, trimmed thick mustache, and bright blue eyes. His expression was troubled, near thunderous, and his gaze narrowed on Berna’s back.

  “Berna! I need the horses readied immediately. I have to go down to the Sludge and deal with some matters at the Trough. Can you get the sleigh prepared in time?”

  Berna, the paragon of professional, smoothly turned around, her face blank, her skirts blocking the children waiting in the doorway.

  “Yes, of course, master. Is the snow hardened enough for the larger sleigh?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s only me and I’m only going to the Trough. No point in any grandeur. It’d be wasted on them.”

  He was slowing now, done with his demand and about to turn around the corner and vanish up the stairs into the main house when he froze. His eyes glued to the little figure standing on the top step; the last straggling rays of daylight were now threading through her hair. She looked like a little fey thing, with eyes so dark and endless, hair so bright and fiery, and an expression so stern and sure.

  “Impossible,” he whispered as he turned his gaze to the boy peering around Berna’s skirts.

  “Sir, I am most apologetic we could not keep these children from the house. Luci will remove them immediately and I will get the sleigh readied—”

  “Cancel the sleigh. I’ll send someone.” The Don continued to stare at the red-headed boy and girl. “Who are these children, Berna?”

  “Street urchins, sir, although how they found there way up here I’ll never know.”

  “They said they’re your children,” blurted out Luci, fingers twisted behind her back.

  “Miss. Wilds,” said Berna sharply. She cast a cutting glance her way, along with the death of Luci’s aspirations to one day work in the palace. No, that good reference wouldn’t be in her back pocket. It was as good as tossed out with the kitchen scraps. The head stewardess turned back to Don de Rossi. “I am so sorry sir, of course they aren’t yours. That is impossible.”

  Don de Rossi was hardly listening. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Killian,” supplied the little girl. “And I’m Tiana.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Gone.”

  There was a finality in her voice which had Don de Rossi nodding.

  “Yes,” he replied, as if this was no news to him, the disappearing of a mother, or perhaps, this specific woman. He cleared his throat, perhaps realizing two of his staff were gaping at him. “Would you come inside?”

  And Luci watched, baffled, as the two red-headed twins followed Adali
n’s most respected and notorious gangster into his home; or as it was to be now their home.

  Chapter 1

  Roland hated the Sludge. He hated the way it smelled. Hated the way it felt. And most of all, he hated the fact he had to stand and listen to gangsters squabble and swear and posture like agitated peacocks.

  For two hours he had endured this gaggle of pissheads harassing the merchant, Ira, a textiles man who was red in the face with embarrassment and turtling beneath the high cowl of his wool tunic. Roland almost wished something would go wrong, just so he had a way to expel his steadily growing annoyance.

  Ira was stuttering, bent over the table, going over the lists with the two Cricks hounds. It was a small gang, from what Roland had gathered. A young Don surrounded by a handful of people; the likes of which were all gathered in this abandoned warehouse, edging near the port which fed out into the Cerian Sea. Due to the fact it had been a hot day, everything now smelled like shit baking in salt and seaweed…which was likely not far off from what it likely was.

  Roland had paid Ira a good amount of money to bring him here. The Cricks were looking to expand their export capabilities, as most new gangs were eager to do. They weren’t deep into the narcotics trade yet, but they were distributing a pretty good glug of Green Fairy—which was good because Green Fairy, while illegal to import, was not quite illegal to export.

  The Cricks were much too small a fish to even think about the balking possibility of import, so export was their game. Ira spent much of his time exporting just the right textiles to wrap a good, glass bottle of green juice into.

  If Roland was being entirely honest, he wouldn’t have minded some Green Fairy at the moment; at least a sip would provide some measure of relief from the small railway of a headache pounding away through his skull.