The deceiver, p.1
The Deceiver, page 1
part #1 of The Deceiver Series
The Deceiver
The Deceiver
Volume One
R. J. Machado De Quevedo
The Deceiver
Copyright © 2013 & 2017 by R. J. Machado De Quevedo.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.
Author R. J. Machado De Quevedo
PO BOX 640| Elk Grove | California 95759 USA www.RJMachadoDeQuevedo.com
Book design and cover copyright © 2017 by R. J. Machado De Quevedo.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-947932-00-5
1. Fiction / Thriller / Suspense
2. Self-Help / Christian Life / Spiritual Warfare
17.12.20
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to a few special individuals. Each one is a true blessing to me and a gift from God. Their unwavering love, support, and encouragement—not only of this book, but of me— have meant more to me than I could ever say or express.
To my husband, Luis, the most wonderful and precious man I have ever known. You’re the love of my life, my soul mate, and my best friend. The road hasn’t always been easy, but with God’s grace and strength, our love has endured and keeps getting stronger. I fall more and more in love with you every day.
To my sister and best friend, Bethany. She can always make me laugh and tear up with uncontrollable giggles. She’s witty and mischievous and always up for an adventure! She looked after me when I was small and still does her best to support me with her faithfulness and love. When I was little, she tried and tried to teach me how to read, even though at the times, I was nearly hopeless. Thank you, sister, for always caring for me so deeply with such compassion and generosity. Your heart is of pure gold.
To my best friend, April, for her warm heart, complete honesty, and constant encouragement. It is truly a blessing to have a friend who cares more about my happiness and building up my spirit, than about being petty or competitive. Thank God for you in my life! You understand me and you don’t judge me. You are a rare find and gift from God.
To my heart family: Mama Ruth Ann and Dad Bill, and to my heart brother Dustin. Thank you for being a part of my life and for always loving me. I am eternally grateful for your sacrifices and unconditional love. You gave me a safe place to live and loved me like your own when my life flipped upside down at fifteen years old. You were the first to tell me I was intelligent. The first to tell me I could be anything I wanted to be. The first to ever tell me I was beautiful. You made me feel valuable, special, and worth it. And you mean the world to me. Because of you, I was able to grow into the woman I am today. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
To my other precious family members, I love so very much: My mother Norma and Papa Ed. You are forever in my heart and always on my mind. You enrich my life and bring me joy.
And finally, to the loving memory of my father, Gregory. His early death made me understand early on, that life is a gift too precious to waste, the heart too delicate to fill with worry or hate, and life too full of wonder to be left unexplored.
The resent death of my oldest sister, Esther, reminded me of this once again. Never before had these words rang so true. This lesson of long ago was reignited within me and shook me to my core.
Life is short. Live it well.
Use what talents you possess. The woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best.
— Henry Van Dyke
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
Get a Grip
Swing
Gravity
Angelica’s
Beyond
Discovery
Innocence
The Deceiver
Honored Guest
Lion’s Roar
Unlocked
Perfect Gift
Unexpected Hero
Cleansed
Zip It
Bygones
Heart and Soul
Planned Deception
Echo
Trifling Retaliations
Quid Pro Quo
To Be Continued In…
Books By
Follow Information
Author’s Note
When I received word in January 2017 that the traditional publishing house I had first published this book through in 2013 was closing, Tate Publishing and Enterprises LLC, I was upset. Well, truth be told, I was more than upset. I was angry, frustrated, and nearly in tears. All that time and effort I’d poured into getting these books off the ground seemed to have been wasted. And the promise of publishing more books felt as though it was being stolen from me.
But then I felt the Lord whispering a gentle reminder into my heart. It wasn’t for nothing. It wasn’t in vain. I had been given the opportunity and the privilege to publish three books the “traditional way”. I’d learned a lot about being an author and experienced the production process of publishing three books. I had knowledge I could draw from.
I decided then and there, rather than let the bad news devastate my dreams, I would use what I’d learned to republish these books myself. It was a hidden blessing; an opportunity to take more control of my future and the destiny of my books.
It’s been a long road, but here it is! The first book in The Deceiver Saga, The Deceiver, back in e-book! To all my fans reading this, I say to you, THANK YOU for your support and patience. I appreciate you more than you could ever know.
Prologue
On a good night, I’ll dream of the moments when we’d find ourselves laughing hysterically over nothing or running circles in the front yard playing squirt tag with our mom before she died. Squealing with the joyous laughter only little girls can exude, we would run with all our might away from the wild, ever- reaching spray of the water hose. I could never run as fast as you, Vivian. We would always have so much fun—the three of us, just as long as our father wasn’t there to ruin it, like a black cloud sweeping over a perfect summer sun.
I’ve even awakened to the sound of my own laughter as I’ve dreamed, hearing you call out my name as we’d play hide-and- seek—“Melanie? Little Melanie, I see you.” For a moment I’d remember our childhood games and recall how much you loved to tickle me until I had to plead, my eyes streaming with tears of mirth, “Vivian! Please, please let me go!”
On a good night, I’ll dream about those rare, peaceful evenings together when no one was yelling at us, no one was hitting us, no one was touching us. We were left alone and able to just be who we were—young girls full of dreams and hopes of someday escaping it all and doing as we pleased.
On those rare nights, we would lay awake in our beds, staying up way past our bedtime, whispering secrets and sharing the insignificant details of our day to bring an element of comfort, despite, or perhaps because of their tedium. On those nights when we were alone, we would make up stories to lull each other to sleep upon the wings of imagination, taking each other to places we would never go and living the life we could only dream of. On those nights we weren’t afraid to utter a sound for fear of getting caught or, worse, punished by the unrestrained heavy hand of Father’s rage.
Those are the images I dream of on a good night. Those are the moments I want to remember forever. Just my big sister and me. No smell of Father’s beer-soaked breath. No sound of his heavy footsteps coming down the hall, coming ever closer to our room. I hold tight to those good memories as if they are the air itself. If I don’t I would have suffocated long ago.
But sometimes I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’ll forget your face: the color of your eyes when the light would shine upon them, making them as clear as a calm Mediterranean Sea. The set of your jaw when you’d get stubborn and refuse to give in to what you knew wasn’t right, even if you were too afraid to say it out loud.
Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll forget how seeing you smile would always make me crack a small, shy smile of my own, despite the depth of my melancholy. And no matter how bad things got or how hopeless things appeared to be, you had a way of always making me feel a little bit better, a little bit safer, a little more hopeful that one day our prayers would be answered and things would get better.
Then there was your laugh. I never, never want to forget the joyous sound of your infectious laughter. It was the sound of better days, a promise of hope on the horizon and our soon-to- be-had freedom.
Sometimes I dream of your laugh echoing around me, but your face cannot be seen through the thickness of the shifting shadows lurking around me, clawing at me like taunting demons scavenging for my flesh. In those moments the dreams turn the feelings of peace into a growing anxiety that morph into the dead coldness of fear. For it is only then that I remember I cannot see you, because you are not there to see. You are already gone. And I am alone once more.
Nine years! It’s been nine years, and it already feels like a lifetime! I miss you so much; I don’t know if this hole in my soul will ever be right again. Your absence has left me broken, and I fear nothing can repair the damage my past has caused, the lack of trust I have in others, and the insurmountable feeling I will always be alone.
Some days I don’t think I can even breathe lest I gasp through my tears and scream out your name with all that is left within me. Sometimes I don’t know if I want to live another day without you. But then I feel guilty I even dared to think such a thing. I know you’d be disappointed in me if you knew.
Do you? Do you know? Have you been watching over me still? Can you feel it when I think about you? Can you hear me when I wake up crying out your name? I hope so. I desperately hope so. For if not, then you really are gone forever, and that I could not live with.
I have to believe your soul, your spirit, the essence that made you who you were lingers on in the peaceful heights of heaven. You were my angel on earth, and I’m sure God would want you back with him. Surely, he would not have left your soul to evaporate like a rain drop falling through the eye of a volcano, consumed by the scorching depths of hell.
Some days I almost forget to think about you. My life almost goes on as if the best part of it hasn’t long since left me. Then I hear a song, see your favorite kind of flowers, or feel the arms of a friend giving me a hug, and I think of you. I remember you. And I miss you more than ever.
Will I ever see you again? Will I ever know what it could be to have you in my life once more? No. No, I don’t think I ever will. Life has never been so kind as to give me such a gift.
When Father told me you were gone for good, he was drunk. He laughed and peered down at me with that sneering grin full of self-satisfaction. I could have killed him. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. If only I had been a man and not a frail little girl. Or if only I had been bigger, I would have tried. But I was powerless. With him I was always powerless—am powerless. And I hate him for making me feel that way. I hate him for both of us.
For a while I chose to believe it was just a sick joke. A game he had designed to hurt me worse than his fists or belts ever could have. But then I learned the truth. I saw it on the news myself and knew it wasn’t a cruel game. You were gone. In a house of violence you lived, and with violence you had died.
You’ve left me empty, alone, and utterly lost. All our plans have been forgotten, and our secrets taken with you. I’m left struggling to make it through each day without you. It is so unfair! Why did it have to be you, Vivian? Anyone else but you! Anyone else but me.
Get a Grip
Chapter One
Iopened my eyes slowly, feeling groggy and hung over. My eyes fluttered as I fought my fatigue, and I tried to pull my consciousness to this moment instead of the strange dream I had been having. Something about large, rustlings feathers? Yes, that was it. Large, white feathers brushing past my face, tickling me. I could hear the sound from them beating the air with a vibrating whoosh.
It was fading so fast now, slipping away like watching a stone fall through the surface of the water to the depths beneath.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
All that was left of it in my mind were the tips of feathers brushing past my downturned face and…and rooftops flashing past me far below. The feeling of being terrified by the height washed through me but so did the memory of something else. I had been warm and safe somehow. I hadn’t been in danger.
Whoosh.
It was gone.
Oh, whatever. I couldn’t care about anything as much as the awful feeling in my stomach I suddenly became disturbingly aware of. That must have been what had woken me. What was that whooshing sound about again? Or was it I’d been moaning when I’d come to? After all, it was still dark out. I didn’t have to pee. So what was my reason for waking?
Feeling frustrated and drowsy, the desire to stop caring and go back to sleep washed over my dazed awareness. I fought at the drowsiness, but something didn’t feel right. My body felt cold and stiff from being cramped up. My stomach was twisting inside me, making me feel queasy. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d say I felt motion sick.
Melanie, what have you gotten yourself into this time?
Exhaustion pulled at me, and my eyes fluttered at the dim light. A strong sensation swept across my thoughts just as I almost drifted off to sleep, and I felt my body jerk. I shouldn’t try to go back to sleep; something was wrong. I had forgotten something important.
“Ahh,” I moaned, irritated.
I needed to stay awake for a moment longer. I needed to understand why I was lying on something so hard and cold. Crap. What had happened to my bed? Had I fallen off of it again? No, that couldn’t be it. I had a sheep rug thrown across the floor in front of my bed so I could happily snuggle my feet into it every morning. I didn’t usually wake up quickly, having to hit my alarm about three or four times before I’d surrender and force myself to wake. The sheep rug helped to gently transition me to the land of the living. Some people have their coffee. I have my sheep rug. So why then isn’t the ground soft and fuzzy? This wasn’t my rug. This wasn’t my bedroom. That did it. I was definitely awake now.
Having realized I wasn’t at home, my mind prickled with panic, and adrenaline surged through me like no amount of caffeine could have. My senses cleared up with an electrifying jolt. I immediately became aware I was lying on my side with my knees tucked up to my chest in a tight, cramped ball. My arms were hugging me, trying to make up for the cold night air swirling past me in a mild breeze.
I squinted and blinked my eyes to try and focus them. I couldn’t see anything. It took me a moment to realize from my current position there wasn’t much to see in front of me, because something was consuming my entire area of sight. I think it was a wall of some kind.
Unraveling my arms and legs, I readied myself to get to my feet. I rolled up onto my hands and knees and pushed off the ground to stand, slowly straightening my spine. It felt like I had been in a tight little ball for hours or even days, and I creaked as I stood up the rest of the way, tightness in my body concerned me and a weakness in my legs made me feel the same heavy weight of exhaustion I had felt a moment ago.
Staggering, I managed to get my feet steady under me, though they felt loose and numb, my legs a little wobbly, like a new colt trying to stand for the first time. I braced myself against the wall with my hands spread out flat, trying to grip something for support as I felt my equilibrium swirl and my head expand with a rush of pressure.
“Whoa.”
Major head rush. I swayed for a moment, my eyes closed tight. Then it hit me.
Oh God, I’m going to be sick.
I felt the nausea push up into my throat.
I will not throw up. I will not throw up!
My stomach was churning, and my head was spinning. It felt like I just got off Six Flag’s newest and fasted 4-G roller coaster. Well, hot dog. Where’s my refund?
I slumped against the cool, brick wall, my forehead pressing into. I could feel little specks of brick and dust grind into my skin. My hands slid slowly down the wall as I felt strength drain from me, and I lost my ability to focus my eyes once more.
I am not going to pass out. I refuse! Stay awake!
My vision began to fade. A dark shadow began to swarm the edges of my vision, pressing inward until all I could see was what was right in front of my face, about half an inch from my eyes actually. Not that it was worth looking at.
This wall is so dirty. Ew, and I’m touching it!
“Nasty!”
The repulsion for what I was now trying so desperately to focus on brought some awareness back to me with a slap and distracted me from the swishing of my insides. It looked as if a hundred years of black dust and street pollution had seeped into the red bricks, saturating every pore of the ancient wall. Some purplish chewing gum looked about a millennium old was stuck to the wall, nearly touching my face.
Why is my head pressed into this wall again? Oh, right, I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t even know where I was. Crap, why is this happening to me? I quickly racked my brain for a memory I fearfully suspected I wouldn’t find.
