Devil's Deceit: The Shelton Family Legacy: 2, page 1
Devil’s Deceit
The Shelton Family Legacy: 2
L.A. McGinnis
Copyright L.A. McGinnis 2021
All rights reserved
Editor: Chris Hall: The Editing Hall
Cover Design: Janus Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form or by any means, without express permission from the author or publisher. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, including businesses, companies, events or locales is purely coincidental. This author acknowledges the trademarked status of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN-13: 978-1-970112-33-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-970112-34-4
Published in the United States of America by Fools Journey Press, 2021
Please visit my website at www.lamcginnis.com
Contents
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
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Also by L.A. McGinnis
I never imagined I’d be here again.
Standing in the sterile entrance of my parent’s Manhattan mansion, a bead of sweat trickling down my spine, fear kindling in my belly.
I wasn’t sweating from the heat, since it was March and still snowing, but nerves had no respect for what month it was.
From where I stood, my parents might be my enemies, but damn, did they have good taste.
These days, my mother’s decorating acumen leaned toward black and white, if the soaring marble foyer was any indication. Not a hint of color anywhere, no pictures of benevolent ancestors, no rugs to muffle sharp footfalls, where every step was sharp as a gunshot.
So. Much. Marble. But I wasn’t here to have my family’s wealth thrown in my face.
I was here to destroy them.
“This way, Miss Smith.” Duncan, the butler, had served my family for eighty years.
A shiver of nerves followed the bead of sweat, but there was no recognition in his face. I flashed him a confident smile—then followed his stiff, black jacket down the main corridor.
“For your interview today, Mr. Shelton will be using the main conference room.”
Shelton House, built in 1901 for my great-grandfather by Richard Farrow—the architect discreetly instrumental for the Smithsonian, the National Archives, and the Chicago Federal Building—occupied an entire block in Manhattan Upper West side, and my parents owned every inch.
We diverted to the right, and I met the eyes of the man heading in the opposite direction, then did a double take.
General Robert Clayburn, head of Elemental Surveillance and Control.
Heart pounding, I walked faster.
If that man knew I was an Unregistered Elemental, I’d go right back to prison without passing go. Thankfully, he didn’t have a clue, but I wondered why someone that important was lurking around Shelton House.
Duncan and I moved through the grand entrance into the more utilitarian part of the building, where offices and potted palms lined the elegant mahogany corridors.
My heels skidded on the smooth marble. I cursed my foolishness.
I’d practiced every part of today’s interview a million times but forgot to put these ridiculous shoes on until this morning. Now I prayed I remained upright and didn’t blow this one opportunity I’d worked so hard for.
“Right in here, miss.” Duncan motioned me into the conference room, complete with a Tiffany chandelier. I took a seat, crossing my hands in my lap and offering him a polite smile.
“I appreciate your help.”
I’d always liked Duncan. He’d hardly ever yelled at me, and while he looked cold enough to already be dead, he’d always found an opportunity to slip me a piece of butterscotch.
Today, he got me a glass of water and set the icy cup carefully in front of me on an official gold and green Shelton Industries coaster. “Good luck, young lady.”
Luck has nothing to do with it.
The flutter in my belly turned painful. Step one out of the way. Now, things would get interesting. Also, for me, when things often went wrong.
In my previous life, I’d had a private-investigation gig I loved, my own downtown office, and a host of clients. Well, a couple steady clients and Seattle’s biggest crime lord.
Then, in true Miranda McHale fashion, my life went sideways. Despite my best efforts, it was still going sideways, though I was determined to get things back on track.
Sitting in my father’s office, posing as a job applicant, was a good start. I had on a Prada suit and faked credentials. I also looked nothing like myself.
Over the past three months, I’d learned to shape-shift into a stunning blonde with a killer body, completely different except for my blue eyes, which I couldn’t figure out how to change. But my biggest hurdle wasn’t my appearance, it would be overcoming my father’s hatred of his fellow humans.
If I could do that, I’d be in, and my quest for revenge could continue.
When Andrew Shelton appeared, his pale gaze skimmed over me, leaving a shiver in its wake. He looked exactly like I remembered, cold and without humanity, his eyes surveying me and his desk chair with equal disinterest.
Andrew had aged considerably since I’d last seen him, but he was still a tall whip of a man, with thinning brown hair and gaunt cheeks. The kind of person you wouldn’t look at twice on the street. Not that his feet ever touched New York pavement, except from his limo to the front door of this building, and that was swept daily.
God, I hated him.
Keeping my face set in a polite mask suddenly took as much effort as moving air in and out of my lungs. Both of them seemed pointless when what I wanted to do was incinerate this asshole. I pulled in a breath. I hadn’t expected a reaction this vicious.
Tone it down, Andy. Just get him to hire you. Outing my magic would only set me back to square one of my plan, no matter how satisfying the revenge.
“Miss Smith. Your credentials are impressive.”
They sure as hell should be. It took me three months to piece them together.
“Columbia?”
“Magna Cum Laude.” I let a smug smile float across my face. Any more than a hint and I’d seem too eager.
“And it says here you’ve been with Whitney and Barrows for ten years.”
“Yes, WB was a good firm. I enjoyed working there.” I took a slow sip of water, then slid it back onto the coaster.
His gaze flicked from the resume up to my face. No change in his expression, no narrowing of eyes, and my heart went back to thumping normally for the first time since I’d walked into this house.
He didn’t recognize me.
But my voice… that was something I couldn’t change so easily.
“They speak very highly of you.”
They’d better, since that was me, speaking about myself.
“I felt it was time to try something new. Private sector work was calling to me.”
“The money isn’t bad, either.” This time, those eyes found mine and held. Of course. Dear old Dad would consider greed to be the biggest motivator. Best to let him think he’s right.
“Of course, that’s part of it.” I casually shrugged beneath my designer jacket. “Who doesn’t want to move up in this world?”
There you go, Dad. All your favorite things wrapped up in one neat little package. Ambition, avarice, and a touch of hubris. His crooked smile told me everything I needed to know.
I was in.
“I don’t know if you follow the news…” Every day, asshole. “Our personal attorney has recently run into some… personal difficulties, and Shelton Industries finds itself in the unusual position of having to engage outside legal counsel. You come highly recommended.”
Don’t ya just love it when a good plan comes together?
“I’m honored you thought of me.” God, I should have been an actor. “When Sophia…” Dad’s eyebrows squeezed together in displeasure. “Mrs. Shelton contacted me, and I was honored to be considered.”
“The extent of your corporate experience came to her attention.” The papers rustled as he laid them on the huge expanse of table. “Between my wife’s endorsement and your stellar recommendations, you are at the top of our list. But let’s talk about work ethic, shall we?”
For the next twenty minutes, we did the usual interview dance.
A mix of half-truths and subtle maneuverings, both of us determined to come out on top. I didn’t discover anything earth-shattering about dear old Dad, but he did find something curious about me.
“Your first name is Miranda?”
“It was a popular name when I was born.” I’d kept my real first name, maybe as a way to thumb my nose at him. Also, because I was bad at remembering aliases.
Keep it simple, stupid, was my mantra.
“Indeed, it was.” He set my resume to the side. “I’ve always been fond of it.”
“It’s a good name.” I didn’t so much as blink as I stared him down. “Where will I be working? I know we did the interview here, but…”
Please let it be here since I already know the building.
“Yes. This is where you’ll be, second floor, at the business end of the building. You will have an office down the hall from mine and will report directly to me, no one else. Is that clear? We’ve designated the south end of the building as the Shelton Industries corporation section, and the top floors are a private residence.”
He misinterpreted my expression for confusion. “We like to keep our business close to home.” He explained. “It makes life more convenient.”
Yes, this will make things much easier.
“The north end of the building is off limits to employees. As is the basement.”
Color me intrigued. I’d loved that basement when I was a kid.
“Jacqueline, my personal secretary, will contact you to coordinate schedules and issue you a keycard, but because of the nature of our… situation, it would be best if you started immediately.” He pushed up from his chair, exactly thirty minutes since I’d walked through the door. “Welcome to the Shelton team.”
On his way past, he squeezed my shoulder. I cringed beneath the weight of his hand—what if he divined it was me—but he kept moving.
Glad to see you’re still clueless, Dad, in addition to being a murderous psychopath.
Once I was safely locked inside my apartment, I dropped my disguise.
I held my breath and pushed, forcing my magic to fade, allowing my flesh to relax after being held in this unnatural configuration for hours. The transformation didn’t hurt—much—but metamorphosis ached, as skin and bones rearranged themselves back to their natural state. As always, it took me a moment to recover, my stomach churning until I was back to my God-given features.
Miranda Smith, owner of killer high heels, graduate of Columbia and Duke, valued partner at LA’s most prestigious law firm and current private counsel to Andrew Shelton, ceased to exist. In her place was Miranda McHale, federal fugitive and wanted felon.
In reality, I was the anti-Miranda Smith. With dark curly hair I’d never managed to tame, a round face sprinkled with freckles, and intensely blue eyes—exactly like my mother’s—I was as far away from prissy blonde as you could get.
But enough about me.
I’d just accomplished the impossible. I’d fooled my father, and now I was perfectly positioned to serve on his inner circle. Or spy on him, as it were.
I would bring their empire down around their ears.
I would bury them in the rubble that was Shelton Industries, and I would dance on their bones.
But for now, I needed to sleep. And eat. Shape-shifting always took it out of me, and I stuffed a Rice Krispies treat or three into my mouth, chewing vigorously as I stripped off the ridiculously uncomfortable clothes. Once I was dressed in something normal—yoga pants and an old t-shirt—I settled into my favorite chair and surveyed my wall, papered with photos and clues in an admittedly poorly thought-out design.
My crime board might be a mess—I’d substituted pink yarn for string—but overall, things were going to plan. I’d convinced—I refused to say emotionally blackmailed—and old friend to get to this point, not that I felt guilty or anything.
Henry taught me to shape-shift, and I’d mastered that skill set like a motherfucker.
New identity? Check.
I’d set myself up in a swanky apartment a few minutes from Shelton House, putting my PI skills to good use until I had both Andrew’s and Sophia’s schedules memorized.
A revenge plan? Check.
I’d dug up enough dirt on Robert Klassen, Esquire—Dad’s former attorney—that he was now embroiled in the world’s ugliest divorce and facing embezzlement charges. Page six of the NYC Chronicle—part of Shelton Industries media division—gloated his children were estranged. I doubted he’d make it to trial, because while Andrew Shelton didn’t suffer fools, he really didn’t suffer people stealing from him.
Long story short, I’d created a job opening.
Tailor made for me… or rather, Miranda Smith, Esquire.
How did I get to this point, you might ask?
After my parents tried to kill me when I was ten, I became a pickpocket-wanna-be-PI in Seattle. I was rescued by none other than Lincoln Amherst, the city’s most genteel crime lord and art forger. He trained me in all things magical, and the minute life began moving in the right direction, I was framed for Lincoln’s murder and went on the run.
Then came my daring rescue of a high-level Elemental from the Devilton Maximum Containment Facility—a nice word for prison—nearly causing the end of the world, losing Gabriel, and having to start all over.
At least this time, I had a million dollars. And a crime board, plus a plan for revenge most sweet against my duplicitous family. I poured myself a glass if Pinot and toasted my mother’s picture, dead center on my board.
You people are going down. And I’ll watch it happen.
Two weeks later, the job was going better than I’d ever imagined. Andrew had skipped the customary ninety-day probationary period where owners pretended everything was normal within their corrupt organization in order not to rouse suspicion.
My second day, he’d asked me to draw up paperwork that would definitely get me disbarred in this state—if I was a real lawyer, which I was not. Right now, I had so much compromising documentation on my desk, I didn’t even know where to start. This material was a goldmine of illegal land purchases, city official payoffs, and corporate blackmail.
“I’ll need those documents on the Klausky deal.”
The only bad part of this arrangement was Andrew never announced himself; he walked right in. Which meant if my skinsuit wasn’t perfect all the time, I’d end up on a slab. He strode through my office, wove between the leather chairs, not stopping until his hands were braced on my desk, totally invading my personal space.
The man needed a serious lesson in office protocol.
“Here you go.” I handed him a sheaf of neatly stapled papers. “Are you sure you don’t want the electronic copies, instead?”
I mean, I wasn’t a tree hugger or anything, but paper was so… last century.
“I don’t like anything electronic, it’s not reliable. Paper is better.” He picked them up and did the shuffle-without-even-looking-because-I don’t-understand-a-word move.
Well, that makes two of us.
