By Emily Lloyd-Jones

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The X-Men meets Ocean’s Eleven in this edge-of-your-seat sci-fi adventure about a band of “super” criminals.

When the deadly MK virus swept across the planet, a vaccine was created to stop the epidemic, but it came with some unexpected side effects. A small percentage of the population developed superhero-like powers, and Americans suffering from these so-called adverse effects were given an ultimatum: Serve the country or be declared a traitor.

Some people chose a third option: live a life of crime.

Seventeen-year-old Ciere Giba has the handy ability to change her appearance at will. She’s what’s known as an illusionist. She’s also a thief. After crossing a gang of mobsters, Ciere must team up with a group of fellow super powered criminals on a job that most would have considered impossible: a hunt for the formula that gave them their abilities. It was supposedly destroyed years ago–but what if it wasn’t?

Government agents are hot on their trail, and the lines between good and bad, us and them, and freedom and entrapment are blurred as Ciere and the rest of her crew become embroiled in a deadly race that could cost them their lives.


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Table of Contents

A Sneak Peek of Deceptive

Copyright Page

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For they would inherit a world so devastated by explosions and poison and fire that today we cannot even conceive of its horrors. So let us try to turn the world away from war. Let us make the most of this opportunity, and every opportunity, to reduce tension, to slow down the perilous nuclear arms race, and to check the world's slide toward final annihilation.

—President John F. Kennedy, Radio and Television Address to the American People on the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, July 26, 1963



Ciere Giba wakes to pounding on her hotel door. "This is the NYPD! We have a warrant to search this room."

Sitting up is more difficult than it should be—the sheets are tangled around her naked body. Clutching the duvet to her chest, she frantically takes stock of her surroundings. A teenage boy is facedown on the carpet, one arm thrown out, and a miniature bottle of tequila clutched in his fist. His shirt is missing, and there's a tattoo of a Celtic knot on his left shoulder, the black ink just visible on his dark skin. Ciere would know that tattoo anywhere—it belongs to her best friend, Devon Lyre.

The pounding starts again.

Ciere leaps from the bed. Any second now, NYPD will burst into the room. The first thing they'll do is trip over Devon, and the second is that they'll see her pink backpack—the one currently holding hundreds in stolen cash.

Bracing herself, she heaves Devon under the bed. He goes with a soft mumble of protest. Good thing he's out—she can only hope he won't wake during an inopportune moment.

After kicking the backpack beneath the bed, Ciere leaps atop the mattress and crouches there, poised for action.

She draws in a long breath and brings a single memory to the forefront of her mind: the hotel room when she first entered it—the faded white carpet, the duvet stretched tight across the bed, and the floral artwork on the walls.

Holding that memory firmly in place, she reaches out and overlays the room's current reality with that image. The illusion is like throwing a sheet over a table—it covers everything. The room's appearance transforms from messy to pristine in a matter of seconds. It's her talent, her immunity.

The illusion flickers and vanishes.

Too bad she's not very talented.

A hard voice rings out. "We're opening the door!"

Ciere hears the click and whirr of the lock; the police must have retrieved a master key from the front desk.

She swallows a curse. Panic flares in her chest, and it gives her the motivation she needs to try again. Concentrating hard, she once more projects the image of the pristine hotel room from her mind and over her surroundings. The illusion slides over the bed, the walls, the table, the chairs. It even extends into the bathroom.

All at once, pressure builds behind her eyes and temples. She's pretty sure this is what divers feel when they go too deep underwater—like being squeezed from every angle. But the illusion is in place, and it's not a moment too soon.

The door is flung wide, and a cop's expansive girth appears framed in the doorway. He peers into every corner of the room before edging farther inside, his gun held at the ready.

"Clear," the cop says, and two more follow him inside.

"There's no one here," the first cop says as he stares into the bathroom. "Looks like the place hasn't even been slept in."

The second cop, a woman, mutters, "This better be the right room." She pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it back into her messy ponytail. Louder, she adds, "What did the manager say?"

The third cop, a middle-aged man, strides to the window and throws the blinds aside. Morning sunlight spills through the window, making Ciere's eyes ache. The sour taste of old vodka and peanuts lingers on the back of her tongue. Of all the days to be hungover.

"This is the right room, I'm sure," the first cop answers, peering under the bed.

"No criminal is stupid enough to book a hotel room with stolen cash." The female cop jerks several dresser drawers open and slams them shut. "This was a damn decoy."

Relief makes Ciere's muscles go limp. This is going to work. The cops will leave. She is about to relax when a loud BEEEEP reverberates through the room.

"What was that?" the first cop says, hand drifting to his belt.

Ciere goes cold. That beep is familiar; it's her text alert. Crap—she must have forgotten to silence her phone. She bites down hard on her lip, using the pain as a focal point to keep her concentration. She can hold an illusion around her own body for hours, but extending it into her surroundings is like trying to envelop the room with her skin. There's pain and stretching, and it hurts.

The woman cop zeroes back in on the room, eyes sharp and nostrils flared. She lifts her gun from its holster and slowly makes her way toward the bed. Her gun is still pointed at the floor, but Ciere knows how fast that barrel could swing up. A chilled breeze coming in through the air conditioner ghosts over her bare skin and she shivers. Despite the fact that the cops can't see her, Ciere finds herself drawing her arms protectively around her chest. It's a useless gesture; a single bullet would tear through her easily. She's had close calls before, but she's never been shot. How long would it take to die of a gunshot wound? She imagines how it would feel for a small ball of metal to slam into her—slam through her. Even so, a bullet would be better than discovery. As an illusionist, she would be taken into custody and given a choice between only two options: work for the government or head for confinement in Blanchard Penitentiary.

What's worse is that Devon will be considered her accomplice. He's been in trouble before, but nothing like this. Could his dad buy him out of a felony charge?

The cop steps closer to the bed. All she has to do is reach out and she'll touch Ciere. Illusion can fool many senses, but touch isn't one of them.

Ciere holds her breath. Her chest aches and her lungs burn, but an exhalation could give her away. She is close enough to the woman to see her pores and the way her hair curls around one ear. Too close. She's too close. Just a few more inches—

The cop turns and stalks away from the bed. "I think it came from the fire alarm."

The first cop snorts. "So we can't tell the manager if he's got criminals squatting in his hotel or not, but we can tell him that the fire alarm batteries need replacing. Great."

"We'll post Greg in the lobby," the other man replies. "If the thief is still here, we'll find him." He walks out the door, holstering his gun. The first cop follows. The last cop, the woman, pauses with her hand on the doorknob. Her gaze sweeps over the hotel room one last time.

The door clicks shut, and the illusion shatters.

Ciere falls back onto the bed, panting and trembling in reaction to the unspent adrenaline still humming through her blood. She sprawls there for a long moment, hyperaware of her surroundings—the crinkly material of the duvet, the rumble of the air conditioner, and the sunlight beaming down on her. Scrambling off the bed, she goes to the door and rises to her tiptoes, peering through the peephole. She can just make out three fuzzy figures strolling down the hall in the direction of the elevators. Ciere waits, heart still pounding, watching as the three cops vanish around a corner. What if this is a ruse? What if they come back?

When a full minute has passed, she relaxes. "Okay," she says aloud, "not the best hotel wake-up call I've ever had."

She retrieves one of the hotel's robes and slips it on. The terry cloth is soft and clean, and she belts it around her waist with a feeling of relief.

Crouching, she reaches under the bed and grabs her backpack. It's a faded pink, edged with glittering bits of plastic. The figurine of a tiny white cat with a pink bow on its head dangles from the main zipper. Her mother gave Ciere the backpack when she was ten, telling Ciere the cat's name was Hello Kitty. It was part of some foreign franchise, an export that made it out before Japan closed its borders.

Ciere digs into the front compartment, and her fingers close on the hard plastic of a cell phone. The phone is a cheap, disposable number—one of the many that Ciere keeps shoved in her backpack.

The text reads: You robbed a bank??? The area code is from Pennsylvania, so it can only be from Kit Copperfield.

She texts back. How the hell did you know?

Because someone walked out of a Newark bank with $40,000.

Ciere grins. And you immediately thought of me?

The only other thing taken was a Hello Kitty bobblehead. The news is calling you "The Kitty Burglar."

That makes Ciere laugh. The Hello Kitty bobblehead sits on the bedside table, a testament to her recent criminal success. She nabbed it from a clerk's desk, thinking it would match her backpack.

Why should you care? Ciere's fingers dart over the keypad and press Send.

I told you to keep a low profile. Come home. Now.


Because I'm the closest thing you have to a parental authority.

A moment later, a new message appears.

Also, I have a new job for you.


Not over the phone.

It's enough to intrigue Ciere; she texts him back, saying they'll meet later. She has other things to worry about at the moment.

As if on cue, Devon makes a choked noise. He sounds as if he's gagging on his own morning breath. A hand appears, groping along the carpet as he tries to pull himself out from under the bed. It appears to take great effort for him to roll onto his back. He grinds the heel of one hand into his eyes, trying to focus his bleary gaze.

"Did you shove me under the bed?" His words are overlaid with a light English accent.

"No," Ciere lies, straight-faced. "Why did I wake up naked?"

Devon rolls his shoulders and sits up. He tilts like a man who has stepped aboard a boat for the first time and is unsure how to keep his feet. "You were blathering on about how your clothes were a metaphor for how restrictive society is, and you needed to be free." He looks down at his naked chest, and adds, "I tried to do the same, for solidarity's sake, but I passed out before I could get to my trousers."

"Well"—Ciere rubs a hand over her eyes—"at least I'm a philosophical drunk."

She staggers into the bathroom, ready to wash the remnants of last night's makeup from her face and hair. Pushing the bathroom door open brings a surprise. There is something in the bathtub—something she doesn't remember from the night before.

She remembers robbing the bank and going to a private messaging service to send most of the money to one of her semi-illegal accounts. It's standard practice; there's no way the feds can touch an account in Switzerland, even if they trace it back to her. The downside is that Ciere can't touch it, either. But it'll be there if she ever decides to flee the country—in her line of work that is a definite possibility.

She remembers getting on a bus out of Newark and arriving in Manhattan. She remembers the rave—the shots of clear vodka, with drops of red thrown in, held suspended in the liquid like tiny gems. She can recall the burn of the drinks as they slid down her throat, reveling in the heat and weightlessness. She remembers the flashing lights, the pills she saw passed from hand to hand, the thrum of the music in her bones, and the swell of dancing bodies all around her. The crowd moved in waves, empty cups surfing a tide of hands. People screamed just to make noise—although it couldn't be heard above the blaring music. The crowd seemed to emanate joy and energy—laced with fear and desperation. She vaguely remembers Devon's arm around her waist and her hand on his shoulder as they steadied themselves enough to walk up the stairs into the hotel. She hit every button in the elevator because the lights were pretty.

But here's the thing—she doesn't remember how a dog got into the bathtub.

Ciere doesn't own a dog. She's never even seen this particular dog before. It's small and white, curled into a ball, and dead asleep in the middle of the bathtub. She reaches down and touches the soft fur. The pup's nose twitches, and it quivers in that way animals do when dreaming. Thankfully, her illusion reached into the bathroom. She unknowingly hid the dog from view when the cops were searching for her.

"Please tell me we didn't knock over a pet store," Ciere says.

Devon fumbles with the coffeemaker, his fingers trembling as they rip open a fresh filter. "I think you found him in an alley." Devon is an eidos, which means he has perfect recall. But just like a camera taking pictures with a dirty lens, things get fuzzy when he's inebriated.

The puppy twitches itself awake and rolls to its feet. Its eyes are big and black, the white fur stained brown around its face. It sees Ciere and begins wagging its tail frantically.

She holds out a hand for the pup to sniff. It knocks its head against her palm, all but begging aloud for a scratch. She obliges, rubbing its ears. The dog leans into her and its eyes droop almost shut. Ciere fights back a surge of warmth and protectiveness—she wants to pick up the puppy and snuggle it to her chest. Maybe feed it some strips of bacon and smooth out the tangles in its white fur. She swallows and tries to shove that reaction aside. Emotions wreak havoc when she's on the job. She learned that a long time ago. So instead of cuddling the dog, she picks it up and sets it on the bathroom floor. It can fend for itself. It will have to if it wants to survive.

"It needs a bath. You sure it's male?" she calls to Devon.

He answers, "How the hell should I know? You think the first thing I do when I'm pissed is gawk at a dog's bollocks?"

The puppy follows Ciere out of the bathroom. She leans up against the dresser while Devon plugs in the coffeemaker. When she tells him about the cops, he looks startled. "Christ. Talk about close calls. I know I'm supposed to be the manly-slash-brave type, but I've got a new plan. I say we find a rock to hide under."

"We're going to Philadelphia," Ciere says. "Kit texted me. He has a new job for us."

Sitting together on the mussed bed, sipping cups of coffee, they watch as the puppy tries to dig a hole in the floor. This is the first time Devon has partnered with her as a fellow crook. The alliance is only temporary—Devon's summer break ends in August. He'll be shipped back to some elite prep school where he'll show up drunk to every class, if he shows at all. As an eidos, he could ace everything. Which is exactly why he flunks out. It's safer to go unnoticed.

But for the moment, none of that matters.

They are young. They are criminals. They are glorious.

They are immune.



When Ciere was eight, her mother told her the story of how the immunities came into existence.

Once upon a time, there was a pandemic.

It was a new strain of meningococcal disease. Named Meningococcas Krinotas—or simply the MK plague—it embodied the worst traits of both viral and bacterial meningitis. Because it was a virus, antibiotics had no effect, and the current viral vaccines were ineffective.

The result was a disease that, when diagnosed, was always followed by a funeral.

In 2017, the virus first cropped up in Chad and it went mostly unnoticed. Even when the disease spread to Niger, Mali, and Algeria, only a few virologists took notice. But when Egypt's morgues overflowed, the rest of the globe finally woke up.

Countries scrambled to make sense of the new disease, and governments advised their citizens to avoid Africa. The warnings came too late. A woman returned from a trip to the pyramids. She took one step into John F. Kennedy International Airport and there was no going back. The disease swiftly spread throughout America, to Europe, to the Middle East, and into Asia.

Schools shut down; children stayed indoors; public areas were avoided; hospitals had to turn people away. A black market in useless antibiotics raged, some of them genuine but most of them not. People who usually dealt in pot or coke found themselves selling penicillin. Not that it helped.

About six months after the MK plague landed on American soil, a spot of hope finally appeared. Fiacre Pharmaceuticals announced a new vaccine called Praevenir. It wasn't a cure, but the vaccine provided immunity against MK. Almost immediately the vaccine sold out, and Fiacre Pharmaceuticals was hard-pressed to keep up with the demand. The company, small by industry standards, was headed by owner and CEO Brenton Fiacre. His company enjoyed overnight success. The commercials for Praevenir flashed on televisions worldwide.

We exist in uncertain times. But there is one thing you can count on. Praevenir—the only vaccine that protects against the deadly MK virus. Protect yourself and your loved ones. Be certain. Praevenir. (Side effects may include itching at the site of injection, dizziness, weakness, fever, and rash. More serious side effects may include fainting, convulsions, and difficulty breathing. Praevenir is not recommended for women who are nursing or pregnant.)

Later, the blame was placed on undue pressure to distribute the vaccine. Fiacre Pharmaceuticals simply did not take the time it needed to thoroughly test the vaccine. It was pushed through and approved by the FDA in a matter of months.

If the truth had been known, the commercials would have sounded something like this:

Side effects may include itching at the site of injection, dizziness, weakness, fever, and rash. Approximately 0.003% of those vaccinated may experience one of the following adverse effects: telepathy, perfect recall, increased intuition, the ability to create illusions, levitation, body manipulation, and hypnosis. Praevenir is not recommended for a world that wants to avoid global conflict.

And so everything humanity had thought about itself came crumbling down. Scientists scrambled to make sense of the side effects. Everyone had questions. How many had been vaccinated? Millions? Billions? How many had these powers? What was the extent of the new abilities?

Chaos broke out. Six months after Praevenir's release, Brenton Fiacre locked himself and his family in a warehouse full of the vaccine. He blew it to pieces, killing everyone inside and destroying what was left of his creation.

Some claimed the vaccine's side effects were meant to change the world for the better. This would be the beginning of a new world order—an age of real superheroes, here to solve humanity's problems. Those with powers would fight crime and put things right. However, there was one flaw with that reasoning.

Human physiology was altered. Human nature wasn't.

Barely a year after Praevenir hit the market, the Pacific War broke out.



We ready to go yet?" Ciere asks, poking her head out of the bathroom. Her curls are damp from the shower, but there's no time to let them dry properly.

Devon sits on the bed, his tablet cradled on his knees. "Hold on," he says, and his brow creases in concentration.

"Well, hurry up."

Devon huffs out a breath. "Fetch your things. By the time you're finished, we'll be ready to go."

Each immunity has weaknesses, limitations. Illusions only fool human senses. If the human element is eliminated—say, by a security camera—then the illusion crumbles. Unfortunately, cameras are impervious to suggestion.

For that reason, Ciere usually wears a physical mask of some sort—a ski mask or a balaclava. That way, if a camera catches her, all that will be seen is a petite teenage girl wearing a mask. There will be no record of her facial features. But her usual mask is missing. She vaguely remembers it vanishing in the midst of a mosh pit.

"So are we taking or leaving the dog?" Ciere asks. She tries to ignore the way the puppy leans against her ankle and pants up at her. The stupid thing looks so happy to see her. "I'm not exactly the pet-owning type."

"Come on," Devon says. He has wedged a hotel pen between his teeth and chews on it absentmindedly. "Doesn't every great hero need a mascot?"

"I'm not a hero," Ciere grumbles. "And I thought you fulfilled the mascot requirement."

Devon makes a disgruntled noise. "Shut up. Mascots are just there to look cute. I'm useful."

She can't argue with that. Devon has been studying security systems for years. Specifically, he's studied how to hack security with his illegally modified tablet. "God, I love these wireless systems," he murmurs. "So much easier to break into. One more… just a minute… and there! Loop's in place—we've got about three minutes before it's blatant that something's off." He takes the pen from his mouth and uses it to gesture at Ciere. "Well, go on, then. Do your thing."

Ciere closes her eyes. She conjures up an image of an old woman—white hair pooled into a bun, wrinkles settling in around her features—and her clothes shift into sagging polyester. She darkens her skin, altering its shade to match Devon's. A young man and his grandmother will look perfectly innocent.

Devon shakes his head, grinning. "You have no idea how mad it is to see that."

Arm in arm, she and Devon emerge into downtown Manhattan. Despite the fact it isn't yet noon, the sun already beats down on the back of Ciere's neck. She sucks in lungfuls of hot, humid air, tasting sweat and exhaust. Steam flows up from sewer grates, and people swarm the sidewalks—everyone from the homeless with their blackened teeth and sunken eyes to businessmen with tailored suits and briefcases. Ciere has to dodge several tourists as they shuffle past. She tilts her head back and gazes at the city. The buildings are an odd mix of classical arches, sleek skyscrapers, and the grunge that has taken root in the urban areas like mold in an old bag of bread.

Devon releases her arm, hand raised to flag down a taxi. One screeches to a stop, and Ciere slides gratefully into the backseat, the leather upholstery sticking to her bare legs. In her illusion, she wears a pantsuit. In reality, she wears a sundress. It's too hot for anything heavier.

The cab driver gives Ciere's dog a doubtful look, and she smiles. "Don't worry," she lies, trying to sound old. Illusions won't change her voice. "The dog's trained."

The cabbie turns away with a grunt of acceptance, and Devon rattles off the name of the train station. The car flies forward and Ciere digs her nails into the worn leather of the seats. The cab swings into traffic in a move both terrifying and utterly illegal. Ciere quickly fumbles for her seat belt. Once she's firmly belted in, she closes her eyes, hoping for enough time to rest.

Only minutes later, Devon touches her arm and his voice is in her ear, low and urgent. "Four turns," he says.

It takes her a moment to bring her mind around, and when she does, she jerks fully awake. There are ways to tell if you're being followed, either on foot or by car. One of the more reliable ways is to count how many turns a person behind you takes.

"We're being followed?" Ciere asks softly.

Devon nods. His eyes are intent on the rearview mirror. "Black Honda Pilot, looks like the 2016 make. Didn't know those things still ran. Tinted windows. I've got the plate numbers, too."


"Not government-issue plates, but you never know," Devon murmurs. "Options?"

Ciere frowns. "Not a lot we can do in a cab. Not if we don't want to seem suspicious. Hopefully there'll be a lot of traffic around the station and we can duck into the crowd."

It's not a good plan, but they're not swamped with options.

When the cab pulls up in front of the station, Devon shoves a handful of twenties at the cabbie and scrambles out of the car, following Ciere. She's already slammed her door, and she strides into the train station, holding the dog in her arms. There isn't a huge crowd, but there are enough people around to make Ciere relax. Devon falls into step beside her. "I think the tail drove on," he says.

"So our plan worked?" she replies.

"Actually, I think there wasn't any place for them to park."

"Can we pretend our plan worked?"

"If anyone asks, we made a daring escape."

They find an empty bench just inside the station. They've got a good twenty minutes to waste, so to pass the time, Ciere says, "I spy…" They have their own version of this game. Instead of spying objects, they look for security. There are two types of deadly agents, and it's a point of pride that good crooks can tell the two apart.

"Man lurking near the women's toilet," Devon mutters.

Ciere squints through the crowd. She can just make out the man—he wears a baseball cap. His eyes continually roam over the crowd and there is a slight bulge around his left ankle. "Mobster," Ciere says firmly.

Devon nods and gestures to a woman lounging against another wall. She pretends to check her cell phone. She wears business casual, a matching skirt and blazer. Her blouse's neckline is low enough that Devon looks interested in more than the game. This time the bulge is under her right shoulder. "Fed," Ciere says.

"Damn," Devon says. "Can't hit on a fed."

"Can't hit on a mobster, either," Ciere points out.

The fed eyes the mobster. The mobster grins and touches two fingers to the rim of his baseball cap in a mocking acknowledgment. Eyes narrowing, the fed turns away from the taunt. The feds used to go after organized crime, but that was before the war.


  • Praise for Illusive:

    "Multiple plot twists and the present-tense narrative heighten Ciere, Devon, and Daniel's sense of paranoia as they struggle to survive in a world in which it is often difficult to tell the good guys from the bad guys. A thrilling read."—School Library Jounral
  • " a deeply sympathetic protagonist. Offer this to fans of Moore's V Is for Villain (BCCB 5/14); they'll enjoy a new look at superpowers the hands of teens too smart to trust the grownups who clearly have no clue how to manage a changed society."

    The Bulletin

  • "Ciere is an everyman heroine. Strong enough to survive on her own, yet still shy and vulnerable around the new boy, she is an appealing and approachable character...A fun and engaging read that instantly hooks. A sequel to this debut novel would be very appreciated."—VOYA

  • "False starts, ill-advised decisions, and slow-to-unfold secrets embellish brilliantly plotted twists and turns...Emily Lloyd-Jones's thriller is fresh, thought-provoking, and addictively readable."—School Library Journal

On Sale
Jul 15, 2014
Page Count
368 pages

Emily Lloyd-Jones

About the Author

Emily Lloyd-Jones grew up on a vineyard in rural Oregon, where she played in evergreen forests and learned to fear sheep. She has a BA in English from Western Oregon University and a MA in publishing from Rosemont College. She currently resides in Northern California, where she enjoys wandering in redwood forests. Her young adult novels include Illusive, Deceptive, The Hearts We Sold, The Bone Houses, and the forthcoming The Drowned Woods. Her debut middle grade, Unseen Magic, will release in 2022.

Learn more about this author