Le contrebandier d'opium (Ebook)
Le contrebandier d'opium (Ebook)
Le contrebandier d'opium (Ebook)
Le contrebandier d'opium (Ebook)
Le contrebandier d'opium (Ebook)

Le contrebandier d'opium (Ebook)

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Lire un échantillon

Une route de contrebande impossible
Un passeur qui ne veut pas s'arrêter
L'entêtement d'Adelma lui apportera-t-elle le succès ou ruinera-t-elle sa vie ?

Adelma n'a qu'un rêve : s'installer comme passeuse. Mais en tant que fille de pêcheur, c'est plus facile à dire qu'à faire.

Alors qu'elle commence lentement à réseauter dans le monde de la contrebande, elle tombe sur un homme qui se moque bruyamment de son apparence. Que doit faire un passeur en herbe qui se respecte ? Éteignez ses lumières, bien sûr. De préférence devant un public – ce qui ajoute de l’humiliation à la blessure.

Mais l'homme s'avère bien plus puissant qu'elle ne le pensait, réussissant à s'assurer que personne dans le monde de la contrebande ne lui donnera du travail.

N'ayant plus aucune option, Adelma se tourne vers l'une des personnes les plus dangereuses de Damsport. Personne ne sait d'où vient The Widow, si elle est vraiment veuve ou comment elle en est venue à diriger le plus grand réseau criminel de Damsport.

La seule chose que tout le monde sait ? Ne plaisantez pas avec la Veuve, et si vous travaillez pour elle, vous feriez mieux de vous assurer de réussir. Il ne faut pas penser aux conséquences d’un échec.

Sauf que le premier travail de contrebande d'Adelma sera un itinéraire auquel aucun passeur aguerri n'a jamais survécu. C'est déjà un défi, mais ce sera encore plus difficile avec quelqu'un après elle, déterminé à s'assurer qu'elle échoue.

Adelma est trop têtue pour abandonner, mais parviendra-t-elle à réaliser l'impossible, ou perdra-t-elle tout dans le processus ?

Plongez dans Le Contrebandier d'Opium, le tome 7 d'une série complète de 9 tomes rempli d'aventures, de plaisanteries et de personnages excentriques, le tout se déroulant dans un monde tropical richement imaginé.


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Jeremiah sat on the step before his front door, watching as his daughter, Adelma, considered taking her first step.

It was late afternoon, the sun low and yellow. It made a fine halo of Adelma’s dark baby curls, tingeing them with gold, and turned the sea in the Damsian Enclosed Docks to the colour of beaten brass.

The mad chaos of the docks was starting to slow, leaving ships to sway gently in their berths, their masts like a forest jutting out of the sea. A few voices still rang out here and there, final orders being called as dockworkers wrapped everything up for the evening.

Jeremiah’s house opened directly onto the docks, the perfect spot for a fisherman. He had lived in that house his whole life and had grown up among the smells of the docks. Back when Damsport was just a slum, the smells of rotten seafood had mixed with the thick waft of silt and algae, but now it was a whole other kettle of fish.

Old spices, animal dung, meat on the turn that glistened with an oily sheen, sweat from all the dock workers, bruised fruit, spoiled vegetables, and lots he couldn’t identify mingled together as more and more ships arrived each day, bringing exotic cargo.

There was a new smell, too, of late—the acrid coal smoke of steam-powered boats. They were an unusual sight, so the one carefully manoeuvring out in the docks was drawing a crowd. Its engine coughed and wheezed heavy puffs of black smoke from its single chimney as it moved awkwardly.

“Steam power,” Jeremiah scoffed to himself. He turned to Adelma. “Ridiculous. That’ll never take, my girl. You mark my words. Ain’t replacing a good sail and a strong wind. Them fools what are working with steam are wasting their time. Now come on, come to your Da.” He stretched out his arms.

Adelma gurgled happily, stretching her own arms open in reply and swaying like a drunken sailor on her chubby legs, but still, she didn’t walk.

“One foot in front of the other now,” Jeremiah coaxed, still gesturing with his hands.

Adelma squealed and gurgled again. Then she seemed to decide to move forward and lost her balance, falling back on her bum. She hiccupped from the shock of it, looking up at her father, her mouth an O of surprise. She wore only a yellowed cloth nappy, the fabric speaking of the many, many washes it had been through. Her bare brown belly bulged over the top of it. She was so small, so fragile, her brown skin looking pale compared to Jeremiah’s weather-beaten and sun-darkened hide.

Jeremiah laughed, and Adelma broke into a smile in response, delighted. “Come on, my girl.” Jeremiah set her back on her feet. “Let’s try again.”

Today was Adelma’s first birthday, and so Jeremiah had taken the day off from fishing to mourn and celebrate. Adelma’s mother—also called Adelma, as Jeremiah had named his daughter for his wife—had died in childbirth.

“Come on, Adelma,” Jeremiah repeated, waggling his fingers.

She took a hesitant step, wobbling dangerously.

“There you go… There you go!” Jeremiah called out excitedly, prouder than a peacock on parade day. “There you go, my darling girl. Come to your Da.”

A couple walked past at that moment. Their clothes were expensive enough to make it clear they weren’t from this part of town. The woman held on to the crook of her husband’s arm, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the riot of smells. She cast a glance at Jeremiah and Adelma.

Adelma chose that moment to take her second wobbly step, falling forward. Jeremiah caught her and swept her up in his arms, laughing. “I gotcha. You remember that, my girl. Your old man’s always got your back.”

He felt a twinge of sadness at the words. Adelma should have had a mother standing behind her, too. Jeremiah felt oh-so keenly aware of his responsibility. He was the only person Adelma had in the world. He had to not only keep her safe, but also make sure she would continue to be safe even once his time had come.

“Did you see that girl?” the woman asked her husband as they walked past. “She must be two or maybe three, and she doesn’t even walk yet. Disgraceful. I tell you, people in this part of town are little more than savages, and that baby is clearly retarded.”

Jeremiah felt a rush of icy anger at the words. Adelma was easily larger than a two-year-old, but no matter how big she was, it didn’t make up for the fact that she had only been alive for a year, and therefore couldn’t quite walk yet.

He stood up, shifting Adelma so he held her with one arm, keeping her balanced on his hip. He hurried after the couple. “Excuse me.”

The couple stopped and looked back, surprised. The woman had the good grace to look sheepish when she caught sight of Adelma.

Jeremiah backhanded the woman across the face hard enough to send her sprawling to the ground in a cry of pain and shock. Before her husband could react, Jeremiah punched him in square in the stomach. The man made a sound like a bladder deflating, and he slowly sank to his knees, groaning with pain.

“My daughter is one year old,” he informed the prone woman, who looked up at him with fear, holding her reddening cheek. “She might be big, but she’s only one, so it’s perfectly normal for her to only be taking her first steps today. In fact, I reckon them was the best first steps anyone’s took in the Rookery. So you say anything about my daughter being retarded again, and I’ll knock every one of your teeth out. Every. Last. Tooth. Got it?”

Jeremiah turned to the husband. “Nothing personal,” he added. “Didn’t want to risk you trying to defend your wife. Got my daughter here to think of.” He patted Adelma’s back. “Couldn’t have you swinging for me and hitting my Adelma. It’s her birthday, after all.”

The husband didn’t reply, still curled around his winded stomach.

“It’ll take you a while to get your breath back,” Jeremiah told him, not unkindly. “I punch pretty damn hard.” He turned and walked away.

Adelma had watched the whole scene unfold in silence, her eyes wide. She held on to her father’s neck with her chubby arms, looking back over his shoulder. She had her mother’s eyes, wide and dark, but everything else about her features came straight from Jeremiah. And he had one ugly mug—a forehead like a stack of books and a nose like a butcher’s cleaver. Jeremiah wasn’t one for vanity, and he hoped Adelma wouldn’t be, either.

He kissed her cheek to reassure her. “You see, Adelma, my girl, that is how we deal with people what insult us. Retaliation is key—never ever let a slight against you pass without answering it. I’ll teach you how. Don’t you worry yourself none for now, my darling girl. Your old Da’s gonna keep you safe.”

Jeremiah opened his front door and ducked low to pass beneath the doorframe, which had been built for regular-sized people. He knew from experience that the world wasn’t always kind to those who were as freakishly big and ugly as him. The jokes, the sniggers, the snide comments saying that only a blind woman would look twice at him. It was likely to be even worse for a girl who looked like that.

Well, he’d make sure Adelma was ready. The world wasn’t going to dare say a bad word about her—he’d see to that.

“I got us a special treat for dinner on account that it’s your birthday,” Jeremiah told Adelma. He blew a raspberry in Adelma’s neck, making her squeal with laughter, and then put her down gently. She didn’t stay standing for long, dropping down to a sturdier sitting position, keeping her eyes on him. Jeremiah smiled at her and closed the door, shutting out the world and all its nastiness.

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Hi! I'm Celine

I write different flavours of fantasy with a twist, but always with one uniting thread: quirky, flawed characters and heart-warming found families.

My books span the sub-genres of steampunk (but set in a secondary, tropical world) urban fantasy (set in Asia and London) and gothic gaslamp fantasy.

I'm French, grew up in the UK, and for the last few years I've been living a life of nomadic adventure, exploring the world with my laptop as my constant companion. My adventures have been a great source of inspiration for my stories.

These days I'm trying to figure out where in the world I might stop and setup some bookshelves.

I love to hear from readers, so feel free to contact me at celine@celinejeanjean.com.

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