Booked for Murder
By R.J. Blain
* (Vigilante Magical Librarians #1)
* Publication date: August 18th, 2020
* Genres: Adult, Urban Fantasy
Life as a bodyguard and driver for the rich, famous, and powerful is dangerous on a good day, and after sustaining a crippling injury while on duty, Janette’s left with few options. Having signed a ‘for life’ contract but unable to work, she uses her skills to disappear.
Her new life as a librarian suits her. Nobody cares she limps and sometimes requires a cane to walk. She’s wanted for her knowledge, not her lethal magic. She’s surrounded by books, a woman’s best friend.
But when her former employer’s best friend is murdered on the steps of her library, old loyalties and secrets might destroy her—or set her free.
Teaming up with her co-workers to find the killer might keep her from being booked for murder, but unless she’s careful, she’ll find out exactly how far her ex-boss will go to reclaim what is rightfully his.
Her. For life.
BOOKED FOR MURDER is available at the following sites:
Now here's an excerpt for your reading pleasure.
A
line of cop cars at the library gave me the only clue I needed to decide
something had gone terribly wrong. It hadn’t been long enough for the Bugatti’s
driver to have crashed and emergency responders to show up. Then, much to my
disgust, I spotted the car, which had joined the lineup of rubberneckers trying
to figure out what was going on.
The
last thing I needed was the police giving my identification card more than a
cursory glance. I’d gotten the license number legalized, which had involved
sneaking around places I shouldn’t, accessing a computer I had no business
touching, and putting some of my odder skills to work.
Then
I had lied, lied, lied, claiming amnesia. Thanks to pure luck and evidence of
head trauma in the form of somewhat recent scars, I’d gotten away with it.
If
my ex-boss learned I could do more with a computer than check my email, he
would kill me himself. I’d picked up my skills before he’d hired me, and I’d
learned to help a childhood friend escape punishment for a crime he hadn’t
committed. I’d witnessed the truth, and I’d learned that day the rich and
powerful couldn’t be trusted.
I
limped closer to the library, and the stench of blood and gore promised the
worst sort of trouble had come to my work.
I
remembered that smell well enough.
When
I brought out my magic at its dangerous 97.6% potency, I could reduce my victim
to a puddle on the sidewalk from instantaneous mass hemorrhaging. I could, if I
had it out for my target, burst organs from shunting all of the body’s blood
into them at one time. When in a mood, I could crystalize the blood within the
body, transforming it to piercing blades capable of shredding most bones.
Only
the skull vexed me.
The
stench reminded me of why I hated my brand of magic, something most considered
so abhorrent they refused to name it at all. Even necromancers had a better
reputation, for all they did was manipulate corpses or read the truth on
lifeless entrails.
The
evidence of someone having used magic a lot like mine dripped from the library’s
stone veneer a story and a half overhead. My brows shot up at the spatter
distance, which implied whomever had killed the poor bastard had packed a lot
of power behind the killing.
How
wasteful.
I
could’ve done a better, cleaner job without turning my victim’s blood into
graffiti.
“Janette!”
I
grimaced at my co-worker’s squealing call of my name. On a good day, Meridian
could shatter glass. On a bad one, I worried she’d take out an entire
skyscraper with her shrieking.
Today
was not a good day.
Rather
than snap at her for acting like I was three streets down rather than ten feet
away, I limped over, pretending the library wasn’t covered in some poor
bastard’s blood. “What’s going on?”
“Somebody
exsanguinated Senator Godrin on the front steps.”
I
lifted my hand, closed my eyes, and rubbed my temple, wishing I’d gone with the
saner 30.5% magical aptitude rating, as I would’ve had access to sufficient
painkillers to deal with my developing headache and the current situation,
which would shoot me straight to the top of the suspect list should anyone
realize my true identity.
Exsanguination,
at least the kind capable of spattering blood two stories up, required a rare
form of magic. Not only was it rare, only a handful of people around the world
had it in the strength required to spray blood such a distance.
I
was one of those people. I could spray blood up six stories if someone caught
me flat-footed and I needed to eliminate a target. When I eliminated a target
in the field when adrenaline flowed, I tended to shoot blood out from any
available soft-tissue surface, favoring tear ducts, the ears, nose, and mouth.
The smaller the opening, the stronger the spray, and when backed with
sufficient magic, the faster it happened.
My
poor co-workers would get a taste of what it meant to be among the magically
inclined, and none of them would like it. I, in particular, would hate it,
especially if someone did a proper evaluation of my aptitude rating. Assuming,
of course, that I survived the evaluation and subsequent interrogation should
my abilities be discovered by authorities.
Was
masking my true rating under such scrutiny even possible?
I’d
lied, lied, lied my way through the driver’s license evaluations. I loathed the
damned bureaucrat who had come up with the idea to force everyone to register
their magical talents if they wanted to drive a car. I’d worn one of the awful
evaluation bracelets for over an hour, careful to hide my reactions to having
my magic cut off. I’d dealt with the shortness of breath, pain, and other
symptoms of having my magic snuffed out with a smile and false cheer, chatting
with one of the evaluators about the upcoming car racing season, as he was
almost as much of a fan as I was. I figured our talk had distracted him from
any symptoms I hadn’t managed to hide. I’d doubled down painting my nails with
one of the other testers, too, resulting in the testing session taking long
enough they’d recorded the time.
Somehow,
my proclaimed 17.2% aptitude rating had survived the licensing process.
I
supposed I’d shown just the right symptoms to have some magic in my
blood rather than no magic in my blood.
If
they’d done a proper blood test and full evaluation, I would’ve been screwed.
It’d
been one of the worst days of my life, but I’d gotten my stamp confirming my
proposed percentage, a driver’s license that noted my disability but authorized
me to drive anyway, a handicap tag should I ever purchase a car, and a warning
to keep away from the pure adepts and mundanes, as it wouldn’t do to have my
mixed heritage damage future generations.
I
stared up at the senator’s blood, observing it trail down the pale stone drop
by drop. While we worked at one of the smaller branches of the New York Public
Library, we’d gotten one of the city’s heritage sites, which had been lovingly
converted into a work of art. While most went to the Midtown West building,
which took the top prize for beauty, age, and elegance, we tended to attract
the politicians, as we had an excellent reference floor, a quiet place for
conferences, and a good location for their wining and dining needs.
We
had a prized spot on Fifth Avenue, and patrons could make the hike to the Met
without breaking a sweat.
The
last thing I needed in my life was a bunch of snooty pure adepts investigating
the library over the death of a politician known for his unethical practices,
ruthless business dealings, and utter hatred of mundanes. According to my
less-than-legal license, I counted as a mundane, as my cover story put me just
below the threshold for being able to use any form of magic. If I had put
myself at below 15% genetic purity, I would’ve been a prized specimen for those
wishing to maintain humanity’s non-magical lineage.
What
had I done to deserve such shitty luck in life? Blowing air and restraining my
urge to spew curses, I pointed at the crimson stains marring the second story
of our library. “That’s quite the spray distance, Meridian.”
She
stared up at the blood dripping down the stone to streak over the windows and
pool on the building’s antique balconies. While the balconies had long since
been blocked off to patrons, many favored sitting by the tall windows to read
on the faux antique sedans strategically placed between the stacks. “Oh. He got
up there, too? Nice.”
Right.
Meridian found even the grisliest use of magic to be intriguing. “Dare I ask
where else he splattered?”
If
one of the cops heard me, they’d make assumptions; law enforcement types
favored spattered while civilians used splattered thanks to a mix of slang and
television.
My
fellow librarian pointed towards the main entrance of the building. “Mickey got
hosed, and he was at the desk.”
If
my brows rose any higher, they’d end up in my hair, which I’d decided to wear
in a bun to keep it out of the way while hobbling between the stacks. For the
blood to have reached the reception desk of our library, the culprit must have
ruptured every blood vessel in the victim’s body and expelled it through every
available orifice. Alternatively, the culprit could have made a few extra holes
to streamline the job. “Is he all right?”
“You
know Mickey.”
Yes,
I did. Nobody could send him into the mystery, medical, or horror sections, as
the sight of blood on a book’s cover might result in him dropping into a faint.
“Please tell me he didn’t crack his head open on the desk.”
“No,
but I’m not sure if he’s a suspect or evidence. They woke him up, asked him
about the incident, and he fainted again. We have a betting pool going over how
many times he faints before they’re done asking him questions. Honestly, I can’t
imagine them actually thinking he’s a suspect. He can’t even hear the
word blood without freaking out. He’s so lucky he’s not a woman.”
Despite
the severity of the situation, I snickered at the thought of Mickey trying to
deal with the perils of being a woman. I didn’t miss popping more painkillers
than my kidneys appreciated to function through a shift guarding Bradley
Hampton while my uterus and ovaries attempted to put me in the grave. As I
didn’t want to write off having children one day, I’d dealt with it, although
things had gotten better for me after the accident that’d almost claimed my
life.
Thanks
to my falsified magic rating, I’d found a doctor willing to use me as a guinea
pig for a treatment meant for pure adepts or mundanes, one that resolved the
crippling pain and would allow me to have children later. It’d involved using a
mix of medicine and magic to mimic a pregnancy, and after nine months,
imitating the so-called joys of childbirth to trick my body into believing I’d
had a child. To my relief and the doctor’s delight, I’d suffer through only
minimal discomfort before menopause naturally solved the problem for me.
Unfortunately
for me, according to my test results and my doctor’s magic, she believed I
wouldn’t start menopause until my sixties at the earliest. I blamed my magic
for that.
It
did a good job of keeping me healthy.
I
sighed and shook my head, once again staring at the bloodstained building. “Are
you being questioned?”
“I
was out having a smoke, so I saw the whole damned thing. They questioned me,
but beyond repeating what I’d seen, they had no use for me.”
How
sloppy. “What happened?”
“Some
asshole in a black car with tinted windows drove by, Senator Godrin lost his
head, and they drove off before waiting for the body to hit the ground.”
“Did
you say Senator Godrin lost his head?”
“Yeah.
The exsanguinator burst the poor man’s head. Popped it like a grape.”
Ugh.
I hated when high-powered amateurs made more of a mess of a job than necessary.
When I decided to end someone’s life, I did so with some finesse, leaving the
body intact enough for a viewing. “Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”
“Part
of his skull landed across the street.”
I
frowned. “And it’s being called an exsanguination? I thought exsanguinators
just drained blood.” Well, I could do a hell of a lot more than drain blood
from a body, although that ability gave people good reason to fear us. “The
skull’s tough. An exsanguinator wouldn’t be able to burst a skull like that.”
I’d
tried, although I’d limited my experimentations to animals rather than people.
The way I figured, if I couldn’t burst the skull of livestock on route for the
dinner table—or even come close—I couldn’t crack open a human’s skull, either.
“The
killer was probably working with a telekinetic,” Meridian admitted. “But you’re
right. Exsanguinators don’t usually manifest like that. I heard the cops and
the adepts they brought in. They know of a few, but they don’t work like that.
They have a different style. Now that was an interesting conversation.”
Yeah,
I didn’t work like that and had no intention of starting. Even if I stretched
my legs and worked some magic, my focus on keeping my magic controlled would
hamper me in more ways than one. Habit ruled magic almost as much as natural
ability.
I
lacked habit, and I’d done my best to leash my natural abilities.
One
day, I might even lose my magic altogether from disuse, although it’d still be
in my blood, something I could pass down to my children, if I ever had any.
In
good news for me, I still had more time than I cared to think about before I
hit the end of the road on that.
I
considered Meridian’s words, and I recognized she wanted me to bite on the
little tidbit of information she dangled in front of me. Before the accident,
I’d been curious and inquisitive.
Nothing
had changed.
Heaving
a sigh for her benefit, I asked, “What was so interesting about that
conversation?”
“Did
you know there’s a woman who can shoot someone’s blood all the way up to
there?” Meridian asked, pointing up to the sixth floor of our library. “All the
way to there! And some think she could clear the roof if in a mood. Apparently,
her control is so refined she can build pressure in the veins, use her magic to
contain it so the vessels don’t rupture, and control the spray. It gets better,
though.”
My
life sucked, and I’d have to put some serious thought into moving. “How does it
get better?”
“She’s
a mouse.”
I
was a what? “A mouse?” I held my hands apart several inches to indicate the
size of a mouse. “Like a rodent? About this big?”
“Personality
wise. She’s meek as a mouse, prim and proper, and the prime example of an adept
lady. They agreed she could if she wanted, but that it went against all of her
training and behavior. And you know how adepts get. They pride themselves in
their style, and she’s a mouse.”
The
rumor mill had gotten bored, drunk, and possibly high before attacking my
reputation, which likely hadn’t survived the onslaught. I could act like a
lady, I’d even owned a few gowns, but I’d never gotten to wear them because a
bodyguard didn’t wear pretty dresses to social events.
A
bodyguard wore a suit.
Sometimes,
I’d worn a skirt with my suit, but they’d always allowed for a full range of
motion and I’d worn some form of spandex shorts beneath the skirt in case of
emergency.
The
last time I’d acted like a lady, I’d been at some gala the night before I’d
been sold off to Bradley Hampton. Then, I’d found the arrangement pleasant; my
parents had gotten lucky with me, with my percentage jumping two complete
brackets thanks to a lucky roll of the genetic dice. It happened sometimes.
Once,
a pair of mundanes had produced an adept child with a staggering 98.5% rating,
with every recessed adept gene becoming dominant in an evolutionary triumph. It
happened with adept pairings, too, resulting in a prized pure mundane packed
with adept potential.
Those
stuck in the middle rarely did anything interesting, although my parents, on
the higher end of the spectrum, had bucked the trend with me and my 97.6%
rating.
But
to be slated as a mouse?
My
pride wanted to go into a corner and weep over how far I’d fallen. “I can’t
tell if that’s a good or a bad thing,” I admitted.
“Good.
She’s the kind of mouse who can turn into a dragon.”
I
stared at Meridian. “Did you have a few drinks on the way to work this
morning?”
“No,
but I wish I had.”
Me,
too. “I’m officially late for work.”
“I
don’t think we’re working today, but I’ll go tell the boss you did show up and
ask what he wants you to do. I think we’ll either be sent home or asked to
clean up if the cops ever finish with the place. Wait here. I’ll come back and
report. Just don’t go near the cordon. That’s how you get sucked into being
questioned, too.”
I
owed Meridian for that gem, and I waited at the corner, examining the blood on
the library walls while wondering how much of a mess the murder would make of
my life.
Meet the Author
 |
| Author R.J. Blain |
RJ Blain suffers from a Moleskine journal obsession, a pen fixation, and a terrible tendency to pun without warning.
In her spare time, she daydreams about being a spy. Her contingency plan involves tying her best of enemies to spinning wheels and quoting James Bond villains until satisfied
For more on RJ and her writing, you can connect with you on the following sites:
Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram
Thanks so much for stopping by today. Don't you think all librarians are just a bit magical, especially back in the day when card catalogs were all there was?
