Booked for Murder

by R. J. Blain

  Booked for Murder

  Vigilante Magical Librarians Book One

  R.J. Blain

  Booked for Murder

  Vigilante Magical Librarians Book One

  R.J. Blain

  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.

  Copyright © 2020 by RJ Blain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. I lived to serve.

  2. Ajani loved the brush more than life itself.

  3. Enter, you mutty blight.

  4. I still liked fast cars.

  5. The pre-coffee blur made it much easier to play stupid.

  6. I checked my apartment for any signs of hell freezing over.

  7. My cat was about to sucker me out of second breakfast.

  8. I’m picking a family car.

  9. A vigilante magical librarian, Janette?

  10. I warned you.

  11. I’d built a new life, one I liked.

  12. I wanted a nap.

  13. A cat can’t talk to you properly.

  14. Do the bonus points earn me anything special?

  15. Did Ajani draw blood?

  16. My magic wanted me to live.

  17. This sucks.

  18. There are your new friends.

  19. Right. You’re hungry.

  20. I don’t want to think about insurance right now.

  21. I’d be opening Pandora’s box.

  22. Some things I could never forget.

  23. I see your sarcasm is in good form.

  About R.J. Blain

  Sample from A Chip on Her Shoulder

  One

  I lived to serve.

  Once upon a time, I had lived on the edge, but I’d fallen off somehow, emerging scarred and broken. Once upon a time, I’d lived in the ivory tower, looking down on the streets below in search of threats and fortune. I’d found both to a frightening degree. Once upon a time, I’d been the lethal shadow of a man who wanted to change the world to his liking.

  I assumed he still did. Bradley Hampton wasn’t the kind to quit once he decided to do something.

  A sports car roared by, and it surprised me to discover I missed my once upon a time.

  The vehicle, a red Bugatti worth more than the idiot who drove it, darted through traffic. I scoffed at the driver’s inaccuracies, skirting too close to the lines for anyone’s comfort. Precision mattered when controlling a car at high speeds—or at any speed, really. A single tap of the brake could end lives or save them. The wrong turn of the wheel could result in a crash. Such a mistake, not on my part, had cost me my once upon a time, and a chill sliced through me at the memories the red vehicle revived.

  Once upon a time, my job had been to drive one of those cars, protect the man I’d been sworn to for life, and rise above all others except for him.

  Bradley Hampton wanted only the best and to be the best, and he’d expected more from me than anyone else.

  My once upon a time had ended with the recklessness of another bodyguard who’d believed a few minutes of time might actually matter. My last conscious act had been to position my car so my precious passenger would walk away from the accident. Even as I’d hit the brakes and turned the wheel, I’d been aware I would pay for his life with mine.

  I’d done so with pride.

  I couldn’t remember any fear, only pride.

  I couldn’t remember any pain, either. Trauma could do that to a person, erasing critical moments.

  Taking the brunt of the accident, created by another bodyguard’s foolish pride, had cost a principal his life in addition to dumping me into a coma so deep and long I’d been transferred across the country to a specialty hospital and left for dead.

  I gave my ex-boss credit; he’d taken the ‘for life’ portion of my contract seriously, and he’d refused to have my plug yanked. Others of his ilk would have without hesitation. It didn’t change anything for me, though. His instructions, should I awaken, had been brutal and simple enough.

  He didn’t want to hear a damned word about me until I could return to duty.

  In typical Bradley Hampton fashion, he’d believed I’d be returning to duty. He likely still did, which would forever cause me problems. In good news for him, he wouldn’t learn the bitter truth. It’d taken the doctors a month following my return to coherency to acknowledge I wouldn’t be returning to duty.

  Sometimes, I wondered if he would ever be bothered to ask what had happened to me. If he did, what would he do? Would he care? People like me often fell prey to the hope our principals might actually care about us. I’d heard the lecture when I’d been selected for my duty.

  I lived to serve, and my life had no other purpose than that. Emotions only got in the way of the job.

  Those same emotions had created my willingness to position my ex-boss’s Ferrari in the way I had, putting his life over mine. It hadn’t just been pride in my job. I’d cared for him. I’d cared for his haughty parents who thought the world of him but tried not to acknowledge my existence.

  I’d cared.

  Caring always found a way to cause me problems, and I couldn’t stop myself. I still cared.

  I always would.

  I scowled at the painful reminder I shouldn’t have left my cane at home. Without it, I’d put too much strain on my busted ankle even with the medical boot allowing me to walk at all. Forgetting the cane had been yet another dumb stunt induced by the pain-filled fog of a morning without medication.

  Had I not been discarded, I might have gone without the incessant discomfort. Fool that I was, I’d screwed myself over with my cover story, which offered me the ability to avoid detection from the very man I’d once guarded. Along with a partial name change and a move back to my old haunts, I’d taken the hiding in plain sight thing a little too far. But what sank me was registering my magical aptitude rating at 17.2%, too high to count as a pure mundane but too low to use magic at all.

  Had I gone for a saner 30.5%, I could have visited a doctor for a renewal of my prescription without having to tap out enough of my magic to maintain my ruse. To tap my magic, I needed to manipulate someone’s blood, circumventing their heart or adjusting their personal chemistry to suit my needs.

  Opportunities to use my magic came few and far between, and I didn’t have access to cadavers to practice on, nor was I willing to inflict misery on some random stranger to drop my reserves to dangerously low levels.

  There was only so much I could do with my own blood before I ran the risk of death.

  I cursed the sports car and its idiot driver for making even more of a mess of my morning.

  I didn’t need any more damned problems in my life. I needed my cane, but if I turned around and limped home, I�
��d be late for work. Being late for work couldn’t happen, not without a damned good reason, and forgetting my cane didn’t count. Once at the library, I could figure something out—or bribe one of my co-workers to run down the street to my apartment. If I had owned anything worth stealing, I might’ve been concerned, but my apartment did a good job of representing my bland life. With my salary, I skipped luxuries, and the little extra money I didn’t shove into a savings account went down the drain trying to rehab my foot.

  Spiting the damned doctor who had sworn I’d be wheelchair bound for the rest of my life amused me. The last time I’d gone to his office, I’d done so without my cane, earning a scolding over it. I’d gotten him to finally admit I might one day walk without my boot.

  My new doctor had faith in me and my mangled foot. Even on the days I faltered, she believed. With enough hard work and a few more surgeries, I might even manage without a limp.

  I even understood that after successfully rehabbing my foot, I wouldn’t return to my once upon a time. Those days were gone, and for the most part, I didn’t miss them.

  Okay, I missed them. I missed having a hotter than hell boss with a sense of humor, I missed driving luxury sports cars better than anyone else, and I longed to take the latest and greatest to the race track so I could play with them, as they were banned from the road for being too fast and glorious to be street legal.

  Bradley Hampton liked rewarding his minions for good behavior, and he’d figured out how I’d ticked within months of hiring me to be his for life bodyguard.

  I fucking loved cars.

  Instead of stomping my foot at the unfairness of some incompetent driving a car I could handle better, I limped to the corner, pressed the button to cross the street, and muttered curses over my lot in life.

  I loved working at the library and getting lost in a good book, but I remembered.

  Nothing good came from old memories, lost dreams, and unobtainable ambitions. I’d earned a nice, quiet life, and I meant to enjoy it. Forgetting the past would just take a little more time.

  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 h
ad 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.