Booked for Murder
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.
Excerpt:
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.
Author Bio:
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.
