Page 10 of Booked for Murder

Mickey might become the literal death of me if one of those books happened to mention the former for life bodyguard of Bradley Hampton.

I really shouldn’t have kept my first name.

I sighed, leaned back in my seat, and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Meridian can probably handle the research. The spray from Senator Godrin’s death reached the reception desk, where Mickey was working. He does not handle blood well, so it’d be better off with one of the other librarians. You can probably call the library to make that request. Fortunately, the research material isn’t on the ground floor, and the windows are always closed.”

“The windows?” Beatrice asked.

“The spray reached the second floor.”

Her eyes widened. “Just how bad was it?”

“Pretty bad,” I admitted. “According to Meridian, there was severe skull trauma.”

“Skull trauma? But exsanguinators can’t break bones.”

Well, I could, but not in the way she thought. I certainly couldn’t pop someone’s skull like a grape. “Well, in any case, something killed Senator Godrin in a rather gruesome and flashy fashion, and according to Meridian, parts of his skull ended up across the street. His blood reached the street corner from the steps leading into the library.”

“That’s half a block away!”

“Yeah. I know.” Blood could spray a far distance, but when I’d worked to make blood spray as far as possible, it’d taken a ridiculous amount of concentration and effort. My six-story experiment with livestock had turned me into an exhausted mess, preventing me from being able to do my job. Bradley’s father hadn’t appreciated my less-than-useful state.

He definitely hadn’t appreciated his son dumping my semi-conscious body on the couch and pitching a fit because his need to know the full extent of my abilities had backfired. Not only had I been dumped on the couch, I’d stayed there for several days as a result.

Bradley hated when things messed up his schedule, and he hadn’t expected the experiment to wipe me out so much.

He hadn’t told me I shouldn’t push my luck, either.

When he’d pointed at a six-story window and told me to use that as my mark for testing my magic, I’d shrugged and done it because he expected me to succeed.

Like him, I hated failure.

My ability to walk attested to that.

“Could a telekinetic accomplish the same thing?” Beatrice asked.

Of the common magical types, a telekinetic could mimic other magics, including exsanguination. With their ability to move anything, blood wouldn’t pose a challenge to a high-rated adept. “With the right rating, I would presume so. Mickey’s the better person to ask about that.”

“My guess is that a telekinetic could destroy someone’s skull and make it look like an exsanguinator.” Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “I’ll make sure our report includes telekinetic abilities. Does your branch have any telekinetic users?”

I cringed, as Meridian and Vince had a strong enough telekinetic ability to manipulate liquids. As lying would make me a target, especially over something as easy to confirm as their magical aptitudes, I replied, “Yes, there are two.”

Beatrice cursed. “Is either one strong enough to break a skull and spray blood?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. I hoped not. The last thing I needed was anyone at my branch being booked for murder. Attention would, inevitably, land on me, and when I killed someone, I did so without shame or hiding it. I’d reported my killings to the authorities as required, dealt with the questioning sessions, justified my actions, and walked away a little worse for wear and emotionally beaten from my choices.

Sometimes, reminding myself I only killed in defense of another helped, but only sometimes.

Maybe Bradley wouldn’t recognize me on the street after all. Time and death changed a woman, and I still struggled to recognize myself in the mirror most days.

I’d have to toe a lot of lines making sure my fellow librarians dodged accusation. Without classifying as a pure adept or mundane, they’d undergo even worse scrutiny than I had during a confession of killing someone while protecting Bradley. I’d accepted those deaths years ago, but I remembered.

Even when I’d flat-out told the police when, where, how, and why I’d killed my victims, I’d endured extensive questioning and interrogations while they determined if I had, in actuality, come to the defense of another. The law had always sided with me, but I couldn’t imagine the law treating my co-workers well when Senator Godrin’s killer remained a mystery.

The law would want to pin the killings on somebody.

Some librarian from a small branch made a good scapegoat.

Ugh.