Page 3 of Booked for Murder

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.”