by R. J. Blain
“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make you hotpot tonight,” I complained.
“You’re not going to be making hotpot tonight. You’re going to be lucky to use a spoon tonight. It depends on how things go between now and then. You’re old enough a broken neck isn’t going to slow you down for too long, but moving is going to hurt, and moving will impair your healing. We’ll probably be pampered in Heihe tonight. I don’t think Desmond is going to allow negotiations to resume today, not with two in his pack sick or injured. I’m feeling better, but he doesn’t believe that, and honestly? I’ll probably start feeling like crap again later tonight. He’s going to focus on us within an hour. The only reason he’s not freaking out right now is because he’s keeping an eye on Richard; we’re in easy range and being monitored, and Richard’s touchy.”
“He’s worried he’ll have to stop Richard?”
“No, not really. He’s just worried.”
“About Richard?”
“Yep. Nicolina will zap him if he worries about her, but Richard gets to play submissive with Desmond, and that’s what Richard needs right now, because his wolf is out.” Amber sighed. “The chewing on logs part of things is weird and new, but it beats him chewing on one of the bodies, I guess. He’s probably just fretting because Nicolina gets upset if he hovers, so he’s anxious. He gets nippy when he’s anxious, so I guess he’s abusing some logs so he doesn’t get nippy with us.” Amber shrugged. “Every time I think I understand Richard, he goes and confuses me again. He doesn’t usually chew on logs.”
Dante abandoned Richard and headed for us, and he sat on the ground beside me. “Amber, if you have ever loved me, just beat me into next week.”
“He’s not cooperating, is he?” Amber grinned. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing’s wrong. His anxiety is through the roof, and from what I can tell with my witchcraft, he’s…” Bowing his head, Dante sighed.
Amber’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me he’s rutting.”
“He’s rutting.”
“But it’s off season.” Amber sighed, and she narrowed her eyes, watching Richard. “Wow. He really is. That’s hilarious. He’s chewing on logs because he wants to drag Nicolina off? This is going to be a lot easier to handle than I thought. Just tell Nicolina to whistle. He’ll follow her without complaint. She’s going to think it’s Christmas.”
Dante snorted, and then he choked on a laugh, his shoulders shaking. “I think the dress did him in, and the dress was doing him in before the dress got dismantled and turned into something rather lewd. Add in the teasing we were doing? He’s basically a furry ball of sexual frustration right now, and he’s taking it out on logs so he doesn’t bother Nicolina, because he is an idiot who hasn’t figured out his mate appreciates when he’s frustrated.”
Poor Richard. “Could the concoction Xue had us drink have something to do with it?” I asked.
“He had the same stuff we all did. Elliot checked. Everything was identical. It could be an unexpected reaction, but if it included an aphrodisiac component, we’d all be in Richard’s shoes right now. Nobody else is rutting, not even you, the new unmated bitch with an eligible gentleman nearby, or Declan, the eligible gentleman with a known history of blurted proposals to the unmated bitch.”
One thing was certain: I would never live down that phone call.
Amber giggled. “Poor Richard. Do you think one of the Chinese witches toyed with him?”
“That would be seriously underhanded, thus something they would do, but no. I think he’s just been working with the pregnant bitches and he’s wired for puppies. Add in his wolf running a bit wild, and the result is Richard is in the mood to have puppies. I’m going to warn Nicolina so she can deal with him as she sees fit—and to be very aware that she really might have an off season puppy if she’s not careful.”
“How tragic.” Amber rolled her eyes. “Try telling Richard we need his wisdom on the problem of Declan’s broken neck. Maybe that’ll help him get enough control to change back.”
“That’s worth a try. Hang in there, Declan.”
I glared at Dante. “Hang in there? Really?”
My friend snickered. “I should be a lot sorrier for that one than I am. Just try to relax and don’t hurt your neck more. Amber, when we go to move him into the SUV, you get to make sure his neck and head stay stable. Don’t let him move until then.”
“You got it. How does it feel to be the distressed damsel, Declan?”
“At least this time I’m not wearing a dress,” I replied.
My wolf and I loved the sound of her laughter, and we settled in for everyone else to finish preparing to leave.
It didn’t take long for me to realize I was in for one hell of a day. Between the random stabs of pain that sliced from my skull down to my toes and the fits of spasms intermingled with generalized paralysis, I longed for someone to just knock me out for week or two—or until I recovered enough to tolerate the slightest movement. I blacked out during the move from the ground to the SUV, and I woke up in the back with Amber, who kept a firm and steady hand on my neck.
Desmond tried his best to keep the drive smooth, but Blagoveshchensk’s roads needed some serious repair, and every bump gave me damned good reason to make sure I never broke my neck again. He headed for the nearest bridge into China, and we somehow made it without drawing the attention of the politsiya, a miracle, all things considered.
Jìngyi took over driving the SUV long enough to handle the border guards, and whatever she told them earned her a sharp salute, a brisk reply, and instructions to head to the main building. “They’re going to bring a police escort, and I have told them I need a secure line to Beijing.”
“This is escalating quickly,” I muttered.
“Yes, it is. We came into Russia on official business, with official paperwork from Moscow. The pack who attacked us has violated several important agreements between China and Russia. In truth, Moscow hoped for this, because it permits them to do a better and closer investigation, but there are rules we must abide by. First, I will call Beijing. Beijing will then call Moscow. Moscow and Beijing will contact America. America will then contact Mr. Anderson, who will be appointed the American representative for this discussion. America will then contact other countries.”
Desmond sighed. “In short, we’ve reached the edge of midnight, and Blagoveshchensk will be where we gather to determine if we step back from the edge or if we bring ourselves out of the darkness. Add in the uncertainty regarding the murders, and the next few days are going to be interesting. I’ll get Moscow to buy us some time. I’d ask Richard to talk to Beijing, but frankly, I’m hoping for a grandchild, and I’m not going to discourage Richard at this point in time. And we don’t tell that to my daughter. The only encouragement she gets is from her mother, who is trying her hardest to convince Nicolina she doesn’t have to be a perfect mother but a present one. I’ve told her many times that she’s ready when she’s ready, but she’s convinced herself she’ll never be ready because she finds some way to convince herself she’s not perfect.”
Well, I knew where Desmond stood regarding Richard’s state. “She’s not perfect?”
Amber tossed her head back and laughed. “I’m telling Richard that, and he’s going to be so proud of her, because he’s going to be so pleased there’s someone who sees her like he does.”
“He won’t be jealous? I thought we weren’t supposed to make others jealous of their mates. I don’t want Richard to kill me. A broken neck is as close to being killed as I want to get. Also, if you have any mercy on me, beat me over the head until you knock me out.”
“Sorry, Declan,” Amber said, and she adjusted her hold on the back of my neck so she could poke at the break. “Desmond? We’re going to need an x-ray machine and a brace. There’s been no improvement since we got him into the SUV, and he’s having nerve problems. He might have damaged his spinal cord.”
“I’m not surprised. Don’t you panic
back there, Amber. He’ll be fine. We’ll stack some drugs and hope they help some. It’ll be trivial to delay the talks long enough for him to heal—and to get reinforcements in place in case there’s an even bigger problem here than we thought. I suspect there is. A lot that ved’ma said bothers me, including what happened to those men you knew. I will promise this much, Declan. If we can find out why they were killed, we will. But if a wild Fenerec pack attacked them, there’s little left now. For that, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” I thought about it. “It’s not mine, either.”
“No, it’s not. But if we can lay them to rest, we will. For now, we wait.”
Dear reader,
I hope you enjoyed Wild Wolf! The final installment of the Wolf Hunt trilogy is entitled the Edge of Midnight. As it concludes the main Witch & Wolf world novels, I’m not promising a release date. The book will be as long as it needs to be to finish the storyline, and I don’t want to rush it.
A special thanks to Ella, Liana, and Marina, who helped with some of the Russian elements of this book. As with all things, I did my best, but I’m merely human and make mistakes.
The folklore used I used is not real Russian (or Slavic) folklore and should not be treated as such, although you may find some similarities to the real world.
Happy Reading!
~R.J.
P.S.: Yes, I know the original description doesn’t match how the book ultimately played out. During the writing and editing process, a major arc underwent major adjustments, resulting in chaos and the loss of the author’s sanity.
It has since been adjusted.
Thank you for your understanding and patience.
About R.J. Blain
Want to hear from the author when a new book releases? You can sign up at her website (thesneakykittycritic.com). Please note this newsletter is operated by the Furred & Frond Management. Expect to be sassed by a cat. (With guest features of other animals, including dogs.)
* * *
A complete list of books written by RJ and her various pen names is available at https://books2read.com/rl/The-Fantasy-Worlds-of-RJ-Blain.
* * *
RJ Blain suffers from a Moleskine journal obsession, a pen fixation, and a terrible tendency to pun without warning.
* * *
When she isn't playing pretend, she likes to think she's a cartographer and a sumi-e painter.
* * *
In her spare time, she daydreams about being a spy. Should that fail, her contingency plan involves tying her best of enemies to spinning wheels and quoting James Bond villains until she is satisfied.
* * *
RJ also writes as Susan Copperfield and Bernadette Franklin. Visit RJ and her pets (the Management) at thesneakykittycritic.com.
Follow RJ & her alter egos on Bookbub:
RJ Blain
Susan Copperfield
Bernadette Franklin
Upcoming R.J. Blain releases
Catnapped: a Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count) releases on May 11, 2021.
* * *
Client from Hell: A Magically Hellish Comedy (with a body count) releases on July 27, 2021.
* * *
Booked for Kidnapping: Vigilante Magical Librarians Book 2 releases on September 7, 2021.
* * *
Up in Smoke: The Fox Witch Book 2 releases on November 2, 2021.
Sample of Booked for Murder
Booked for Murder
Vigilante Magical Librarians Book One
by R.J. Blain
Chapter 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.