by Jason Rose
THE
LYCANTHROPE’S LAWYER
By
Jason Rose
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people (famous or otherwise), real cases, the law, or real places, are used fictitiously. Nothing in this book is true.
It is a fictitious story written for entertainment. Any pop culture commentary is not fact, but rather the author’s imagination, opinions and/or social commentary. Don’t take it seriously.
The author is in no way attempting to libel or slander any person, place, or thing. Nothing in this book should be construed as legal advice and/or an accurate representation of the law.
In other words, don’t use this book for legal advice. Also don’t commit crimes. Be a good person. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are all either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. It bears repeating all pop culture commentary is entirely the opinion of the author and not truth or fact.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic, or other form without the author’s permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Purchase only authorized editions. Again, be a good person.
First eBook edition published December, 2019
Images credit:
(Shutterstock.com: gillmar, m0leks, TroobaDoor, Hanna J, 09910190)
(stock.adobe.com: NikhomTreeVector)
(vectorstock.com: VectoryOne)
Vegvisir graphic: courtesy Steinninn,
derivative work Schwerdf (Public domain) via Wikimedia Commons
Tablet vector image courtesy of Vecteezy
Copyright © 2019 by Jason Rose
All rights reserved.
Dedication
To my beautiful wife Natasha, who is the most supportive human being on earth, thank you for constantly encouraging me to take risks, even when I’m not ready for them. I love you, baby.
I’d also like to thank my two sons Ford and Porter for completing spinning my world on its head and giving me a fresh perspective on life. Things I used to think were important—now seem silly, and things I thought were silly—now seem important.
I’d also like to thank my advance readers, including my biological father Larry, for giving insight and feedback. I know I’m stubborn and don’t always take criticism well, but I appreciate your comments.
Finally, I’d like to thank my Uncle Mike, who has treated me like a son for as long as I can remember. You taught me how to throw a baseball, shoot a basketball, and most importantly, how to read. This book, my life for that matter, wouldn’t be what they are without your support and guidance.
Thank you.
Acknowledgements
A book is never fully a singular endeavor and I’ve been fortunate to have lots of help and support along the way. My many thanks to Samantha Wright for her editorial reviews and Eileen Maceri for her exceptional proofreading expertise. I also extend my gratefulness to my advance readers for their helpful insight and feedback.
Finally, my ongoing thanks to my readers for their continuing support and feedback. I value all the comments I get, whether encouragement or critique, as they all help me become a better writer and storyteller. So please keep them coming and remember you can connect with me online at facebook.com/jasonroseauthor, and instagram.com/jason.rose_author/.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Table of Contents
Books by Jason Rose
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue I
Epilogue II
Thank You for Reading and I Welcome Your Feedback
About the Author
Books by Jason Rose
Coming Soon! The Bride’s Barrister
Books by Jason Rose
The Colt Valentine Arcane Justice Series
(an urban fantasy legal mystery)
Book 1: The Knight Advocate
Book 2: The Lycanthrope’s Lawyer
Book 3: The Bride’s Barrister – Coming Soon!
Learn more about new releases and contact me
I welcome you to visit me and be
the first to know about upcoming releases.
Facebook: facebook.com/jasonroseauthor
Instagram: instagram.com/jason.rose_author/
“There are three rules that I live by: never get less than twelve hours sleep;
never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city;
and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body.
Now you stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese.”
– “Coach Finstock” (Teen Wolf, Atlantic Releasing Corporation, 1985)
“Love is like a fart… if you have to force it, then it’s probably shit.”
– Stephen K. Amos
Prologue
#NeverInMyTown
A fit, elderly man kneels in a cascading pool of blood, rocking back and forth. He tightly grasps the limp body of a young girl in a blood-splattered pink dress with white lace trim. One of her shiny, black, strappy dress shoes is missing; the other remains securely fastened to her knee-high socks-covered feet. The rocking man’s mouth is open, and his face is frozen in a scream, but no sound escapes his lips. A rusty, red fire ax lies partially submerged in blood beside him. Human flesh clings to the warm blade. The still bodies of eight adult guests litter the lobby of the upscale Pittsfield boutique hotel. The floor is slightly slanted. One of the hotel’s support footings must have settled into the sand and clay-rich soil more than the others, and blood is slowly creeping across the tile floor towards the north side entrance.
Police sirens wail in the distance, growing ever closer. If the man hears the sirens, he doesn’t seem to care. He does not try to escape. He just keeps rocking back and forth. His empty eyes are staring blankly at the gore-covered floor. Whatever mind or soul, dark or light, that used to inhabit his body is gone. He is a vacant vessel, held together and kept alive only by involuntary biological mechanics.
The young girl—she couldn’t have been over five or six—is, even in death, exceptionally beautiful. Her dark, blood-saturated hair is matted against her face. The red bow that had held her long black hair back in a ponytail, the same style as her favorite pop star, lies on the floor next to her. Her forest-green eyes are wide open, listlessly staring at the blood-splattered ceiling. Her pink dress slowly turns red as the fabric soaks up more and more o
f the pooling blood. She wears a necklace with a moon pendant, half light, half dark. It shines as if it’s just been polished. Blood seems to avoid it—or is repelled by it. The man wears a matching pendant around his neck. It also seems to unnaturally deter or evade blood.
Police enter the hotel lobby with guns drawn and surround the elderly man. First shock and then disgust flashes across their faces as they survey the brutal crime scene. A feeling of wrongness bites to the bone. Some of the young officers look like they’re about to retaste the donuts and coffee they snacked on during their morning briefing at the station. The police do their best to avoid stepping in the blood—it’s nearly impossible to do so; the lobby is painted with it.
The senior officer, the Sarge, regains his wits, aims his weapon, and yells instructions at the rocking man. “No sudden movements! Keep your hands where I can see them! Let go of the girl! Lie down on the floor! Interlace your fingers and put your hands behind your head!”
The other officers follow the Sarge’s lead and point their Smith & Wesson M&P 45 service revolvers at the man. He doesn’t respond or even acknowledge the police presence. He just keeps rocking back and forth, mouth open, eyes staring into nothingness.
“I said put your fucking hands up!”
Tension in the lobby rises. Even though it’s a chill, regulated 68 degrees, sweat beads on foreheads. The Sarge begins to grow concerned that nerves might get the best of one of his young officers and the last thing they need is for this to turn into a police misconduct investigation. Duty, training, and fear are the only things keeping the young officers in line. Sarge can sense the panic building in his squad, preparing to crest.
“Everyone, let’s settle down,” commands the Sarge in a practiced, calming voice while he holsters his M&P 45, unhooks his handcuffs from his belt, and cautiously approaches the elderly man from behind, one careful step after the other. When he reaches the man, he kicks the ax away. It skips across the bloody floor, displacing the blood in its path. Sarge flinches in pain. Kicking the ax hurt, even through his steel-toed boot. It was heavier than he expected.
The silent man doesn’t react at all to the kicked ax; he just keeps rocking, back and forth.
Sarge grabs the man’s wrists, expecting a struggle; there isn’t one. The man’s arms are loose and offer zero resistance. The girl falls out of the man’s lap onto the floor. A hollow wet sound rings out, echoing endlessly through the lobby, as the young beauty’s limp head smacks onto the bloody tile. The Sarge takes a deep breath and pushes forward past the voice in his head telling him to flee this place. He handcuffs the man and forces him to his feet, not as gently as he could, but more gently than he believes this murderer deserves. Once the handcuffs are on, the cops all collectively exhale with relief. The feeling of wrongness that permeated the lobby seems to dissipate. The air feels lighter. Sarge forces a smile; he knows it’s important, especially at a time like this, to keep his troops loose—even if smiling is the last thing he feels like doing. In all his years on the force, he’s seen nothing like this—never seen this much blood. Even now, he’s doing everything he can to keep his knees from shaking and betraying his nerves. How could something like this happen—here of all places?
Chapter One
Tuesday Morning
A Bay Area hip-hop classic whistles through my radio speakers at a modest volume level, mostly respectful of the neighborhood, as I drive the near-empty city streets. Nothing wakes up the body quite like a catchy dance beat, except maybe a cup of coffee and a warm croissant, neither of which I’ve had the pleasure of this crisp Tuesday Bay Area morning. The automatic wipers brush away the wet fog clinging to my windshield. The Town’s still asleep; it won’t be awake for another hour or so, which is fine by me; I like to get an early start to my day. There’s something peaceful about driving through the empty Oakland streets.
As I approach my law firm, a beautiful, old, red brick building near the city center, one that reminds me of my Indiana childhood, I notice an old beat-up van parked at the end of the block. It’s parked on the wrong side of the street, facing the wrong way—towards traffic, towards my office. The illegal park job alone probably wouldn’t have set off any alarm bells, it is Oakland after all. But there’s also a man standing beside it, wearing a suit and an overcoat that look like they cost more than the van itself. He’s leaning against the passenger door, watching my office. Smoke is rising from the van’s exhaust pipe, so there’s at least one other person inside, probably trying to keep warm on this cold fall morning. The van has shiny new tires, which is a dead giveaway; no one puts new rubber on such a POS unless it’s more than what it seems. Something about the whole scene makes my skin crawl, and after the month I’ve had, and the things that I’ve seen, vampires, werespiders, orogs, witches, and things I don’t even know the name of, you never can be too careful.
I decrease the radio volume, slouch down in my seat and drive right on past my office, past the van, past the overly well-dressed man, and hook a pair of lefts so I can circle around to the other side of my building. As I passed the paint-chipped van, I got a good look at the guy leaning against it. He’s a big fella, unnaturally large, with a full red beard. He could probably play left tackle for America’s team. I tried to get a glimpse of the inside of the van; it was too dark, the windows were tinted. After I park and lock my nondescript Honda, I remove an ornate silver pen from my inner jacket pocket—it resembles a Sharpie, but the most elegant Sharpie ever made—and draw the outline of a door and a handle with living silver ink, onto the brick wall. Since we have no back door to the office, I make my own. I place the pen back into my pocket, reach into the wall, pull open a magical door, and step through the shimmering light into the center of my dark office. The glowing door closes behind me and disappears.
The gate-pen was one of three gifts I inherited when I killed my uncle Pavo, a sixteen-hundred-year-old vampire. The other gifts are a self-updating legal text, and a red-stoned silver ring that won’t come off and seems to have a mind of its own. My uncle put me in an impossible situation. I could either kill him or allow an innocent girl to die. He wanted to die and was betting on my humanity to deliver him to the afterlife. What a dick. When he died, I was forced to take his place as one of twenty-four Advocates who enforce the Magna Concordat, a treaty of laws agreed to by all of the supernatural races of Earth, also known as Concordat citizens, which are all of the races except for humans—who have no rights under the treaty, and are considered by most citizens to be food, or worse. The whole thing seems like a drug-induced nightmare—one I keep waiting to wake up from.
I ignore the lights and head straight for the office coffee-bar with the restaurant-grade espresso maker. Nothing beats a good latte in the morning, and I hate to face danger before my first dose of caffeine. I was out of single-serve pods at home, and I’m feening for a hot cup of joe. Once the cold milk is warmed into foam, I pour it on top of the double shot of espresso, add two sugar packets, and set it on the conference table in front of a chair facing the front door. I then head over to my investigator Wilson’s desk. He’s only human, but I wouldn’t say that’s a disadvantage to his face—at least, without first buying him a drink . . . or two.
I reach under Wilson’s desk and grab hold of the stock of the Benelli M1 Super 90 with a magazine extension he stores there—just in case we have unwanted company. I know from prior discussions with Wilson that the tactical shotgun is always loaded for bear, or is it rhinoceroses? I can never remember. Regardless, big bullets, five shots, all silver slugs. There is something about the chemical properties of silver that bothers most all supernatural creatures. Enough lead will kill just about anything; silver just does a better job of it.
Since the trial and execution of Lycocide the werespider last month, where I made a bunch of enemies, I’ve been training in firearms with Wilson once a week and hand-to-hand combat with my law partner Sinn at least twice per week. We’ve taken on a few new cases here at the firm, nothing too serious�
�mainly immigration paperwork and some estate work. Even monsters need lawyers to help with the tedious things like travel, immigration, and making sure their children are provided for when they’re gone. Besides the fact that all our clients are, lacking a better term, monsters, and that the courthouse where we do much of our work is on the other side of the world, beneath Rome, this place runs like a typical law office. There’s even a lunch cart lady who stops by two afternoons a week selling sandwiches. Her tuna melts are to die for.
My friend Wilson is our chief investigator. Joycee, a girl I met during my first case, is our tech guru. They both work here full time with me and my law partner Sinn—she’s a vampire. We’re half-assedly looking for a secretary, no internet ad or anything, it’s more of a word of mouth thing, although we haven’t really mentioned it to very many people—so far, we haven’t found any promising candidates. At least none that I both like, and dislike, enough to hire. Although we offer good health care coverage, working here isn’t necessarily good for your health; it can be downright deadly. You end up exposed to a lot of seedy characters, some human, some . . . not so human—all dangerous.
I set the Benelli down extremely carefully on the table next to my latte; the safety is off and just like on a first date, it’s important to avoid accidental discharges. I flip the wall switch; the office lights hum and pop on, one by one, signaling to the outside world that someone is here. I quickly glance at the contact list on my phone. I scroll up to Sinn, then down to Wilson; my finger hovers over the call button. I consider giving them a heads-up on the van and then I decide against it, hitting the lock button and shoving the phone back into my front pants pocket. I can’t be afraid of every van and every potential client. I must stand on my own two feet, even when they’re resting on my conference table. I am a Paladin, the last of my kind, and I can defend myself. Plus, Sinn and Wilson will both be here soon. It’s not like calling them will get them here any quicker. Unlike me, who has the option of using a magical gateway, they must navigate the Bay Area’s congested freeway traffic like everybody else. The gate-pen portal thing is either a perk of my position as an Advocate or a symptom of my curse. I’m still gathering evidence.