Booked for Kidnapping: Vigilante Magical Librarians, #2

By R.J. Blain

Following the assassination of Senator Maybelle, widespread rioting and unrest transform the presidential campaign into a lethal circus. With protests raging over the new bill, the government scrambles to restore peace and order.

 

Armed with a probationary private investigation license, Janette and her friends race against time to prevent the next murder. On the surface, the motive for the killings seems simple enough: the senate bill, if passed, would transform the United States into a militant dictatorship.

 

As hostilities around the nation intensify and the pressure of the investigation strains Janette's relationships with her family and friends, she learns loyalty only goes so far, friendships are as easily forged as they are broken, and justice means little to those determined to preserve their personal liberties.

 

But when a murder attempt turns into a kidnapping, she's left with one choice:

 

Uncover the truth, or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen & Page Publishing
• Release date: Oct 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649640062

Book preview

ONE

Exactly nobody in my life wanted me to attend the memorial.

Funerals for the rich and famous baffled me. In one final attempt to promote Senator Maybelle’s causes, her campaign hosted a memorial in the park where she’d been murdered. As the campaign wanted to draw as many eyes as possible to their final event while leaving the senator’s reputation intact, I’d been given an invitation to attend as a special guest—a guest who might be able to shake hands with the other potential victims and get a closer look at those who might have killed the woman.

As such, I couldn’t refuse, not if I wanted to bring her murderers to justice.

Exactly nobody in my life wanted me to attend the memorial, as in their opinion, I transformed myself from a good Samaritan into a target—a target trapped in a wheelchair and easy pickings for just about anyone. The argument, which had begun within five minutes of receiving the invitation and continued until the morning of the memorial, had accomplished one thing: nobody in my life was pleased with me.

The wheelchair part of things annoyed the hell out of me, as healing my labored lungs had come at a price involving an infection I battled with antibiotics rather than my magic. Until my lungs could operate without me constantly oxygenating my blood, I wore a bracelet meant to keep my magic from doing any more than the bare minimum required for survival. The treatments worked; in the weeks since I’d been shot at the rally, my lungs recovered ahead of schedule. If all continued to go well, they’d be close to functional within a month.

The infection in my foot plus the battered state of my lungs had become the foundation for my friends and family protesting my involvement with the funeral.

I understood their point. While they wanted to find the truth, my friends and family refused to pursue justice at the cost of my safety.

We disagreed, and as they refused to bend, I’d accepted the campaign’s offer of transportation to and from the event, refusing to speak to any of them until they understood I needed justice more than I needed my personal safety.

Most didn’t care about justice, and after the shock of her assassination wore off, the truth had begun to spread. The investigation into her murder brought the woman’s social sins and prejudices to the front page of most newspapers. With the public aware of her support of a bill meant to send people like me to our inevitable deaths, the lines between justice and self-preservation blurred.

While my on-going survival mattered, I couldn’t help but feel we had missed something critical about the murders and the killers’ motives.

All we knew was that the murderers favored mimicking how an exsanguinator might kill someone, although we’d cracked how the crimes had been committed thanks to Senator Maybelle’s death.

I loathed how complicated my life had become since Bradley Hampton’s return into my life. Gone were the days of struggling through on my crippled foot, just one librarian among many. Gone were the days of a set routine, conquering one trivial matter at a time. Gone were the days where I could treat the trivialities as though they held some great importance in the grand scheme of things.

In the days following Senator Godrin’s demise on the steps of my library, I’d been charmed by the idea of seeking out the truth and securing justice for his brutal slaying. Proving I hadn’t been the killer had factored, but I hadn’t been able to turn away—I still couldn’t turn away from the chain of murders.

I also couldn’t turn away from the legislation that would transform the United States into a living nightmare for the majority of Americans. Our current system hurt too many as it was; I’d learned that truth living among the lowest of the low.

I’d also lived in the ivory tower.

We needed change, but not at the cost of the hundreds of thousands or millions of lives Maybelle and her fellow senators intended to sacrifice. Without the engagement to the man who’d once been my boss and a contract meant to ensnare me in the Hampton family affairs for life, I would be among the first of the thousands killed, likely in the front lines of some war.

The prospect of the United States declaring war bothered me even more than the idea a bunch of unsavory politicians intended to kill off twenty percent of the population. Or more.

Who did our government wish to fight? Why?

With the potential of half the country being deemed unfit and put to death or enslaved looming over me, I prepared to investigate alone.

As promised, the campaign sent a van capable of dealing with my wheelchair. The staff, from some service dedicated to handicapped transport, did their jobs with minimal chitchat. Had I been able to convince even Bradley to go along with attending the service, I would’ve enjoyed the trip in the front seat of his new little family car, a comfortable ride with enough trunk space to handle the folded wheelchair without problems.

But no, the whole lot of them had become my match in stubborn pride, refusing to take any chances when the best place to get information would be ground zero, the senator’s memorial.

Not even Mickey had been willing to get involved, meaning I went without wiring my wheelchair. Without his help, the best I could do was record what I could with my phone and hope I didn’t run out of space or battery when filming clips I thought might be important.

One day, I’d forgive them for their refusal to have anything to do with the service. I read between the lines, too.

Anything I learned would be a me problem and not a them problem. Thanks to my days of flying under the radar, I could cope with yet another me problem. I resented how I’d gone from valued to becoming the recipient of a rather cold shoulder, but I would make do.

I always did.

I regarded the boot on my foot with a scowl, the result of yet another surgery to repair the damage from the car crash that had almost killed me and the gunfire that had ended Senator Maybelle’s life. The infection had delayed even more surgeries, a relief despite the pain I battled every waking moment. The van’s driver pulled up to the designated space for the handicapped to be dropped off and left me on the sidewalk before heading off to their next job. I wheeled myself to the entrance, grateful my laboring lungs could handle the work. I appreciated the wait before one of the campaign staff pushed me to my designated space in the front row, where I served as a living reminder of what had happened weeks prior.

As Senator Maybelle’s body had already been buried during a private funeral for family and close friends, flowers and pictures took the place of where her casket would have been placed.

Senator Godrin, no matter how much I loathed him, needed justice, and so did Senator Maybelle. The other victims also deserved justice. It didn’t matter we held different beliefs. It didn’t matter I loathed their intention to regulate, control, and eliminate people like me.

Their lack of personal integrity and morality didn’t justify their murders, not to me.

In the days following Senator Maybelle’s death, I’d learned a bitter truth: few, even among my friends and family, agreed with me.

Two wrongs never made a right, and looking the other way didn’t magically make problems disappear.

I waited, counting the ridiculous number of bouquets decorating the stage, each one with their tag still on it. The organizers allowed people to come up to pay their respects to the senator’s framed photo and unlit candles, although few bit on the bait. Most, like me, took their assigned seat and waited, murmuring to one another.

The skeptical, jaded side of me wondered how much the campaign had charged per ticket to attend the memorial, what goals everyone had in showcasing their grief, and who would become players in the bigger game, one with rules I didn’t understand and wouldn’t until I got closer to solving the mystery of the murders.

No, assassinations.

Too many possibilities lurked at the horizon. The killers could support their cause, martyring them for a better chance of passing the bill through a sympathetic congress. The congress knew the dead—and liked them. The killers could also be against their cause, hoping the bill would head to the grave along with the bodies of the fallen.

I wrinkled my nose at my poor foot, annoyed at its insistence on making a mess of my life. Worse, the damage from the bullet would one day allow me to walk again without enduring agony. As soon as the infection eased and I could undergo one more procedure, I might be able to learn to walk again without my cane, although I’d lug it around when at the library to avoid setbacks.

I wouldn’t be without pain, but I would be able to walk.

Benefiting from the woman’s death bothered me; her campaign’s money paid for my treatments and would for years to come. I still didn’t understand why Bradley’s mother insisted on allowing the campaign to fund my surgeries.

While under the guise of fiddling with my phone, I took pictures of the crowd, wondering if my efforts would offer any clues needed to make some form of progress on identifying and capturing the killers. No, not just on identifying and capturing the killers, but everyone involved with their activities.

Some killers worked alone, but our fledgling investigative cell had found the evidence I needed to understand that even small groups required a lot of support. Maybe four to six people could have done the hit, but it took a lot of money, effort, knowledge, and equipment to successfully assassinate a senator in public and escape without a trace.

Well, mostly without a trace. I’d witnessed a critical error on their part in the form of the illusionist failing to cover the headshot so investigators wouldn’t be able to identify the true cause of death.

Exsanguinators like me could no longer be blamed for a bullet’s work.

Aware Senator Maybelle’s allies likely lurked in the crowd, I researched the news, hoping for pictures or some insight we may have missed. Their shared beliefs bothered me.

Those beliefs made them targets, and while I wanted their bill to die, the idea of letting them be murdered left me with a sour stomach and a headache.

No matter how long or hard I thought about it, I couldn’t understand how my fellow librarians, my fiancé, and everyone else in my life could turn their backs and refuse to view the problem with open eyes instead of closed minds. Perhaps my brush with death had changed me more than I wanted to admit.

Or, perhaps, my willingness to lay down my life for Bradley’s sake had changed me.

The certainty of making the same choice for another, even a politician who wanted to see people like me dead and gone, grew into an insurmountable wall dividing me from my family and friends. They clung to their need to protect me.

I refused to bend, maintaining my need to put others over myself.

To my disgust, the news focused solely on Senator Maybelle’s assassination. Rather than chase after the truth, the media had opted to focus on the good the woman had done for the community, painting her as a martyr who wanted the best for the people. Hints of the bitter truth lurked within the articles, as they focused on the ideal people, the ones who wouldn’t be sent to the front lines should the bill pass without modification.

Old, white men would benefit the most, if they had the right aptitude to pass through the system. Here and there, vague promises offered hope to the lower castes. In the wrong hands, hope became a dangerous weapon, one capable of twisting an entire society into voting for their demise.

In the end, unless something changed, lies and greed would result in the entire downfall of our system, with thousands upon thousands of lives lost in some future war for the sake of purging society of the unwanted elements—unwanted elements like me.

I could almost understand why those lacking power would want to make people like me disappear under the guise of fighting for a good cause. The news articles I read offered no insights on the nature of that future war. Outside of Senator Maybelle’s death, all seemed well on the global stage, with minor hiccups as the United States interfered in the bickering of other nations. None of the conflicts seemed major enough to spark a large-scale war to me, and the actions the United States took part in were sanctioned by the global powers that be.

I could only wonder what would tip the scales and transform questionable peace into a war capable of killing millions.

When I returned to my apartment, I would need to look back at history to better understand the circumstances sparking off the worst of the wars, including the Holocaust, which had cost so many innocent lives. When I framed the bill in the light of the United States preparing to create its own Holocaust, I worried.

I worried, and I feared.

Chairs filled, and the murmur of conversation intensified. I recognized few faces. The old, white men who would benefit most from the insidious bill working its way through the government made up the vast majority of the attendees. Some of them were accompanied by disturbingly young women who dangled off their arms, trophies of the worst sort.

I wondered what they hoped to gain from attaching themselves to the chaff of society, those who sought to profit from the demise of their fellow Americans.

An old, white man took the seat next to me, dressed in a suit I suspected cost more than one of my medical bills. While I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye, careful to keep scrolling through the latest news at what appeared to be a slow, thorough reading speed, he stared at me through narrowed, dark eyes.

You’re the exsanguinator, he stated, and I admired the neutrality of his tone.

Most couldn’t manage to keep their disgust hidden.

As the man, likely some politician, expected me to give him the attention he was owed and deserved founded solely on his gender and position, I turned off my phone’s display, lifted my head, and met his gaze. My name is Janette, I informed him, and I matched his neutral tone. With luck, he would perceive my response as an utter lack of care or concern of who he was.

The exsanguinator, he pressed.

I shrugged, and as he couldn’t be bothered to be polite to me, I responded in kind, returning my attention back to my phone, turning on the display, and resuming my perusal of the media’s lackluster offerings.

Janette Asurella, soon to be wed into the Hampton family, a sickeningly familiar voice stated from behind me. You’re picking a poor enemy for yourself, Senator Smithhall.

A chill ran through me, and I understood how deer trapped in the beams of an oncoming car felt. Nothing in anything I had read about the memorial service had implied the President of the United States would be in attendance. In retrospect, I should have assumed he would show. After all, the woman had been assassinated during her campaign to take his place.

Somewhere, there had to be some sort of etiquette book dictating how President Castillo behaved when a notable politician died.

I regretted my lack of knowledge about the man. President Castillo did the necessary pandering to society, making addresses in his distinct baritone, and favored using his deepest tones when he spoke about something of import. He used that tone when he said, You have done the United States a great service, Janette. While you were unable to save Senator Maybelle’s life, through no fault of your own, you have demonstrated to our country that there are adepts with strong morals and superior ethics. Most would not have done as you have done.

How the hell had I gotten roped into talking to the President of the United States? When I escaped the memorial service, I would inform my friends and family they had been absolutely correct. I should have avoided the service with great enthusiasm rather than throw myself at it with reckless abandon. Once I admitted they’d been right, I would hide under a bed with my cat until I died of old age. Before I could turn my wheelchair or twist around to face the man, he came around, gestured with his head for the old, white idiot beside me to move over, and took the seat beside me.

I swallowed. Mr. President.

Congratulations on your engagement are in order, although from my understanding of the situation, you have not yet made an official announcement?

How the hell had President Castillo heard about my engagement? In an effort to hide my surprise, I smiled and bobbed my head. The shooting delayed things, although we’re in the midst of scheduling the first party.

Even Bradley had more enthusiasm for the party than I did. If given my way, the party would have been private, for two, and I’d encourage Bradley to take his shirt off. Even when he frustrated the hell out of me, he remained as handsome and desirable as always.

I was a fool, plain and simple.

It’s a true pity about Samantha. She was one of the good ones. Dedicated to her causes, kind in her interactions with others, and a welcome voice in the senate she served so loyally. President Castillo sighed, as though the weight of the world had fallen directly onto his shoulders.

Something nagged at me, nibbling away at me, although I couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong about his statement. On the surface, all seemed well, but I feared I waded through a sea of lies, and I risked falling into some trap no matter where I stepped.

She seemed like a kind woman dedicated to her causes, I replied, and I turned my attention to the flowers surrounding the framed photograph of the fallen senator. I can’t say I knew her well.

She struggled with connecting with her public, although she was making good efforts before her murder. Such a tragedy.

On television, the President of the United States seemed like a charismatic enough fellow, but something about him set the little hairs on the back of my neck up on end, warning me of treacherous waters ahead. When I’d served as Bradley’s bodyguard rather than his future wife, I’d learned to be on guard during such times.

I could only assume the presence of nearby Secret Service agents scrutinizing me held the blame for my reaction. To keep calm and as in control of the situation as possible, I played the game, forcing myself to keep a solemn demeanor. After what I hoped appeared to be a moment of reflection, I replied, Yes, her death was a tragedy. If it matters to you, she didn’t suffer.

Yes, it matters. You believe she didn’t suffer?

I know she didn’t. She died instantly. I hope that brings some comfort to her family. Senator Maybelle’s life had purchased another victim a second chance, although I wouldn’t remind President Castillo of that unless he pressed the point. I regarded my foot with a sigh.

When I got home, I would have to address that problem in a better way than waiting for the ineffective antibiotics to do their job. I’d have to take off the bracelet controlling my magic and allowing my lungs to heal properly. If the miracles of medication couldn’t handle the healing work, my magic could.

A little rebellion would do me a world of good, as would a good night’s sleep for a change.

The President of the United States joined me in regarding my boot, and his expression implied interest. The briefing mentioned you had been injured before the shooting.

Yes. Damage from a car accident. I was undergoing treatments. If he wanted more information than that, he could go digging for it elsewhere.

I had heard. Your fiancé had been in the car with you. He walked away with moderate injuries. The other individuals involved in the crash died. Would you be interested in helping to train members of the Secret Service in accident avoidance maneuvers? There are also a few exsanguinators in the Secret Service who could benefit from being tutored.

I stared at President Castillo for a long moment before frowning and checking my phone for the careful schedule I’d made for myself, with all of my cell activities listed under generally harmless labels, including doctor’s appointments and physical therapy sessions. My actual work for the library remained intact, although my boss had made sure to give me the time needed to go to my actual doctor appointments and work on the murder cases without losing my job in the process. It’s a possibility, assuming they come to New York. My shrink would love the accident avoidance learning, honestly.

Therapy for your crash?

Yes. Talking about it helps.

Talking had helped, too. More than I thought it could when my shrinks, a married couple who took turns with me, had suggested I go make friends with Bradley’s baby.

I’d been able to sneak over and visit the red beauty of an old car and give it a pat on the hood without falling to pieces. When certain no one could catch me, I’d thanked it for having been built strong enough to save our lives, too. Ren had been my only accomplice for that effort, and he’d displayed the patience of a saint while I’d worked through my various emotions.

Piece by piece, I took back my life, returning to the ivory tower I’d left behind.

It would be beneficial for my team to see the full consequences of such a crash. It’s been a while, President Castillo stated with pride in his voice. They’ve done excellent work with security, and we haven’t lost an agent during my entire presidency.

That did impress me, as the President of the United States was a prime target of terrorism and assassination. What sort of men and women did the Secret Service employ not to have a single death in so many years? I suspected the man lied to me, as I couldn’t imagine such a dangerous job having zero casualties over such a long period of time. Rather than accuse the man of bullshitting me, I replied, If they want to see such consequences, I can get copies of the crash pictures and my medical record.

Everyone had tried to convince me to look over the files and the photographs, but I’d declined. I already remembered more than I wanted, which complicated my life, and I held no doubt some of the photographs included a battered, bruised, and bloodied Bradley. I’d dedicated that part of my life to making sure I never witnessed him even bruised.

One day, when I could afford to fall apart, I would take another walk down memory lane, but until I finished what I set out to do, I would continue to keep my memories of the crash locked away—or as locked away as I could.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget Bradley’s desperation when he’d realized he would walk away and I would likely die.

I forced my thoughts back to the situation at hand. Before I gave the government anything, I would remove the more confidential bits, including intel on my spleen transplant and the injuries to my lungs. They’d get everything I had on my foot, including the damage done during the senator’s assassination.

President Castillo reached into his coat, pulled out a business card and a pen, and jotted down several phone numbers with names and instructions. I look forward to hearing from you, Miss Asurella.

I retrieved my wallet from my purse and tucked his card inside. Thank you, Mr. President.

Now, I’ll take my leave. I’m expected to sit on the other side of the aisle. The President of the United States rose from his seat and nodded to the man he’d evicted. Senator.

Mr. President, he replied.

Do try to stay civil. This is a memorial.

The senator grimaced. Understood, Mr. President.

I read between the lines, identifying that the man seated beside me had some form of prejudice known to create trouble for President Castillo, and I fit the bill for his bad behavior in some fashion or another. Either he disliked younger women or exsanguinators. Either would create extra problems for me. Rather than create trouble for the sake of creating trouble, I took a picture of him and waited for the service to begin.

The service took almost two hours, and the campaign went to extremes trying to prove their fallen senator had been a shining example of morality in a dark world. They dug through the worst trenches of society in an effort to paint her as a radiant being above all others. Some in the crowd mourned, but most watched with an unnerving calm, analyzing every word the campaign manager said, who handled the transitions between guest speakers. Most in the front row spoke, including President Castillo, leaving me as an honorable mention.

I suspected the lack of a ramp had something to do with having escaped being forced to talk to a crowd of politicians and campaign supporters.

The instant the ceremony and final prayers concluded, the crowd murmured, and within five minutes, the place reminded me of a crowd leaving a concert, boisterous and ready for a night on the town despite it being in the early afternoon. As I loathed the idea of trying to navigate through the masses in my wheelchair, I held off leaving, checking my phone for any news.

The local media fixated on the service, and I wrinkled my nose at my presence in more than a few photos. There was even one of me chatting with President Castillo. Fortunately for my peace of mind, all the pictures depicted me as being polite and interested in what the man said, although none of them captured me smiling.

I could live with neutral and serious rather than dour or cranky.

I gave it twenty minutes before I dove headlong into the cranky territory, especially when I went home to a mess.

Thanks to the ongoing disagreement with my family and friends, Bradley had my cat. Until one of us bent, he’d continue to be the caretaker of my fluffy goddess. Ajani would make me pay for my absence, too.

I missed my fluffy ball of terror, which only made the realities of my life even worse.

Before I could spiral down to the dark depths of general despair, one of the older white men opted to sit beside me. I recognized him from the countless meetings with the fledgling cell as Representative Kennedys, the author of the bill destined to create upheaval and countless deaths. Quite the service, he said in a pleasant tone, and I could understand how he captured the attention of his constituents. What looked pleasant must be pleasant in the eyes of many, and he took care with his appearances along with his voice. I hope you are feeling better.

Interesting. As the first to inquire on my health, he won points playing the social game, although I knew better than to be charmed by his easy smile, voice, and the illusion of kindness he presented.

Men like him wanted people like me to disappear. Permanently.

I am. Thank you for asking. To play along, I sighed and regarded my booted foot with a scowl. I might escape this thing one day.

I heard that the bullet damaged your already injured foot.

That’s true. It did. It made a mess of the work that had already been done to it. I got lucky. If things keep going well, I might be able to walk again. I already could in a fashion, but it involved crutches, as the infection made the whole damned thing hurt enough I had cried the first and last time I’d tried. Rather than walk to exercise my lungs, I lifted weights until I gasped for air.

I’d done a lot of weightlifting in the past few days to forget about the ongoing dispute with my family and friends.

Some days, I wished I could disappear again, but I couldn’t afford to leave, not until I found answers and justice.

After, I’d evaluate the tangled mess my life had become.

You carry a painful burden, and to have worked so hard to save the lives you could. That is an admirable thing. I had not known exsanguinators could hold such moral integrity.

Of course not. He wanted to see people like me eradicated. It is thanks to prejudices like that I couldn’t become a nurse or doctor. Had I been allowed, many more lives would have been saved.

Yet you knew how to save those people attending the rally.

Livestock, I informed him in as neutral a tone as I could muster.

Pardon? I don’t understand.

I helped vets treat livestock, and I honed my skills helping butchers make certain the animals had a calm and peaceful passing. People like me are not invited to go to school to learn how to save lives.

Because of people like him. I somehow kept my gaze focused on my foot, and I kept my mouth shut despite wanting to inform him he was a hateful waste of air.

Yet you saved those lives.

I shrugged. What was the worst that would happen? They would die? They were already dying. I did what I could. I succeeded, and that is all that matters. Nothing would have saved Senator Maybelle. She was dead before I reached her.

So we were told.

Exsanguinators are many things, but we can’t bring back the dead. But I can circumvent the heart in the case of a torn aorta, and I can staunch bleeding as easily as I can cause it. I can purge your blood of infection, I can detect, just by looking at you, if you have diabetes.

Do I have diabetes? Representative Kennedys asked, his tone curious.

I glanced at him, narrowed my eyes, and concentrated. Sure enough, I detected the telltale signs of sugar imbalance in his blood, the sensation matching what I associated with someone in the early stages of diabetes. It’s either early or well-controlled, but yes. You have diabetes. I shrugged, and I focused on the flowers on the stage. If you haven’t been diagnosed, you should see a doctor.

Can’t exsanguinators fix it? he challenged. If you’re so good at such things.

I snorted a laugh. No. I can’t control your pancreas and convince your body to produce insulin. I work with blood, not with faulty organs no longer able to properly do their job. If you had a blood disease, perhaps I could, but diabetes isn’t a disease of the blood for all it is detected in the blood. Diabetes is sourced from a failure to produce insulin, which is not an exsanguinator’s domain. You would have to ask a doctor for the specifics. It’s ultimately your choice how you handle your sickness. All I can do is detect the imbalance of sugars in the blood, but the blood isn’t the cause of your problems. I am not a doctor, nor am I a nurse.

Technically, I lied. I could—and had—helped purge excess sugar from the blood in last-ditch efforts to save diabetes victims close to death. I couldn’t stop their diabetes, but I could temporarily rebalance their bodies while doctors worked at managing their insulin needs.

And sometimes, not even my magic could stop death. There was only so much I could do, no matter how hard I tried.

Yet you saved those people.

Yes, I did. If you had been the one shot, despite your obvious loathing of who and what I am, I would have tried to save you, too. Fed up with asshole politicians, I unlocked the wheels of my chair and eyed the crowd for the best path to escape to the street, where I’d have to wait for a ridiculous time for somebody to cart me back to my apartment. Have a good day, Representative Kennedys.

Wait, he ordered.

I am not yours to boss around, Representative Kennedys.

We got off on the wrong foot, I see.

You only have yourself to blame for that. Already regretting my choice to brave the crowds, I turned my chair and began the slow journey across the park to the street.

Perhaps you are right. I apologize. You are not what I expected from an exsanguinator of your strength.

Muttering curses under my breath, I stopped and turned my wheelchair to face him. Well, yes. You decided to believe in a common prejudice without bothering to get to know me. It doesn’t matter how many lives I save when it comes to the prejudiced like you. I am still an exsanguinator, and that is all you need to know, isn’t it? I allowed the merest hint of my scorn to show in my voice. Unless you have something important to discuss, I have better things to do than pander to some politician who doesn’t even like me.

The man gaped at me as