Nice Werewolves Don't Bite Vampires (Half-Moon Hollow #8)- Molly Harper Page 0,1

such. But for small business owners who already had enough on their plate, it was easier to just pay my very reasonable rates to bring clients to their doors.

I slipped my phone into my back pocket, just as it growled a second time. I wouldn’t respond to my mother’s text, because that would only mean pointless arguing until I left earlier than planned. My time would be better spent wrapping up for the day and then texting her on my run home. I closed the small study carrel door behind me and punched in my temporary code to protect my stuff, silently blessing the name of Jane Jameson-Nightengale—even though she wasn’t exactly a favorite around my household.

Jane, who I’d only met in passing when I was a kid, was a close friend of my cousin. Jolene had been the pack’s pride and joy until she’d married a human, had his adorable children, and moved a whole ten miles away from the packlands. Well, Jolene was still pretty much the pack’s pride and joy, but my relatives grumbled under their breath about her a lot more often—usually involving the phrase “such a shame.” Jane was (unfairly) blamed for this.

Turning out of the study carrels, I narrowly missed bumping into a guy around my age, wearing a hoodie and jeans.

“Sorry,” I murmured, brushing past him without looking up. I had to move with purpose if I was going to finish this assignment and get home on time.

As I passed the European History section, I saw two teenage boys wrestling around, bumping against the bookshelf while they fought to look at woodcuttings of nude women from the Dark Ages.

This was one of many reasons why I’d rarely dated in high school.

What were so many teenage boys even doing at the library on a Friday night? That was suspicious in itself. Shouldn’t they be in a nearby field somewhere with an illegally-obtained keg, shouting “wooooo?” I knew why I was at a library on a Friday night. I was avoiding my house and pursuing cash. I liked cash. It was silent, dependable, and never judged you for not having a social life.

Rolling my eyes, I turned my back on the disruptive goofballs and walked into the weapons section. I crouched, scanning the bottom shelf for an illustrated guidebook to swords throughout history. I’d used it for a report on warfare in the Renaissance period when I attended Half-Moon Hollow High. There was a comforting sort of consistency to that book still being there seven years later. Being able to count on the little things was one of the perks of living in the Hollow. It almost outweighed the many, many drawbacks.

The teenage tussle behind me continued and I blocked it out to focus on the book in front of me. It was a skill I’d developed as a teenager, very useful when trying to ignore about a dozen people all trying to tell you how you should be running your life over Sunday dinner.

Opening the thick reference guide, I studied the illustration diagramming the various parts of Celtic swords versus Viking swords. The photo my clients wanted to use was definitely Viking. And even if it was a beautiful image, they couldn’t use it. People delighted in calling companies out on inaccuracies like this—especially history enthusiasts, who were very quick to pick up on social media gaffes, no matter what era. Sometimes, those gaffes made you famous for the wrong reasons.

I took my phone out of my pocket and took a picture of the pages showing examples of both swords. I sent an email to the client, explaining that we couldn’t use their preferred stock photo, but I would find a historically accurate image they would love just as much by tomorrow. Still concentrating on careful email phrasing, I heard a grunt behind me and what sounded like an appendage—an elbow?—thumping against book spines. My head whipped toward the noise.

Several things happened all at once. The bookshelf behind me wobbled, despite being almost floor-to-ceiling. A literal ton of wood and paper was clearly no match against the adolescent desire to see block-printed boobs. Several extremely heavy books on the last legal duels in Kentucky—I could see the titles on the spines as if they were frozen in time—tumbled towards me. All I could think to do was drop the sword guide, cover my head and hope I didn’t get knocked out. My ears detected lightning quick steps against the worn carpet just to my