The Jinxed Journalist Read online

  The Jinxed Journalist

  The Borderline Chronicles, Volume 3

  Fiona West

  Published by Tempest and Kite, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE JINXED JOURNALIST

  First edition. October 11, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Fiona West.

  Written by Fiona West.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  Thank you for reading my book!

  MORE BOOKS FROM FIONA WEST | The Borderline Chronicles

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Connect with Fiona!

  CHAPTER ONE

  ONCE UPON A TIME—A long time ago, but not so long that people don’t remember—a beautiful princess lived in a kingdom high in the mountains. Her name was Giselle, and as happy and joyful as her life was, she longed for a handsome prince. Not to help her rule; she’d been groomed from the time she was young for that role. Not to keep her warm at night; she had quilts and coverlets enough. But someone to talk to, to laugh with. Giselle wanted a friend.

  And so, when Prince Ralstand rode into the kingdom to ask for her hand in marriage, Giselle was delighted.

  Unfortunately, Ralstand was not willing to play second fiddle to anyone, certainly not a princess from a backwater territory such as this. Unable to attract a woman who was willing to let him rule, he plotted another path to his desires. He was well versed in magic, and it had made him proud, arrogant. He had come for a kingdom, and he was going to get it by any means possible. His hidden agenda would not be discovered until it was all too late. On the night of their wedding, Ralstand pulled Giselle out onto the balcony alone, hidden among the ivy-laden pillars, and, taking her face in his hands, he kissed her. But this was no ordinary kiss . . . Giselle went to bed that night and never woke again. Having married her already, Ralstand claimed her kingdom and ruled in her stead, the curse holding his wife in place, stuck between life and death in eternal, dreamless sleep.

  Ralstand’s Kiss is now an illegal magical maneuver in every country on the continent and across the Sparkling Sea.

  BROOKE WALKED DOWN the streets of East Cheekton to her favorite café.

  “Hi, Jerry,” she said to the man sitting in old clothes by the front door. “How was your night?”

  He shrugged, mumbling to himself.

  She knelt to see him better. “Hungry?”

  His eyes lit up, and she smiled as she pulled a soft granola bar out of her purse. He didn’t thank her as he ripped into the packaging . . . He was usually a bit more cogent than this, and his current state worried Brooke. But her mind was elsewhere as she went inside, ordered her tea, and found a table where she could see the door. She waited until her mug of peppermint tea had gone cold in front of her. She doodled trees in the margins of her yellow legal pad, bouncing her knee, her phone on the table beside her, faceup, ready to record. Her source should’ve been here by now. Maybe she should’ve picked her up at the airfield; blimps’ arrival times were notoriously unpredictable. Or maybe she changed her mind. Maybe I’m in deep sugar. She’d taken to curbing her use of profanities, even in her head, or they came out in front of her five-year-old. She smiled as a reflex when her sandy-haired boy came to mind. Pride and joy didn’t come close, didn’t even nick the surface of how she felt about her kid.

  The bell on the café door tinkled as the door opened, and she looked up. Not my contact. She sighed, pulling out her notes to review them. Their phone conversation had been productive, but she wanted more of the story. Her first week as a reporter for Orangiers Today, and she was going to blow the lid right off a scandal so big no one else in the office had wanted to touch it. She was going to make a name for herself and right an injustice at the same time . . . It almost felt too good to be true. Maybe it is. Maybe I should just leave now, before she gets here . . .

  The bell tinkled again, and this time, it was her. The curvy red-haired white woman was scanning the room, and Brooke waved. She looked older than she’d inferred from their initial conversation, and it took Brooke a minute to recalibrate her thoughts before she opened her mouth. The man trailing her was her husband, Brooke presumed. Black hair, well dressed, white skin. She rose from her seat and held out a hand to Greta first.

  “Mrs. Burnham. I’m Brooke Everleigh.” She shook her hand firmly and took a seat.

  “This is my husband, Ralph.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Brooke said, turning her attention to him briefly. “I’m glad you brought someone with you to support you. I’m sure it won’t be easy reliving these memories. But I want you to know that I’m going to do everything possible to bring your story to light, to help hold the perpetrator accountable for the terrible crime he committed against you.”

  Greta’s gaze was on the table, and her shoulders were hunched as she twisted her fingers in her lap. All the confidence she’d had when she entered the café was now gone. Her husband put a hand on her back.

  “She finds it quite difficult to talk about, you know?” He said, rubbing his wife’s shoulders.

  “I’m sure. Please, take your time. Can I get you a drink?” She’d get another for herself, but her budget was tight enough as it was.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I just want to get this over with.”

  Brooke nodded, clicking the point out of her pen; she still preferred pen and paper to technology. No one was going to hack her notes—her handwriting was indecipherable. “Let’s get started, then.” She started the voice recording app on her phone. “You mentioned on the phone that the man who gave you Ralstand’s Kiss was a high-profile political figure, but you didn’t mention whom. Are you ready to tell me now?”

  Greta’s unsteady green gaze met Brooke’s. “Yes, Ms. Everleigh. The man who kissed me is none other than Edward, king of Orangiers.”

  Brooke dropped her pen in surprise, then scrambled to retrieve it. “When did this happen?”

  “I was involved with the war effort, and I had some contact with His Majesty as a member of the Attaamish delegation assigned to help with logistics. We were meeting to discuss the possibility of the Attaamish Special Forces going to Trella. The next thing I knew, my husband was shaking me awake. I had been missing for four days.”

  “I take it your husband is magically inclined?”

  He nodded. “I’m registered in Attaamy. I was able to break the curse because of my close connection with Greta. I’ve been building a secondary relationship with the magic on her behalf for years.” He gazed at her lovingly. “You can never be too careful.”

  Brooke nodded, still scribbling everything down. “I hate to ask this, because your word should be enough, but do you have any more
proof that Edward was involved?”

  Greta reached into her purse, then placed a ring on the table. “I was found holding this.”

  Brooke picked it up. It was clearly not a normal ring; it was too finely made, the delicate metalwork scrolling that held the ruby too perfect. It was masculine-looking; around the base, filigree mimicked waves, and in the setting a ship appeared to be carrying the stone, common symbols of the royal family in Orangiers.

  “I looked it up on the internet. It’s his. He was seen wearing it at his sister’s engagement party a few months ago,” Greta’s husband put in, taking the ring back from Brooke. “Perhaps there was a struggle when he tried to kiss her? We don’t know how it happened, but you can talk to Colonel Gasper—he was there when she was found.”

  “Edward’s number two on the battlefield? That’s the same man, right?”

  “That’s right,” Ralph said. “Greta started saying things afterward, little flashes started coming back to her.” He rubbed her back again as he gazed at her sadly. “Then a few days ago, she remembered everything.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I CAN’T WAIT TO BLINDSIDE this guy. Brooke sat in the padded blue chairs of the palace briefing room, staring at the man behind the podium. Early twenties, dark-blonde hair neatly styled, dazzling smile, chest like a brick wall, immaculate blue uniform. Her knee bounced incessantly. This guy, this somewhat intimidating military guy, was what stood between her and breaking the story that she’d uncovered. “Flirt like your life depends on it,” her predecessor had advised. “He’s a pushover for a low-cut top, a short skirt and a pair of heels.” Given that Willow had done pretty well in the ten years she’d been covering the palace, Brooke knew she was probably right. Unfortunately, that wasn’t her style.

  She gathered her leather messenger bag to march up to the front, when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t, don’t, don’t. Not yet.” The gangly strawberry-blond man who unceremoniously clambered over the back of the seat next to her drew grunts of annoyance from those around them. “Just sit down, love.”

  “Judson, where’ve you been? I’ve been here twenty minutes.”

  “There was someone slow on the stairs. Besides, they never start on time.” He paused, rearranging his clothes. “Well, they never did before he got put in charge,” he said, flicking his gaze toward Captain Saint. “Military men.” Judd was about as far from a military man as you could get, and she loved him for it. He was always wearing corduroy in some fashion and looked constantly askew, hair mussed under various beanies, press pass about to come off his coat. They’d been best friends since he hit on her in a bar six years ago and they stayed up all night talking about journalism and politics and history. They never did make it back to anyone’s apartment, exchanging phone numbers instead, promising to get coffee. The only chemistry between them was of the incombustible friendship variety. But they’d never worked together until now; she was glad to see that it didn’t seem to be changing their relationship.

  “How’d you know I was going to go up there?”

  “You had an aura of determination about you. Same one you get when Olly pulls out a deck of cards.”

  She was viciously competitive when it came to things that didn’t matter, even when playing against her own son.

  “I want to introduce myself; otherwise, he’ll never call on me.”

  He looked her up and down. “Didn’t Willow tell you what to wear?”

  She tapped her foot impatiently. “She gave me some advice. I’ll do this my own way.”

  Judson Boote grinned at her. “This should be entertaining. Fine, go up there, put your hand out.”

  She stood up. “Fine, I will. You coming?”

  “Oh no, he knows who I am. The bloke from the pathetic online news outlet he keeps ignoring. I’ll save our seats.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine. Go.”

  “I am going.” Brooke took a deep breath and edged her way down the row. Get up there, get up there quick before he . . .

  “I’d like to get started,” Captain Saint said into the microphone.

  Duck feathers, she swore inwardly. He looked up at her as her steps slowed, and she knew at once that Willow had been right when a slow smile spread across his face. Brooke wasn’t stupid; even dressed in her knee-length denim skirt, high-heeled ankle boots and bohemian blouse, she was fairly good-looking. She’d heard stories about him—his reputation as a pickup artist preceded him—and she knew his type. But it was better to let him think she was friendly . . . for now. He noticed her, and the look on his face said, “I’m going to bite the buttons off your shirt without asking first.” She flipped her honey-blonde hair over her shoulder and gave him a coy wave as she went back to her seat, confirming that he was still following her with his eyes. That’s right. You see me now, don’t you?

  His briefing was boring; the standard things about the king’s scheduled meetings and conferences during the week, when dignitaries would arrive, who they would have dinner with, what they would discuss with His Majesty, blah blah blah.

  When he opened the floor for questions, she launched her hand into the air along with about twenty-five men. His eyes lingered on her before calling on a more senior member of the audience.

  “Drake Fringerly, Barrowdon Bugle. Will the grand duchess be attending meetings set to take place between His Majesty and Prince Regent Kurt Porchenzii of Brevspor?”

  “The grand duchess no longer consults on political matters for Brevspor. She will certainly engage in the social functions that take place during his visit, but she will not be privy to policy talks and discussions between the leaders of the two nations.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Brooke raised her hand again, trying to look more casual this time, and considered popping loose another button on her blouse. Desperate times. He looked at her again, and she could tell he was debating.

  “Yes, Ms. . . .”

  “Everleigh. Brooke Everleigh, Orangiers Today. Would His Majesty like to respond to accusations by Mrs. Greta Burnham, an Attaamish civilian, that he used Ralstand’s Kiss against her during the Brothers’ War on the twenty-first of Fourth Month last year?”

  Every eye was on her. It felt amazing. She held the captain’s unreadable gaze confidently, then held out her phone to record his response.

  He cleared his throat, but his face remained impassive. “The palace has no comment at this time. Next.”

  Shouts for attention deafened her as the formerly apathetic group of men came to life at the first sign of a juicy story.

  “Is His Majesty denying contact with Mrs. Burnham?”

  “Does he have an alibi for the time in question?”

  “What was he trying to hide?”

  “When did the king discover his magical ability? Is he registered as a user?”

  Captain Saint held up his hands for silence, and the group quieted to murmurs.

  “The king is not registered as a non-tech magic user, since he is not magically inclined. As I said, the palace has no comment on this ‘story’ at this time . . .”

  Oh, he did not just air quote the word story like I’m some rookie reporter who doesn’t know what she’s doing, she seethed inwardly. But he had.

  The captain answered a few more questions about the king’s upcoming travels and thoughts on new environmental legislation, then dismissed the group.

  “You.” His steel gaze was on her as he pointed to the space next to the podium.

  “Oooh,” said Judson under his breath. “Do you think he knows who you are now?”

  Brooke grinned as she slung her bag over her shoulder and meandered to the front of the room with as much lack of concern as she could muster. She’d always had a good poker face, but being a mother had taken her bluffing to a new level. Nobody could see through her like Olly.

  The captain’s eyes were a hard blue that told her he was not pleased. “Good morning, Ms. . . . Everleigh, was it?”


  “Yes, good morning, Captain. Did you wish to speak with me?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Perhaps your predecessor didn’t inform you, but when there’s information of a sensitive nature, you can bring those questions to me privately, rather than trying to start a stampede in the briefing room.”

  She crossed her arms. “Sounds to me like you just don’t want some questions asked.”

  “No, what I want is decorum and order in my briefing room. Not mudslinging.”

  “Mudslinging?” Brooke straightened her spine. “So listening to victims and believing their stories is now mudslinging? Can I quote you on that?”

  “No, you may not,” he said, dropping his voice to a lower register. “I’m just trying to help you learn how things are here, seeing as you’re new.”

  “Well, thanks anyway, Captain, but I’m pursuing this story out in the open, not whispering questions into your ear. Though I hear you like that if the blouse is cut low enough. And by the way, I’m not interested in that kind of attention from you.” She leaned into the podium. “That’ll never happen.”

  Saint blinked blankly at her, then smiled. “Good luck to you, Ms. Everleigh. My guess is that I’ve wasted my time even learning your name.” He strode from the platform before Brooke could process his insult in time to form a retort.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CAPTAIN SAINT WAS ON his phone dialing the king’s secretary before the briefing room door had swung shut behind him.

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “He’s in a meeting with—”

  “Whoever he’s with, this is more important.” This is a crisis.

  “Okay. Yes. I’ll try to signal him,” said Ms. Scrope.

  Saint sighed. “No, just—I’ll come to him. Where are you?”

  “Bancroft Hall.”

  Saint hung up without saying goodbye and strode through the halls of Bluffton, ignoring everyone he passed. He wasn’t in the mood to be polite; that new reporter, clearly spoiling for a fight, had drained every drop of civility out of him. He’d noticed her right away; it would be hard not to. It wasn’t just her looks . . . It was the way she carried herself. Shoulders back, a smile a whisper away from a smirk, unfidgety. But apparently, having the female equivalent of swagger also equated to an ego the size of Mount Copperfield.