Sunglasses at Night (Claws Clause Book 3)

by Jessica Lynch

  It… hadn’t worked out the way she planned.

  Tabby’s Nightwalker target could sense that she was different. Did he know that he was facing off against his race’s biggest enemy when he looked at the tiny blonde chick? Probably, since he backhanded her when she goofed and let him get too close. It was still freaking weird. Vamp usually would take the opportunity to bite her when they figured she was a slayer, not send her flying like that.

  Or maybe that was because he also could tell that they weren’t alone any longer.

  He’d been there, too.

  He was a Nightwalker. No doubt about that. Between the way he moved and the oversized sunglasses he wore, she knew what he was—even if she didn’t have any idea what he was doing. In an instant, she adjusted her plan of attack, trying to gauge how she would take on both males… until she saw the newcomer’s weapon.

  The enchanted falchion he wielded.

  A slayer’s blade.

  Her uncle would’ve been ashamed. Boone always warned that even the smallest distraction could be deadly. She almost learned that the hard way. Three seconds. It was probably only three seconds that the other Nightwalker had her attention, but it was enough.

  The backhanded slap had sent her through the air before Tabby crashed into the brick wall at her back. By the time she recovered enough to shake off the hit and pop back up to her feet, the blond Nightwalker had used his falchion to lop off the bigger bastard’s head.

  And then he took off. Just like that. Without a word, or a whisper of a threat, he retreated.

  That night, Tabby didn’t know what stunned her more: the fact that a Nightwalker carried a slayer’s weapon, or that he had her in as vulnerable a position as Tabby ever allowed—and he didn’t attack.

  Most Paras’ senses started a-tingling whenever they came upon a slayer, some kind of sixth sense that kicked in, their sense of preservation.

  He obviously had no problem swinging his sword around. He just never swung it at her.

  When the Slayer’s Code plainly stated that their purpose was to police the evil that certain paranormal races were prone to falling prey to, Paras didn’t normally cross one of the fabled hunters. Those that did? They were the ones the code was written about. While she started to scramble back to her feet, one part of her was already plotting how to incapacitate the bloodlust-driven Nightwalker in the long, leather coat because that’s what slayers did.

  Since her libido had already picked up on his strong jaw, sexy, slicked-back, blond hair, and the broad shoulders beneath that leather coat, the other half of Tabby marveled at—and, okay, was kinda horrified by—her sudden attraction to the enemy. In all her years’ slaying, she’d never once before felt any lust for a vamp.

  But she did with that one. Even after he fled, even after she cleaned up the scene and reported that Aiko’s murderer was dispatched, Tabby couldn’t stop thinking about the Nightwalker who turned on his own.

  And now he was back.

  Watching him stalk into the alley, the falchion already drawn and engaged at his side, she seemed entranced again. No leather coat tonight, thanks to the warm June weather, but the loose t-shirt and the delicious grey sweatpants he had slung low on his hips almost made her forget that she was inches away from meeting the business end of a Nightwalker’s fangs.

  Almost.

  Gulping, foolishly drawing attention to the motion of her throat, Tabby realized that she was still as captivated by that male tonight as she was all those months ago.

  Oh, shit.

  4

  Shake it off, Tab, she told herself. She could worry about the second Nightwalker and the way he seemed to affect her as soon as she took care of the one who looked at her like she was lunch.

  Only she never got the chance.

  Depending on her mood, sometimes Tabby would engage in a little hand-to-hand first with her target, take the chance to keep her skills from getting rusty. If her opponent was a known man-eater instead of one simply taking advantage of a bleeding woman in a dark alley, she would execute them without mercy. As a slayer, the hunt was her only purpose. She wasn’t cruel; she liked to think she was fair.

  One look in his face and she knew what she was dealing with. She’d been tracking Nightwalkers all night, but the Nightwalker with the shaved head and the promise of death in every line of his alabaster face had tracked her down with only one purpose of his own.

  She’d faced monsters like that countless times. She could always tell when they wanted a sip—or when they wanted everything she had. This guy? He was in the second group. No doubt in her mind, he deserved what was coming to him.

  It just… it wasn’t Tabby who finished him off.

  Before she could reach for the camouflaged sheath at her side, freeing Venice so that the two of them could get to it, the second Nightwalker moved.

  And, like Tabby remembered, he was quick.

  Strong, too.

  He swept in from the side, barreling into the bald Nightwalker with his shoulder. Without expecting it, the hit sent the Nightwalker stumbling away from Tabby. He didn’t drop—as big as he was, the bald vamp held his ground, recovering quickly—but blondie managed to wedge his body between Tabby and the other Nightwalker.

  Snapping at her to get away, blondie lunged toward the homicidal Nightwalker, forcing him to back up to avoid being gutted by the falchion.

  Tabby didn’t move.

  Run away?

  Not in this lifetime.

  Instead, she got a front row seat as the newcomer used his falchion to incapacitate, then decapitate the big bastard who had planned on draining Tabby.

  Look at that, she thought as she fiddled with the charm around her throat, both impressed and in awe of how quickly and efficiently the blond Nightwalker took out the other vamp. A real champ.

  Huh.

  Once he’d assured himself that the head was completely severed and his opponent was dead dead, blondie slowly rose up from his crouch before turning to look at her.

  Tabby waited to see what he was going to do. Last time, he didn’t even stick around long enough to say hi. Sure, he killed the bald Nightwalker, but was it because he wanted to feed on her himself? But then why did he tell her to run?

  Tabby had no idea. Know what? She didn’t like the whole not knowing. Add that to the way he caught her attention—twice now—plus just how damn sexy he was on the heels of his kill, and she made a snap decision.

  Her uncle would kill her if he knew what she was thinking about doing. Not the whole damsel in distress ploy—he was the one who told her to play to her strengths when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to get any bigger—but purposely luring a Nightwalker close with the intent of talking to him instead of, well, decapitating him. She knew better than to go against the code.

  We are tasked with the hunt, for none but the slayer is trained to eliminate the evil that stalks through the night—and eliminate we must.

  Her family line put it even simpler: See a threat. End a threat.

  Too bad that wasn’t going to change her mind.

  It had been so long since something—or someone—had made her curious. And this hero vamp… she was definitely intrigued by him. Not to mention it did seem a bit coincidental that both times she was entrapping a Nightwalker in Grayson, he came along to save the day.

  And Grayson had a wannabe slayer who was leaving piles of ashed out corpses behind.

  Sometimes, Tabby mused, purposely pulling a gee willikers kind of expression, when you put two and two together you got four.

  And sometimes you got blondie here.

  Vamps were so predictable; at least, they were supposed to be. After being a slayer for so long, she could usually guess their moves before they even started to make them.

  Not this guy. He was… different.

  She didn’t know why she thought so. What about him snagged her attention. Why she waited to see what he was going to do instead of just adding him to tonight’s tally.

&nbs
p; But she did.

  Clearing his throat, he reached for her, drawing back before he got too close. He balled his hand into a fist, moving his head slightly as he ran his gaze over her, taking her in. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a pervy look, but one of concern.

  When he spoke again, his voice was richer than it was when he snapped at her. Deep, too. “Are you okay?”

  “I… I think so.” Just in case he wasn’t buying her shaken-up act, she threw in a little quiver. “He was going to bite me, wasn’t he?”

  Blondie hesitated. “He might have. You’re bleeding pretty badly.”

  No shit. She had used Venice to cut a three-inch slice along her forearm to bleed freely enough to draw a rogue vamp her way. Usually, she’d slap on a magic-aid to heal it up real quick as soon as her hunt was done and over with. With the blond Nightwalker watching her so closely, she couldn’t do that. Not unless she wanted to blow up her spot.

  And since he didn't seem to recognize that she was a slayer…

  “Oh, this?” She covered the slice with her hand. “I don’t even know how I got it.” She purposely giggled, going for nervous and ditzy at the same time. It usually worked on the rare times she nearly got caught on a hunt. “I’m such a clumsy mess. I always seem to be getting cut up.”

  “I… I see.” He gulped. “Then it’s a good thing I came along.”

  “Guess so.”

  He didn’t even glance toward her wound. Either this guy had ironclad self-control, or maybe… just maybe… he wasn’t a Nightwalker after all.

  To Tabby, that made more sense than he was a Nightwalker wielding a slayer’s weapon who went after his own.

  While keeping up the doe-eyed, hopeless female routine, she checked him out. Could it be possible?

  Only one way to find out.

  As a slayer, she wasn’t born with the enhanced abilities that so many Paras had. She had to rely on her God-given talents and a lifetime of training overlooked by the strictest taskmaster to ever head the Society of Slayers.

  Other little girls went to dance class after school. Not Tabby. She spent her afternoons learning the most vulnerable points on a vamp, and how to incapacitate one in a hundred different ways so that she could complete the hunt.

  Ballet was on Saturday mornings. Little Tabby rocked that tutu.

  But that was the thing. If he was a vamp, she could kill him as easily as he took out the big idiot who thought he could subdue her because she was small and her blood acted like a big ol’ target hanging over her head. And, sure, champ here was wearing the trademark shades. It still didn’t make sense to her, though. Even the most strong-willed Nightwalkers would at least drool over the amount of blood she purposely spilled to capture her quarry and this guy didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

  And then there was the falchion. If he really was a Nightwalker, what the hell was he doing with a slayer’s weapon? Even better, he seemed to know exactly how to use it. Not just trigger the spell, but read the magic that turned it into some kind of freaky kaleidoscope.

  Something wasn’t right. And, until Tabby figured out what it was, she was going to hold off on the whole “stab first, ask questions later” thing that had been drilled into her skull repeatedly over the last twenty-five years.

  She edged toward him, going slowly. Guy seemed pretty skittish. In a flash, she remembered how he had watched her so intently last time before rising up from his crouch and bolting out of the alleyway. If she wasn’t careful, she was willing to bet he’d pull the same exact stunt this time around.

  Not if she could help it.

  She held out her left hand, her right hand resting along the scabbard that none of her prey ever realized she had tied at her waist. If she needed Venice, her old friend could be freed in a heartbeat.

  Tabby knew that for sure. She’d been timed.

  “Can I?”

  Through tight lips that probably hid his fangs, he said carefully, “Can you what?”

  She gestured at his face, reaching for his glasses. He went motionless, giving her silent permission to slip them down his nose.

  “Oh,” she breathed out.

  There went any hope that he was just pretending. No amount of color contacts could turn a man’s irises that shimmering, shiny, silver color. Nope. That was pure Para. Pure vamp.

  His hand hovered over her fingers, curling his claws in as if he was purposely hiding them from her. The Nightwalker didn’t quite touch her, either.

  That was interesting. Very… interesting.

  Even so, Tabby got the hint. She slid the shades back up the bridge of his nose and stepped back.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

  She believed him. And wasn’t that a kick in the gut?

  Call it her intuition. Call it a lifetime of experience. Call it a huge honking mistake… whatever it was, Tabby believed him.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Adam. Adam Wright.”

  “I’m Tabitha. Most people call me Tabby.”

  She watched his eyebrows rise up over the rim of his sunglasses. She could almost guess what he was thinking.

  A normal woman recovering from such a close call of an attack, who witnessed a Para losing its head directly in front of her would probably be freaking out way more than she was.

  But Tabby wasn’t a normal chick. She was a slayer.

  Just in case, she hunched her shoulders, biting her bottom lip, trying her best to recover the act. It had been too easy to drop it around this vamp, but she slipped into it like a second skin.

  This Adam bought it hook, line, and sinker.

  “Do you live nearby, Tabitha?”

  “I… yes.”

  “Let me walk you home. You seem to attract corpses too easily for me to feel good letting you go alone.”

  “Do I attract you?”

  Did that really just pop out of her mouth?

  From the way he went motionless, she realized it had. Oops.

  The real Tabby wasn’t shy. She never had been. She always went for what she wanted as soon as she realized she wanted it. And, God help her, there was something about this Nightwalker that she wanted.

  At the very least, she didn’t want to leave it at this. Over the last two months, she’d thought of her blondie more than a few times. If pressed, she might actually admit that, when her uncle mentioned a long-term gig in Grayson, she all but jumped at the chance to come back to the city. This Nightwalker? He might’ve had something to do with it, too.

  Maybe.

  Just a little.

  Which was why, instead of using one of her favored krav maga techniques as self-defense against him—because, despite what Boone told her, not every hunt ended in a kill—she nodded and said, “I don’t live too far from here. Maybe ten blocks away? I’m not so sure. I just moved into town. I’m sure I can make it on my own, but if you insist...”

  His brow furrowed, confused. But all he said was, “I insist,” before gesturing for her to take the lead back out of the alleyway.

  Hmm. Maybe he was more predictable than she thought.

  He kept his distance, proving that he might have an insane amount of control over his thirst, but he wasn’t infallible. He purposely chose to keep her upwind so that he didn’t have her blood teasing him.

  Interesting, Tabby thought.

  Interesting she liked.

  She let him lead her about a block away from where he found her before she stopped suddenly. “Hang on.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  She made a display of checking her back pocket, purposely keeping her hip turned away from him so that he didn’t start asking inconvenient questions about Venice. “I think I dropped my phone back there. Stay here. I’ll go and get it.”

  Something warned her that she wouldn’t have much time. While the Nightwalker stayed where she left him, she doubted he’d linger for long. She jogged away from him, turning it into a flat-out sprint once she ducked into the alley a
gain.

  As she ran, she was already grabbing the sturdy glass vial of slayer dust she kept stowed in her pocket at all times. Tearing the lid off, there wasn’t any time for finesse. She just dumped all of it on top of the headless vamp’s separated halves. Beneath the moonlight, the bald bastard’s remains started to glitter, started to shimmer, and finally dissolve into a small pile of ash littered with the orange dust.

  She began the countdown in her head. By the time she hit ten, he was halfway gone. At twenty, there was nothing left.

  “Tabitha?”

  Before the Nightwalker could appear in the mouth of the alleyway again and see what she was doing, she kicked her sneaker through the pile. She knew that the sun would’ve handled clean up for her—courtesy of its ash-blasting power when it came to the Nightwalkers—but that wasn’t how slayers took care of it.

  Even if she wasn't the one who made the kill.

  Her uncle would expect nothing less.

  “Coming!”

  “This your place?” Adam asked, wincing when his voice came out more hoarse than he would’ve liked.

  The thirst that had started earlier that night when he was at the D.P.R. had only gotten worse. The chemical swill he picked up at Bloodbucks barely an hour ago had done shit for him. Add that to the cut near Tabitha’s elbow that had only just started to clot over and he couldn’t believe he’d agreed to come up to this woman’s apartment.

  What made it even worse was how she seemed to change while they took the walk over. At first, she seemed so small. So frightened. He had to resist the urge to tug her close, to slip his arm over her shoulder and promise her that he’d never let anyone else try to hurt her. He didn’t quite lose the inexplicable attraction he felt toward Tabitha, but it gentled into this undeniable need to protect her.

  But then… it was the strangest thing. The further they went from the alley, the more she seemed to shake off her nerves and her fear. She straightened instead of cowering, moving forward with a powerful stride and a cheeky smile back at him when he stopped and watched her go.