Sunglasses at Night (Claws Clause Book 3)

  Sunglasses at Night

  Jessica Lynch

  Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Lynch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Jessica Lynch

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Pre-Order Now

  Stay in Touch

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Lynch

  Prologue

  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.

  We are tasked with secrecy, for the power of the slayer comes from its anonymity.

  We are tasked with loyalty, for to be a slayer is to belong to a sect that protects and shields itself over all others.

  We are tasked with brotherhood, for while the slayer hunts alone, we know that we are not alone.

  We are tasked with truth, for a slayer hunts honestly and with integrity.

  — The Slayer’s Code, established 1897

  * Added to the copy hanging in Boone Matthews’s office by Tabby Winslow, age 16.

  1

  The bastard was quick.

  Good thing Adam Wright was just a little bit quicker.

  Glancing down at the blade by his side, summer wind ruffling his blond hair, cheeks rippling from his speed, he tore down the backstreets of Grayson, hot on the heels of his murderous quarry.

  Ever since he started that evening’s hunt, he kept his weapon engaged. Instead of the six-inch-long silver dagger it usually appeared as, once he triggered the magic, it turned into a pointed sword close to a foot-and-a-half in length. Gripping it tightly in both hands, he kept it angled it so that he wouldn’t accidentally stab any stray civilians as he ran while, at the same time, he could easily see if the color changed.

  A scarlet glow edged around the honed blade, fading by the time it reached the ornately carved hilt.

  Scarlet.

  Red.

  Nightwalker.

  Not just any Nightwalker, though. As one of the human-turned-vampires, if Adam pointed the sword at himself, the scarlet glow would swiftly turn to silver. Like his newly changed eyes, silver represented a Nightwalker’s magic. Blue meant human. Gold belonged to the shifters. White was more unusual since there weren’t too many Othersiders in the area. Plenty of purple for witches.

  But red? Red told him that he was dealing with a vampire in the throes of bloodlust.

  And his enchanted weapon was never wrong.

  It still amazed him that he lucked on the knife. The night he was turned, the night the former Nightwalker king force-fed him his blood before initiating the change, Julian Koenig drew the weapon against a shifter threat. By the time Colton Wolfe ripped off Julian’s head for daring to try and claim Colt’s mate for his own, Adam had been left for dead. He survived—though he was still bitter at that fact—and the first thing he did when he got out of Grayson General was sneak down to evidence and steal the dagger from the box storing it.

  Because his attack was considered more of a paranormal issue, his squad had shunted it to the side. They didn’t need the evidence.

  Adam did.

  It was supposed to act as motivation. Look at the blade, remember that his only goal in life—well, death now—was to retaliate against the vamp who started the turning. Julian was already gone, but his right-hand vamp? Rafe Silverson might not have meant to finish what Julian began, but by tearing Adam’s throat out as he sneered, “A life for a life,” he assured that Adam would never be human again.

  By stealing Julian’s knife from evidence before he quit his job as a Grayson PD corporal, Adam assured that, when he finally got his hands on Rafe again, he’d achieve his utmost revenge by at least getting one meaningful slice in before he switched over to his trusty machete.

  Of course, when he accidentally discovered the true magic inherent to Julian’s knife, everything changed. He still wanted nothing more than to track down Rafe and make him pay for ruining his life. But with the enchanted dagger pointing out whether a person was a Para or not, as well as helping him gauge the danger level, a whole new world opened up to him while he continued his search for the bastard corpse.

  He was forced into this new existence. For months now, he struggled with being a paranormal when, his whole life, he was convinced that being a human was way better. Deep down, Adam knew he couldn’t live like this forever; so long as they kept their heads and stayed out of the sunlight, Nightwalkers were basically immortal so when he said forever, he meant it. Nope. He refused to think he was stuck like this. As soon as he got his revenge on Rafe, he had every intention of strolling outside in the daylight and letting the sun take him.

  Until then, he would take as many ferocious, cruel, man-eating vampires with him before he went.

  Grayson was his territory. First, when he patrolled its streets as a beat cop, and now, as some kind of vamp vigilante. Unless the brutal Nightwalker had intel about where he could find the missing Rafe Silverson, Adam didn’t want to hear it. He just wanted them gone. And even if they did know? He’d let them talk—and then he’d let his sword sing.

  It all came down to the red glow surrounding his blade. Even though he knew the cops he used to work alongside would hate to know he went rogue (in the human sense, not as a vamp), he did it anyway. He needed the purpose, and—as a fledgling Nightwalker who refused to act like a parasite who drank straight from the vein—he needed a way to temper his own bloodlust.

  Adam would kill, but only those who deserved it. He had the right to do it, too, even if he had turned in his badge once he realized there was no going back to being human. The Claws Clause was clear. A vamp who drained its donors instead of just taking a sip needed to be put down. Point blank. And since the magic inherent to his sword was infallible, the second the blade glowed red, Adam knew he had a man-eater on his hands.

  As soon as he caught up to them, he’d have blood on his blade.

  That was his goal tonight.

  He tore down the backstreets, every dip, every crack, every patch of uneven sidewalk familiar beneath his sneakers. As a human cop in the prime of his life—twenty-eight when he was pronounced dead and turned—Adam had always been fast. As a Nightwalker? He didn’t have wings, unlike some Othersiders, but it seemed like he was flying all the same.

  The ruby-red glow brightened. Breathing deeply through his nose, he could scent a dark edge to the rancid meat and old carrion stink that signaled that he was locked on another Nightwalker. The more blood they spilled, the more bodies they were responsible for, the more the stench of death clung to the vicious vamps. The guy he was closing in on was an old pro at murder.

  Stomach clenching, fury rising, Adam hated to think he might carry that same stink himself one d
ay.

  He confessed that once to Shea Moonshadow, a friendly witch who tried healing the worst of his thirst shortly after he turned. She was the witch that Julian Koenig, the former king of the Nightwalkers, tried to claim. She was also the witch whose healing touch all but made it so that he would survive the turning and wake up again as a Para instead of going to the grave as a human.

  In the months since his attack, Adam had forgiven Shea for that. He knew now it was a kindness, even if he would’ve chosen death time and time again over being turned. She didn’t know that, though, and he respected her talent and her heart. In this new existence, he actually thought of her as his friend.

  Her mate? Colton Wolfe… that one was more complicated. They had a history between them, but a bond that was forged when they both took on Julian. Colt was actually the one who landed the killing strike on the former king, and he was the one who—using his enhanced shifter senses—assured Adam that, while his “spicy scent” wasn’t a favorite of his, he didn’t stink as bad as other corpses.

  So long as he executed the threatening vamps with his enchanted sword or the machete he habitually kept strapped to his back, he was in the clear. The second he turned into a true parasite and started taking blood from a source instead of a blood bag, that would change.

  Good thing that was never going to happen.

  For now, Adam relied on his nose. His sight was crazy good now, too, even if he was too nearly turned to leave his mirrored sunglasses at home. It was a Nightwalker thing. Any light—and he meant any light—was too bright for his sensitive peepers. The only way to protect them was with sunglasses, and even if wearing them at night marked him as a Nightwalker, he wore them anyway.

  Why not? One glimpse at his newly pale complexion, his strangely silver eyes, the inch-long fangs, and the tapered, thin, black claws that his normal human fingertips had become and anyone would know exactly what he was.

  The hissing, slashing Nightwalker that he finally caught up to was proof of that. He had on the trademark shades, the unnaturally pale skin, fangs that protruded past his lips as he lunged, trying to dodge Adam’s blade while going for his throat.

  Adam didn’t need to see the blood dripping down his chin to tell that he was a rogue vampire. That was just a bonus.

  Thanks to another tip from Hudson Moonshadow, he knew that this joker was also newly turned, but that he didn’t seem to understand that while a Nightwalker needed blood to survive, even a pint was enough to quell the thirst.

  Taking ten—draining a human donor to the quick—wasn’t just greedy. It was a death sentence.

  Once he was sure that this corpse had it coming, Adam didn’t hesitate; based on Hudson’s tip, he knew it was pointless to mention Rafe since this vamp was just too new. At its full length, coupled with Adam’s power and strength, the enchanted sword made it easy to go for the Nightwalker’s neck.

  The head landed with a thud.

  The body—too stupid to know it was dead… again—stayed upright for a moment before collapsing on the asphalt.

  Now that the threat was gone, the sword lost its red glow. Adam took the tip of his claw and stuck it in the dip along the hilt. With a soft woosh, the sword transformed back into the small dagger. He never bothered with a full sheath for the sword—he didn’t see why he should when the sword was only out when he was using it—but he knew better than to flash a blade in front of a human. Better safe than sorry. He tucked the dagger in the sheath he kept strapped above his shoe before covering it with the cuff of his jeans.

  No time to clean the blade; that would come later. For now? He needed to move the body out of sight until the sun came along and made clean up easier for him.

  Come morning, the dispatched vamp would be dust. Until then, Adam needed him hidden. Just because the Claws Clause said he was in the right to take out such a danger to society, he wasn’t so sure his former boys in blue would agree.

  Speaking of—

  Within a few blocks of where he left the remains of the Nightwalker, Adam caught sight of a cop car in the distance. He slowed his walk, trying like hell to seem like he was just an innocent vamp out for a nightly stroll, but he knew from the moment the door swung outward and the male cop hustled across the street to approach him that he was screwed.

  He tried to pretend that he didn’t notice it, stiffening when the cop flagged him down with an authoritative, “Excuse me.”

  Adam stopped.

  Standing in front of him, the cop’s gaze flickered to the blood spray covering Adam’s side. He frowned but said nothing about it.

  That was one good thing about being a Nightwalker. When others saw the blood, they just thought he was a messy eater. It never occurred to them that he might be out hunting his own.

  Adam took the opportunity to return the cop’s once-over. He didn’t recognize him. Nameplate said Peabody, but it didn’t ring a bell.

  He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. On the one hand, he hated running into any of his old crew. But, on the other… he really fucking hated the way Peabody looked him up and down like that.

  Adam knew what was coming even before Peabody spit the words out.

  “Can I see your P.I.D., sir?”

  Was it his imagination, or did Peabody put way more emphasis on sir than he had to?

  Swallowing an annoyed sigh, he moved slowly, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He knew from experience that, while the gun in Peabody’s holster would be full of silver bullets to put down shifters, he’d also have concentrated holy water spray next to his Mace. Not enough to kill a vamp, but it would burn long enough to put Para-proof cuffs on him.

  He wouldn’t give the cop any reason to get violent. Not when he knew how easy it was for the LT’s and sergeants to turn their backs on reports of unnecessary force against Para suspects.

  Slowly, slowly, he pulled free his wallet, slipping his paranormal identification card from the slot up front. He handed it to Peabody.

  Peabody’s brow furrowed. “Hmm. Did you know that your P.I.D. was expired, Mr. Wright?”

  Was it?

  Figuring a little performative respect might go a long way with the cop, he hunched a little so that he didn’t seem that much larger than Peabody and said, “No, sir.”

  “Only by a few days. It’s June now, you know.”

  “I guess I didn’t realize.”

  Peabody pursed his lips as he read the card over again. Adam knew what it said. His name, date of birth, and his Para type. Since Nightwalkers were the only type of paranormals who were made, not born, they were the only ones given a provisional identification card. Not that there was any real difference between a provisional P.I.D. and a permanent one. There definitely wasn’t. Why they forced him to get a provisional card at all, he had no clue.

  More bureaucratic bullshit, he figured.

  Finally, Peabody held the card out again. “I’ll let you go with a warning this time. Someone else catches you with an expired P.I.D., though… I’m sure you know what that’ll mean.”

  Adam clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together, refusing to feel relief that this cop wasn’t going to give him any shit.

  Because, yeah. He knew.

  Back when he was still a cop, he had to spend a year working at the local Cage. They were magic-free prisons specifically for paranormals, and every cop in the country had to do at least a year’s time working at one to remind them that “Protect and Serve” referred to paranormals, too.

  Some of the prisoners inside were there because of the Bond Laws, the clauses in Ordinance 7304 that regulated mates for the paranormals. Some were dangerous for other reasons; so long as there was a chance for rehabilitation, they earned a cell instead of an execution.

  But a majority of those inside? Were there because of trumped-up charges, like being a Para with an expired P.I.D. They were there because, no matter what, the humans wanted to remind them who really was in charge.

  So, yeah. Adam knew that.

&n
bsp; Once upon a time, he was one of them.

  Shame it took being turned into a Para himself to realize what an asshole he used to be.

  Snatching the offered card from the cop, he made sure to flash his claws when he took his P.I.D. back. “Thanks for the break, officer. I’ll get right on that.”

  Okay, he admitted when all of the color in Peabody’s face drained away.

  Still was.

  2

  Tabitha Winslow was gathering her gear when she heard the knock at her apartment door.

  She immediately dropped into a defensive crouch, her hand slipping to the dagger sitting securely at her hip. In the back of her mind, she noticed that her nail polish had chipped. Dusty coral was more like dirty pink. She’d have to do something about that later.

  Another knock. Louder this time.

  “Tabby? I know you’re in there.”

  She sighed, her hand falling away from the cinquedea’s hilt.

  It was Eddie. Because why wouldn’t it be?

  She should’ve been expecting something like that. Ever since Rosie retired, her uncle had been after her to take up a new partner. It was hard to say no to him, and not just because he was family. Boone Matthews was the head of the Society, the brains behind the ops—and the money, too. His word was law.

  Good thing the Slayer’s Code was just as important. And, so long as it said for while the slayer hunts alone, we know that we are not alone, Tabby could avoid being forced into having Eddie follow her around on her hunts like some kind of bodyguard/chaperone.