Sunglasses at Night (Claws Clause Book 3) Page 7

  Adam almost didn’t know what to say at first. He was actually kind of taken aback at Colt’s blunt assessment of his personality and the handful of people he actually tolerated. To think that, after their rocky start, Adam had somehow become one of Colton Wolfe’s trusted friends… wow.

  And he wasn’t completely fooled. He knew Shea’s influence on her gruff mate when he saw it. He’d lost track of how many times she subtly slipped working with Colt into their conversations when he stopped by the apothecary.

  At first, she thought he might want to help him out with the construction gig. Since that meant dealing with the new Alpha more often than Adam liked—with Maddox Wolfe, even once was more than he liked—he refused. Seemed like her new approach was getting Adam to agree to help Colt out with his side job.

  Ah, yes.

  That would have to be—

  “No.”

  “Adam—”

  “No way. Sorry.”

  When Colt’s eyes paled at Adam’s adamant refusal, an eerie light blue sheen rolling over them, Shea moved out in front of him.

  Brave witch.

  “Adam,” she said softly, easily snagging the attention of both men. “Hear him out. Please.”

  Okay. But only because it was Shea who had asked him. “Fine.”

  “It wouldn’t be every night,” Colt cut in. “Maybe two or three times a week, couple of hours a night. Like I said, I’ll provide the van because Alpha knows your two-seater will barely fit a dresser inside of it. I’ll throw some money at you, though we both know your stubborn ass will refuse it. You’ll take it, I’ll be satisfied this is a job and not a favor, and you’ll still be free to do…” Colt paused, letting the silence speak volumes. “... whatever it is you do at night. Deal?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course you do,” Shea said warmly. “It’s just a suggestion.”

  But that was Shea.

  One look in Colt’s icy blue eyes and Adam realized that the determined shifter would get what he wanted one way or another. And while he didn’t really understand why the mated couple cared so much about keeping him busy, he figured, “What the hell? Okay. Let’s see how it works out.”

  And if it didn’t? At least he tried.

  He owed Shea that much.

  Apart from Tabitha, he didn’t know any other slayers. And since going back to her place after the way he lost control and fucking bit her last time seemed like a monumentally bad idea all around, Adam had to come up with another alternative.

  It wasn’t long before he had one.

  When Corporal Adam Wright first quit the force, he didn’t see how he had any choice but to give up being a cop. His entire precinct was human-only, so even if he wanted to stay, he didn’t want to be the token Para.

  Since March, he’d cut ties with every cop he worked with—except one. It wasn’t his choice, either; if Adam had it his way, he would’ve ditched them all. Detective Luis Diaz was a good man, a family man, and the one guy who kept in touch even when Adam made it clear that he didn’t want to be bothered.

  He was also the one who warned Adam about slayers in the first place. Maybe, just maybe, he might know enough about the paranormal hunters to send Adam in the right direction of the elixir.

  Before he could change his mind or talk himself out of it, Adam picked up his phone, dialing the number from memory. He specifically made the call during daylight hours so that he didn’t disturb Diaz at home. Adam knew that Diaz was devoted to his wife and, if he wanted the older cop’s help, it would be best to remember that Diaz was human.

  The phone answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Lou. Hi.”

  “Adam! How’ve you been?”

  “I’ve been alright. Listen. Remember that joint we checked out a couple of months back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think you could meet me there?”

  “Sure thing. I’ve been meaning to get together with you, have a drink, shoot the shit.” Diaz paused, as if something just occurred to him. He probably realized that this was the first time, well, ever that Adam set up a time to see each other. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

  If Deb’s tip checked out, everything might be.

  He didn’t expect Diaz to drop whatever he was doing to meet him for a drink. Surprisingly, though, the cop readily agreed to meet with him later that night. He actually sounded like he was looking forward to it.

  In a way, so was Adam.

  Huh.

  Seemed like Shea might’ve been right when she scolded him gently the last time he visited her at her shop. Going out and hunting for Rafe might’ve been his only reason to keep on living, but it had already been close to five months and there was no sight of him.

  It was easy to close in on himself. To forget that he had a life that was brutally cut short when Rafe ripped out his throat.

  Instead of dying outright, though, he was turned into something worse. And, because of that, he didn’t want to have this life. He didn’t want to be a Para.

  And he sure as hell didn’t want the people he used to know when he was human to see him like this now.

  One look and they would know he was different. One look and they would know he was changed.

  Unless he could get his hands on the elixir...

  It was another downside to being a Nightwalker. While every Para he met tried to explain the benefits to being turned—long life! enhanced senses! super strength and speed!—none of them ever wanted to get into the shitty side. Like the whole never-seeing-the-sun thing, or how he’d lose nearly all of his color. His tan skin had faded to a sickly pale, his warm brown eyes were a mirror-like silver, and he couldn’t forget the way his fingernails turned into thick, black, pointed claws.

  Plus the way that everyone from his old life was a memory.

  Well. No. Not quite. He still had Evangeline, who kept contact with him in spite of her overbearing mate. Diaz, who was free for a drink as soon as Adam called. And, of course, Colt and Shea.

  Jesus, he couldn’t believe he actually agreed to their ridiculous suggestion. Maybe it was busywork. Who knew? It seemed like it, since the idea of being a late-night delivery guy was crazy to him. And, while it might be, that didn’t stop Colt from sending him a message that he already had his first delivery scheduled for that night.

  As soon as the sun set, he drove out to the Bumptown, loaded up the delivery van, and made two stops. Then, because Diaz had agreed to meet him at ten o’clock, he drove Colt’s van over to this little hole in the wall bar that was on the other side of Grayson from his old precinct.

  It had a mixed clientele, more Para than not, and though it surprised Adam the first time he met Diaz there, it seemed the perfect place to talk to the detective.

  Though Adam was right on time, Diaz was already seated at a booth near the entrance when he arrived. Leaving his shades on, he wove through the crowded tables, plopping in the seat opposite of the other man.

  Luis Diaz was a good fifteen years older than Adam, with tanned skin, grey streaking his black hair, and friendly dark brown eyes. He picked up the glass in front of him, saluting Adam as he sat.

  “Lou. It’s been a while.”

  “You look good, bud.”

  Diaz was full of shit.

  “Thanks. How’s Connie doing? The family?”

  The older cop’s eyes lit up. As if no time had passed at all, Diaz sipped on his beer, bullshitting with Adam. He talked about his beloved wife, whatever their four kids were into, and—as it was almost inevitable—he brought up Grayson PD.

  Adam resigned himself to that. When he was on the force, all talk eventually turned to cop talk. Cases. Precinct gossip. Ragging on lawyers. Shit like that. Adam used to live for it, back when the job was his life.

  Now, he couldn’t wait until the older cop took a fucking breath so that he could finally ask, “Hey. What can you tell me about slayers? Finding them, I mean, instead of staying off their radar.”

&nbs
p; Diaz immediately went stiff. Frowning, he said, “Why would you ask me about that?”

  “Um, because you’re the one who brought up slayers last time?”

  “Oh.” Diaz visibly relaxed. “Yeah. You’re right. Sorry for being so jumpy. It’s just… you don’t talk about slayers.”

  “Really?” That was interesting. He understood, though. When Adam was still human, he’d never even heard of them before. “Then how do you know about them at all?”

  “Eh, you’ve been around long enough, you pick up on a lot. Then there was my time working the Cage. Believe me, I know more about paranormals than most cops.”

  Fair enough. And that was exactly why Adam made that phone call and arranged for this meet.

  “Okay. In that case, do you know anything about something called elixir?”

  Diaz’s jaw dropped, his mouth falling open. He set his glass down. “Are you asking me about De Vivre?”

  Maybe. Was he? Adam didn’t know.

  “I heard a rumor”—because it didn’t seem right to mention Deb to the detective—“that there was this stuff I could take that would fix me. You know. Turn me back from this to human.”

  He almost expected Diaz to take the out, to shut down the conversation by agreeing that Adam was spot-on, that it was nothing but a rumor. It would be a lie, but obviously talking about the slayers made Diaz twitchy.

  That’s why it was such a surprise to him when Diaz didn’t do that.

  “The slayers control the elixir.” There was a bite to Diaz’s rough tone when he said that. “You want De Vivre, you go through them.”

  Adam peered at Diaz closely, using his mirrored lenses to hide his scrutiny. This was more than just not wanting to talk about the paranormal hunters. This was something else.

  “You don’t like slayers, do you?”

  “I don’t know any personally, but do I like the idea of them? No. I don’t. Besides, slayers are a Para’s mortal enemy. You shouldn’t like them, either.”

  Maybe he was right.

  But maybe—

  Even though Diaz had tried once before to explain to him that slayers were the fabled hunters that paranormal parents used to frighten their children into behaving, Adam admittedly thought that that might be taking it a little far.

  The way he saw it, slayers were like cops: they hunted the bad guys, just like Adam did now with rogue vamps. And while he’d be the first to admit that there were bad cops out there—which meant that all slayers couldn’t be trusted—he thought of the blonde slayer and wondered, What if?

  What if she could help him?

  What if she knew where he could find the elixir?

  Diaz knew what he was thinking before Adam had even made a conscious decision.

  “No, Wright, no. Don’t even think about it. Searching out a slayer in your state won’t help you get the elixir. It’s suicide. They’ll stake you before you can get the question out.”

  That may be so.

  But if his options were to avoid slayers for the rest of his unnaturally long life or confront one in the hopes that he could actually turn back into a human again… no contest.

  He knew what he had to do.

  And he only hoped that Tabitha didn’t hold a grudge.

  7

  Three Paras. Tabby talked to three Paras so far that night and learned absolutely nothing as to why Grayson was suddenly a huge paranormal hotspot.

  She was determined to figure it out. Since trying to figure out who was hunting Nightwalkers without a license from the Society was pointless when Tabby had decided not to out Adam, she had to focus on the other mystery surrounding Grayson if she wanted to stick around.

  Only a couple of years ago, the city was considered human-friendly. Some called it an Ant Farm—a derogatory name for a human’s only set-up similar to the Para-filled Bumptowns—and while a few Paras lived and worked there, humans definitely outnumbered the paranormal races. Nowadays, though? Something was drawing more and more paranormals toward it. Just last year, there was a group of Nightwalkers who moved into Grayson, draining close to a dozen bodies before they were stopped.

  Because of the number, the Grayson PD got involved which meant that the Society called off any hunts. Boone still kept his eye on the city, though, because the vast numbers of Paras being drawn there concerned him.

  Especially the Nightwalkers.

  The turned vampires were mainly solitary creatures. They weren’t supposed to form clans made up of more than a few of them. Julian Koenig’s “kingdom” boasted hundreds of the turned vamps before a shifter used the Claws Clause to execute the Nightwalker.

  And he brought that “kingdom” all the way to Grayson to establish it.

  Why? Tabby didn’t know. Neither did Boone—and her uncle wanted the answer to that question desperately. So if she couldn’t give him Adam, she wanted to solve the riddle of Grayson.

  Too bad it wasn’t as easy as that.

  Didn’t matter who she asked, whether they were a target or a peaceful Para who she managed to pick out of the crowd. No one had an answer for her. Some sensed she was a slayer, though she was super careful not to throw that word around again, and they tried their best to help her. It’s just… they didn’t seem to know.

  She could’ve dealt. It was only one night. She had many more before her uncle started to demand results. But the frustration only got to her because Eddie insisted on tagging along.

  He was smarter this time. Instead of backing down when she tried to tell him to go, he just kept in step beside her until she finally huffed and gave in.

  Then there was her headache.

  At least, it started as a headache. About an hour into their hunt, the non-stop rap, tap, tapping of her brain beating against her skull had her normally good temper sinking into the toilet and fast. She tried to hide her wince, squinting her eyes when the street lamps and headlights seemed too bright.

  The chills followed, then the sweats, and Tabby didn’t know what was worse: shivering despite the warmth in the air, or the slick moisture pooling at the nape of her neck. Scooping up the ends of her ponytail, she wiped it with the back of her hand, wishing she’d just stayed in. It wasn’t often that she felt off, but when she did?

  Ugh.

  She couldn't explain it, either. It was early June on the east coast. Flu season had come and gone, and with the witches adding a little oomph to the annual flu vaccines, Tabby decided you had to be a real ding dong—or work real hard at being one—if you still managed to come down with the virus.

  Tell that to her aching bones.

  Everything hurt. Nothing she couldn’t handle, and once she tossed back an aspirin later on, she was sure she’d be fine, but that plus Eddie had her tensing up, then trying to shake loose the pain.

  He noticed. Of course he did. As one of her uncle’s top men, he had the same training that Boone put her through. He wasn’t just a top slayer who often flawlessly executed his kills; Eddie also had excellent observational skills. Well, except for picking up on how little she wanted him. Miraculously, when it came to her disdain for him, he was suddenly clueless.

  When Tabby slowed down after their chat with a lone Othersider, Eddie called it for the night. It was closing in on three a.m., the witching hour, and if they hadn’t gathered any intel yet, it was unlikely they would past three. Considering what it did to some Paras, they’d have to trade their cajoling for their weapons instead.

  She was always up for a hunt. It was her passion. Her calling. The only life she knew… but Tabby would be lying if she said she was up to a fight for her life just about then. The most she thought she could handle as Eddie drove her back across town was wrestling with her pillow.

  No surprise, he tried to talk her into letting him stay over. Good thing she was still feeling well enough to nip that in the bud. Even when he promised he’d camp out on her couch in case she needed him, she scoffed and told him to return to headquarters.

  He did, though it didn’t take an empat
h to pick up on how disappointed he was.

  Great, she thought. As if her attraction to a Nightwalker wasn’t bad enough, now she had a persistent Eddie Daniels to deal with.

  Tabby wasn’t naïve. Even if she was, Eddie’s motives were so thin, she could see through them like they were Saran wrap. Being a slayer had always been a family gig. Of course, as the family widened and people married into the line, there were fewer and fewer who could trace their roots back to Van Helsing himself.

  The Matthews—her mother’s line—could.

  The Daniels couldn’t.

  There was no doubt in her mind that he wanted to get her into bed. He was definitely attracted to her. But her tie to Boone and her place in the Society was a big flashing prize for Eddie.

  No fucking thanks.

  She had only gotten about an hour or so of hard-earned sleep when she heard the knock at her door and wondered vaguely if Boone would really hold it against her if she mistook Eddie for a rogue vamp and threw Venice at his head.

  Unfortunately, her uncle would probably just give her the I’m-so-disappointed-in-you-Tabitha look that was the bane of her teenage years if she came to him with that story. So, when the knocking continued, she grumbled against her pillow before slowly throwing the thin comforter away from her.

  Earlier, she’d felt like such crap that she didn’t even bother changing out of her hunting clothes. She didn’t see the point when she didn’t manage to find a single target worthy of Venice last night. As soon as she booted Eddie out the door, she kicked off her sneaks and collapsed on her bed.

  Which, she decided as she shuffled in her socks toward the entrance to her apartment, was exactly what she planned on doing once she kicked him out again.