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“I’ve been around a long time,” Dodge offered, “and I’ve seen a hell of a lot. But the Nightwalkers crowning themselves a king? That’s a new one to me.”
It was a new one to everyone Colt spoke to. His brother, his dad, his packmates… no one had ever heard of a Nightwalker king. But he believed Shea so, as soon as he called Wright over to his place, he told the cop all about what happened at Moonshadow Apothecary.
Suffice it to say, hearing that the Nightwalkers had a king interested Wright a little more than hearing that he had his eyes on Colt’s mate.
Either way, they had a target now.
They had a name.
Julian Koenig.
And… that was about all they had.
He was a ghost—or as good as. Because he was a Nightwalker, the D.P.R. had a death certificate on file as well as a copy of his most recent P.I.D. which gave them his name, his vampire type, his date of birth (and death), and his photo.
Too bad none of that helped find Julian.
Shea told him that he was the king. That he was the most powerful Nightwalker in Grayson, and that he told her himself that he’d recently moved into town. It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes-level genius to deduce that the organized crew of new Nightwalkers had something to do with the killer vamps the task force—and the pack—were hunting.
Now that Shea was involved, Colt decided his partnership with Grayson PD fell right back into pack business. They were intertwined, and though Maddox was still keeping Evangeline hidden away out of the line of fire, Colt turned to some of his other packmates for help.
He called on two of his most trusted: Sloane and Ralph. Sloane was a whizz with a measuring tape and a pencil; Ralph could work wonders with his level and his hammer. Between the two of them, they promised to have Shea’s windows replaced as soon as possible.
And if either one seemed surprised when Colt said the job was for his mate so he expected the utmost attention to it, they didn’t show it. Sloane congratulated him, Ralph slapped him on his back, and some of the rocks weighing down his gut finally disappeared.
He could’ve fixed the window himself. He didn’t trust himself to. His wolf was desperate to claim Shea, to show her and the Nightwalker who thought he could steal her away from him that he was her mate. After how he spent so many months trying to convince his witch and himself otherwise, it was going to take a lot more than just beating his chest and howling ‘mine’ before he could prove to Shea that the two of them were meant to be.
He decided to start by taking down this mysterious Julian. Way he saw it, he could kill two birds with one stone: get rid of the vamp who tried to trick Shea into bonding with him while eliminating the Nightwalker threat to their community.
It was a win-win—or it would be if he could get his paws on the corpse.
There was a shit ton of information about vampires out there, but most of it was fiction. Dracula or Twilight, it didn’t matter—it was wrong. Even after Paras were forced to reveal themselves a half-century ago, most of the population shied away from turned vampires.
Dayborns were all right. They were natural-born vampires, the ones with a hypnotic stare and the ability to go out in the sun. They drank blood like a sommelier tasting a new vintage. They didn’t have to do it, but they enjoyed it. Dayborns were also the more docile of the race.
Nightwalkers, on the other hand, were turned vampires; because the human had to die before they became a Nightwalker, they were the ones who other Paras called ‘corpses’. Their diet consisted solely of blood. They were vicious and—supposedly—solitary, and while they didn’t have to drain a donor, nearly all vamp-related murders were caused by a greedy Nightwalker.
Just because they needed blood to survive, there weren’t any sanctions for murder. Nightwalkers had plenty of options to legally obtain blood. Blood banks were the most well-known, but even in mixed neighborhoods, there was bound to be a Bloodbucks or two. It might be a synthetic blood substitute served as a smoothie. So what? It did the job.
And, of course, there was the whole donor system. For a fee, humans were free to sell their blood to Nightwalkers who preferred it straight from the vein so long as it was done in regulated offices and not out in the open. For those who wanted the pleasure a Nightwalker could offer in return, there were Donors.
Nobody needed to die.
The penalty for taking a donor’s life was simple: execution. The Claws Clause made it clear. The Cage was for dangerous paranormals who weren’t actual threats. A Nightwalker who killed once would only do so again.
A bonded shifter was dangerous, sure, but they could be contained. A bloodthirsty Nightwalker?
Not a chance.
Wright furrowed his brow. “And he’s bonded to Shea? But isn’t she—”
“He is not bonded to her,” corrected Colt. “He might think so, but that’s easily remedied. All we have to do is track him down. We take him out, he’s not a threat to my mate or to Grayson. What do you say, Wright? You in?”
The cop’s grin turned so bloodthirsty, it was enough to impress even a predatory shifter.
“Whenever you are, partner.”
17
