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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.”
