Switchback: A Nightshades Novel Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at: http://us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Prologue

  Switch Creek, Illinois

  Thursday night

  At twenty-eight, Terry Anson wasn’t particularly impressed with his lot in life.

  Like everyone else in Switch Creek, Terry had left town for college, where he spent the next three years telling anyone who would listen that he was a “B&P” major, meaning, of course, “beer and pussy.” The joke always got plenty of laughs—or at least, it did in his mind—but by the end of his junior year, Terry had to face the fact that even a thorough and intensive analysis of B&P was not, in fact, a viable path to graduation.

  His parents had hired tutors, of course, as they had for Terry’s two older siblings, but Terry shared the same fundamental blind spot as so many members of his generation: He did not truly believe he could fail at anything. Therefore, while he wasn’t completely stupid, the possibility that his disinterest in studying would result in an actual, life-altering consequence like flunking out of college did not occur to him. Not until it was too late.

  The spring after his junior year, Terry told his friends he had decided to take a year off, and by midsummer he’d convinced himself that this was, in fact, the truth. He was taking a break from school, simple as that. For the next few months, his days and nights were occupied with video games, beer, and the weight room at his parents’ country club.

  Terry could happily have gone on like this indefinitely, but in September his parents announced that his father was retiring from the money management firm in Chicago. Furthermore, they were tired of the harsh Illinois winters, and would be spending the majority of their time at the condo in Palm Springs.

  This sounded like a great idea to Terry, who immediately volunteered his services as caretaker of the massive Switch Creek house. Before he could even dive into a fantasy about bringing girls from Chicago clubs back to the spacious five-bedroom, though, his parents exchanged a glance. “About that,” his father said. “We’re keeping this house for now, because we want to have the space for grandkids during holidays. But if you want to continue living here, you’re going to need to pay rent and utilities.”

  “And buy your own groceries,” added his mother, who had grown very tired of finding the refrigerator empty of whatever she’d been planning to make for dinner.

  Terry was shocked. He looked from one to the other, waiting for a punch line, but his parents were clutching each others’ hands, a sure sign that they were determined to be a united front on this matter. “What am I supposed to do?” Terry cried. “Be a stock boy at Target? How is that going to look to your friends at the club?”

  His parents exchanged another look, and Terry realized with horror that they were prepared for this question. His father took a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “We’ve come up with another option.”

  Terry took the papers rather reluctantly. The top sheet read Thank you for your interest in employment with the Switch Creek Police Department. He looked up at his parents in confusion. “You want me to become a cop?”

  “They require two years of college and two years with a law enforcement agency,” his mother informed him. “Your father has called in a favor with the chief of police. Glenn will let you do your two years with the department, if you can pass all the tests.”

  Terry considered this, one athletic-sandaled foot resting on the edge of the coffee table. The idea wasn’t necessarily repellent, but Terry had always assumed he’d graduate college and take a job in his dad’s firm, doing . . . well, something with money. Whatever his dad and older brother did. He’d rent an expensive apartment in the Loop, spend every night with a new girl, and basically stay drunk until he hit thirty-five or so and was required to churn out grandchildren.

  “This is the end of the road for us, son,” added his father. “Your brother and sister are settled, and frankly, we’re tired of parenting. You can do this, or you can be on your own.”

  “I don’t care what my friends think about you working at Target,” his mother put in. “I’ll be in Palm Springs anyway.”

  “Huh.” Terry rolled the idea around in his head like he was tasting a new microbrew. A beat cop? The idea wasn’t exactly sexy. Then again, some girls were into guys in uniforms. And within a couple of years, surely Terry could advance up to captain or lieutenant or whatever, and eventually run the whole place. Maybe then he’d transfer over to the FBI. He could see himself in a tailored suit and expensive sunglasses, posing next to a corpse with a studious frown on his face as he spotted the crucial piece of evidence that had stumped all the locals. FBI agents had to get a ton of ass.

  “Okay,” Terry said. “I’m in.”

  The physical tests were a breeze, and for the first time in his life, Terry did do a little studying for the written exam. He passed with two points to spare, and very soon the department was sending him off to train at the academy. Terry’s future, which he had always seen as hazy but bright, was at last decided. Beat cop to detective to chief to FBI agent. Nothing to it.

  Terry muddled through the academy and his probationary years, but the only part of his job that he really enjoyed was the physical stuff. As much as he dreamed of chasing bad guys through a parkour-style maze of buildings, though, crime in Switch Creek was pretty much limited to a little embezzling and the occasional DUI. He couldn’t believe how boring cops’ lives were.

  He did have a brief spark of renewed excitement when he was twenty-seven, and the public became aware of the existence of vampires. For once in his life, Terry followed the news fervently, and he was elated when the state of Illinois, like several other states, grew tired of Congress’s indecision and declared the consumption of human blood illegal. Terry’s patrols were briefly more exciting, as he told himself fantastical stories of Terry Anson, vampire hunter. He imagined catching a shade alive, which would surely let him leapfrog right over to the FBI’s new vampire division.

  Within a few weeks, however, Terry finally realized that shades had about as much of a presence in Switch Creek as serial killers. In fact, no cop in all of Illinois had managed to spot anyone breaking the new law. It was a colossal disappointment.

  By then, seven years had passed without a single promotion, and Terry had begun to get angry. All of his high school friends had graduated from law school or med school—paid for by their parents, of course—secured jobs in the city, and were coming back to settle down and start families. It would be one thing if Terry were, say, the chief of police, but he was a twenty-eight-year-old beat cop. It was embarrassing as hell.

  To avoid having to think too much about this, Terry began to drink, including when he was out on patrol. Little by little, the natural charm that had propelled Terry this far in life vanished, and his resentment soon turned into a suppressed rage that simmered just under the surface of all his interactions with the public.

  And then in October, less than a year after the discovery of shades, his parents announced that they had decided to sell the house—which meant that Terry, who hadn’t exactly bee
n frugal with his tiny public service paychecks, would need to find himself a shitty apartment. Faced with the loss of DVR, pool privileges, and an impressive place to bring women, something dark ignited in Terry Anson. Something ready to explode.

  The situation could have followed a predictable progression into alcoholism and disgrace, turning Terry Anson into another of the cautionary tales that mothers in Switch Creek told high schoolers who didn’t want to study. Before that could happen, though, Terry actually managed to bully his way into the life-altering moment he’d been longing for.

  That year, the Downtown Switch Creek Association had made the decision to time their Fall Festival to the high school’s Homecoming weekend, which was also the same weekend of several high school reunions, including Terry’s. The idea was to give an enormous push to local commerce before the holidays really took off. For Terry, though, this meant that everyone he’d ever known seemed to be back in town to rub their successes in his face. He was even assigned to patrol at the festival, which meant that everyone would see firsthand how pathetic his life was.

  So Terry was already in a black mood on Thursday night as he prowled through the bustling town square in his dorky uniform. This mood wasn’t at all helped by the fact that Terry himself was about three-quarters drunk.

  There were people in town he hadn’t so much as thought about in ten years, and every one of them had a better life than he did. Itching to avenge this injustice, Terry lashed out by writing seven jaywalking tickets and marking a number of cars for parking infractions. He was just toying with the idea of giving a town alderman a citation for public drunkenness, just for the hell of it, when he saw Aidan Kerns leaning against a tree.

  Aidan had been the only person in his graduating class who hadn’t left Switch Creek at all after high school. There was something wrong with him—autism or asthma, something with an A—anyway, he’d been what Terry’s mother referred to as a “troubled kid.” After high school Aidan had taken a job at one of the country clubs, and he worked there to this day, washing and repairing the golf carts at night so they’d be shiny and purring for the next morning’s golfers. Aidan hadn’t really advanced in his job either, but unlike Terry, he’d never seemed bothered by this.

  And now here he was, leaning against a tree in his pressed blue jeans and a checked shirt buttoned up to his chin, watching the live band and drinking from a bottle of beer like he was part of things. Like he belonged here as much as anyone.

  In that moment, Aidan’s very presence made Terry so angry that his vision seemed to pinpoint down to a dot. What the hell was the town embarrassment doing out here, walking around the festival like he was a real person? Who the fuck did that retard think he was, coming onto Terry’s own territory and prancing around like he was better than him?

  Terry hadn’t even seen Aidan in years—that was how rarely the idiot came out of his house—but he decided he had never hated anything as much as he hated Aidan fucking Kerns.

  “Hey!” he barked. A dozen people looked up in alarm, but none of them was Aidan. The idiot’s disregard just fueled Terry’s rage even more. “Kerns!” he shouted, and Aidan looked up with confusion. Terry stormed over.

  “Oh, hello, Terry,” Aidan said, his eyes dancing around, focusing on everything but Terry himself. He was wearing spotless sneakers that practically glowed in the dark, they were so white. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “What do you think you’re doing here, freak?” Terry growled.

  “I’m just drinking this beer.” Aidan said in the same flat tone. He sniffed a little. “I smell whiskey. Are you drunk?”

  Later, Terry would not remember making a decision to hit Aidan, but suddenly his fist was blurring out and colliding with Aidan’s nose. The wet crunch of cartilage against his knuckles felt great.

  “Ow!” Aidan cried, dropping the beer, his hands rushing to his face. He looked at Terry in genuine confusion. “You hit me!”

  His weak voice alone was enough to make Terry draw back his leg to follow up with a kick. Before he could connect, though, his moment, the split second he’d been waiting all his life to recognize, finally appeared. Aidan’s hands filled with blood, which began to run down his wrist toward his pristine shirt. Aidan looked around frantically for a napkin or cloth, but there was nothing. Panicked, he raised his wrist and licked at the line of blood like it was a dripping ice cream cone.

  And time stopped for Terry Anson, as he recognized the opportunity that had fallen at his feet.

  From the corner of his eye, he took in the onlookers, the festival attendees who’d raised their cell phones and started recording the moment Terry had hit Aidan. They wouldn’t have taped the punch, but they had to have gotten the moment right after. The evidence was bulletproof. Terry Anson was about to be the first cop in the state to arrest someone under the new blood consumption laws.

  He would be a hero. He would be famous. He would finally fill the gap between himself and his peers, the one that had confused and frustrated him for so long. Aidan fucking Kerns had just handed him the keys to the kingdom.

  Feeling a great swell of gratitude for the little weirdo, Terry took the handcuffs from his belt, grabbed Aidan’s arm, and twisted him against the tree. “Aidan Kerns,” he said in his best hero-cop bellow, “you are under arrest for consumption of human blood.”

  Everyone was watching and whispering, and in Terry’s mind, they all looked impressed. It was the greatest hour of his life.

  It was also the last.

  Chapter 1

  Chicago, Illinois

  Early Friday morning

  Lindy did not like waiting in cars.

  As one of the oldest living vampires in the world, she had long since grown accustomed to the perks that came with great age—accelerated strength, speed, healing, even the ability to go out during daylight. She was aware that these advantages could easily become a crutch, but they were too much a part of her not to rely on them, especially when she was hunting.

  Being stuck in a closed car in the rain, however, dulled her hearing, her sense of smell, even her vision. She felt like she was fumbling through an underground maze in the dark, and after only three hours Lindy had a new, pitying respect for her human colleagues, who had to deal with this hobbled existence all the time.

  To be fair, they also had a lot more practice with stakeouts.

  Lindy was parked halfway down a narrow alley, the small, sensible car she’d “borrowed” from a neighbor wedged snugly in between a Dumpster and a brick building. It was dark enough that no one would spot the black vehicle as they walked by, but Lindy had a perfect vantage point to see the entrance to Vapors, a hookah lounge that served as one of Chicago’s newest clubs. It was also rumored to be a major center for shade attacks, according to several anonymous tips that Lindy’s office had received over the last two weeks.

  Dealing with tips was pretty much all they had done during that time. Since the Chicago branch of the Bureau of Preternatural Investigations had broken their big case the month before—the case involving Lindy’s twin brother, Hector, who had kidnapped and used up a number of innocent teenagers—the team had been overwhelmed with reports of shade activity.

  With their team leader, Special Agent Alex McKenna, in Washington testifying in front of Congress, the remaining pod members had been frantically trying to respond to as many reports as they could. They’d had to bring in several floaters from the Chicago FBI headquarters just to handle the volume of phone calls and emails.

  Most of it was nonsense, of course—now that Hector’s very real murders had been exposed, every criminal in the world had decided “it must have been vampires” was the new “some other dude did it”—but one or two had caught Lindy’s attention, including the suggestions that Vapors was more than it seemed.

  Unlike the rest of the BPI squad, who were all humans, Lindy didn’t particularly care if a group of shades had adopted a certain bar to hang out in, or even if they chose their feeding partners
there. What interested Lindy was that two of the anonymous tips specifically mentioned seeing people carrying suspiciously shaped trash bags out of the bar at all hours. Shades didn’t need to kill humans in order to feed—in fact, part of their whole symbiotic function with humanity was that shade saliva provided an immunity boost, which was hard to enjoy if the victim was dead. But if Hector had stayed in Chicago, and if he was still doing his experiments on shade reproduction, there would likely be more casualties. Besides, even if her brother wasn’t working out of Vapors, this was a really, really bad time for another series of shade murders to come to light. The public was still outraged over the recent casualties, and anti-shade sentiment was at its highest yet. One way or another, if there were careless shades killing humans in that club, Lindy was determined to put a stop to it before it ever became public knowledge.

  It was past bar close now, but people were still running in and out of Vapors, holding up umbrellas or jackets to protect themselves from the early October downpour. They were all so young, Lindy thought: early to mid-twenties, the women in scandalously short skirts and sky-high heels, the men in jewel-toned button-downs, no ties, and shiny pointed shoes. Nothing about their body language had suggested shades, and Lindy wasn’t ready to get out and confront them. With the rain, she’d need to be pretty close to catch their scent, and if they were shades, she’d give herself away, too. She could beat almost any vampire in the world in single combat, but if the building was infested with them, even Lindy could be overpowered. She decided to wait and watch.

  When the human traffic finally began to dwindle, she checked her watch: 3:30 a.m. Something was definitely off here. No club was that hot, not on a Thursday night. Then one last man exited the building, turning to lock the door behind him. He was different from the others: late forties, silvering hair, wearing a nice suit and flashy tie. He put his keys into the lock to bolt it, huddling a little under the awning.