Daywalkers

DAYWALKERS Copyright © 2022 Quinn Blackbird All rights reserved. A Standalone in the anthology Softer Series by Quinn Blackbird No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission—this includes scanning and/or unauthorised distribution—except in case of brief quotations used in reviews and/or academic articles, in which case quotations are permitted. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether alive or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, incidents, and places are all products of the author’s imagination. Daywalkers Imprint: Independently published DAYWALKERS Quinn Blackbird 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 CHAPTER16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 CHAPTER 33 CHAPTER 34 CHAPTER 35 CHAPTER 36 CHAPTER 37 CHAPTER 38 CHAPTER 39 CHAPTER 40 CHAPTER 41 CHAPTER 42 CHAPTER 43 CHAPTER 44 CHAPTER 45 CHAPTER 46 CHAPTER 47 DAYWALKERS the softer stories by QB QUINN BLACKBIRD CHAPTER 1 “How much further?” Raven flicked her slender hand ahead. “It’s just down there.” “I’m so famished, you’re beginning to look like a gourmet hotdog,” grumbled Nigel. Raven shot her friend a lazy side-eye. He tugged on the firm collar of his shirt and asked, “What is this mysterious place you’re taking me to?” “Taco Tuesdays,” she said, skipping over a hole. The cobblestones were threatening her brand new stilettoes. Damaged heels came with the territory of London—the backstreets, trendy cobblestone lanes, and constant strolls through the many parks. Rupert Street in Soho, London was especially cruel to shoes. The street catered to the latest food market lovers of the city, but the cobblestone was, to Raven, a curse upon London. Her aching calves seemed to think so, at least. “Taco what?” said Nigel, incredulous. “Taco Tuesdays,” she repeated, and looped her arm through his. “They make tacos. Those little crispy things that have cheese and tomato stuffed inside of them.” Nigel scoffed and shook his head. The combed brown hair flattened to his head didn’t budge. “You dragged me all the way to Rupert Street for tacos.” Raven beamed, flashing her whitened teeth, and crooned up at him, “Oh, Nigel, do be careful. Your snobbery is showing.” She tucked a black lock of hair behind her ear. “Besides,” she said, “it was April who recommended the place.” Nigel said nothing, but his footsteps became lighter, and the tension in his shoulders softened. April’s stamp of approval was valued by most of the students at Westminster Private School. Taco Tuesdays was crammed between a fresh fruit shop and a beer garden. The sizzling scent of cooked beef hit Raven and Nigel when they reached the little shop. Nigel sniffed the air and his stomach rumbled before he whipped open the glass door. “Busy,” he said, peering inside. “I’d hate to see what it’s like on an actual Tuesday.” Raven ducked under his arm and stepped inside. Nigel was right, it was busy. Tables were teeming with university students, and the food bay was swarmed by people pointing at the fillings they wanted. Before Nigel could, Raven whirled around, touched her nose and said, “Not it!” Nigel cursed and glanced at the queue at the salad bar. “Fine. What do you want?” “Chicken, with the lot.” He sighed and shoved into the crowd. Raven smirked at his back before she wandered to the wall and gazed into the smudged mirror. Green glowed in the reflection, encased in the almond shape of her eyes. The heatwave outside had dampened her hair into limp clusters of black, and had glittered her face with beads of sweat. She looked dreadful, she decided. Even in a strappy singlet and baggy draw-string pants, her pores leaked sweat. It was London, she thought, that had weakened her against the warmth. Most of the year, the city was drenched in muggy weather and dull skies. Then, those few weeks a year came and plunged the city into a metropolitan steam bath. Snatching a napkin from a nearby table, Raven dabbed away the moisture from her forehead and chin. She wasn’t one to gussy herself up in public, but desperate measures— “You missed a spot,” said a smooth voice. Raven hovered the napkin over her chin and flushed. She turned around, scrunching the damp serviette in her hand. A tall guy, waves the colour of Autumn leaves and eyes like molten silver, stood in front of her. Raven let out a breath of relief when she realised, he hadn’t been speaking to her. He’d been teasing his companion, a dark-haired young man, for spilling salsa all over himself. The darker one wiped the sauce staining his black t-shirt, while the glossy brunette, the one with the cheeky grin like that of a Cheshire cat, watched with a smirk. “I don’t know why you bother,” said the Cheshire guy. His chocolate curls hung over his eyes, giving him a broody-me look, but he couldn’t rid himself of the lightness that his faint tint of blond gave him. “You only make it worse every time.” “If I wanted your opinion on how to remove stains, Ash, I’d ask for it.” “If you were to ask for it, I’d suggest you find a new favourite food,” said Ash. “At least until you learn how to eat without a bib. Little, baby Desmond,” he mocked. The dark-haired guy (Desmond, she supposed) cursed in a language Raven didn’t understand. And she spoke four languages, Latin included. Ash shrugged and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He turned his head to inspect himself in the mirror, but found himself staring straight into Raven’s emerald eyes. A brief flicker of shock passed over his face before he settled on a lopsided grin that ignited a flutter in her