Saving Kit (Vampire Vows #4)

Chapter 1 Kit

KIT

The beer in front of me was warm, flat, and tasted faintly like regret. I’d been nursing it since three in the afternoon, though nursing implied a kind of tenderness I didn’t feel.

Really, I was just watching the light fade through the grimy bar windows, wondering how a man could fall so far so fast and whether it was worth pretending I didn’t know the answer.

The place was called The Black Dog, though there wasn’t a dog in sight.

Just a cracked tile floor sticky with spilled beer, neon lights buzzing like dying fireflies, and a jukebox in the corner that hadn’t worked since someone punched it for playing the wrong song.

It wasn’t much, but it was cheap, dark, and no one asked questions. My kind of place. I used to come here after hunts, back when my name actually meant something.

Back when walking into a room full of hunters meant nods, raised glasses, and the occasional slap on the back. Back when the Guild still sent me on real jobs.

Violent shifters, rogue mages, vampires with body counts that made the news. Back when I was good.

Donovan used to say I had promise. He’d been my mentor. Donovan was sharp-eyed and steady-handed, the kind of hunter who made killing look like an art form.

For a while, I thought if I worked hard enough, if I bled enough, I could be like him. And I was, for a while.

I made a name for myself, took contracts others wouldn’t touch, built a reputation for getting the job done no matter how bad it got. Until things went to shit.

Now I walked into places like this and people looked away. Conversations stuttered out mid-laugh. The bartender didn’t even bother pretending to be friendly.

No one raised a glass. No one asked what I was working on. They all knew I wasn’t working on anything worth mentioning. The Guild didn’t have to say it out loud, but everyone understood.

Kit, the washed-up hunter. The guy who lost his edge. The one you didn’t want watching your back. I could’ve laughed if it didn’t sting so much.

The beer went down in a gulp that burned more than it should have. I signaled for another, and the bartender, some kid too new to know my reputation, brought it without comment.

His eyes darted toward the clock, like he was counting the hours until he could cut me off.

I couldn’t even blame him. I’d been that kind of drunk lately. I was loud, sloppy, unpredictable. Not the dangerous kind, not anymore. Just the sad kind.

My hunting knife rested in my jacket pocket, the silver hilt warm from my body heat.

Once, it had meant I was part of something. A hunter of the Guild. Order keeper, supernatural scourge, the kind of man people whispered about with respect.

Now it was just a weight I carried out of habit.

Donovan used to polish his hunting knife until it gleamed. He said the Guild was our shield, our purpose.

“A hunter without conviction is just a man with a weapon,” he’d tell me.

I’d believed him. I’d believed every damn word, because Donovan looked at me like I could be better. Like I already was. Until the day he walked away with one of them.

A vampire. One who used to be one of us, a hunter, but a vampire nonetheless.

I rubbed at my jaw, trying to push the thought aside, but the memory clawed its way back like it always did.

Donovan standing in that forest, moonlight cutting through the trees, his weapon lowered. Declan behind him, pale and monstrous. Donovan saying he loved Declan and would stand by him.

I’d thought I misheard. I’d thought he’d lost his mind.

But then he’d stepped between me and the vampire, his weapon down, his eyes steady. He’d chosen Declan. Chosen a monster. Chosen him over me, over the Guild, over everything we’d bled for.

I remember standing there, half in shock, half waiting for him to take it back. Waiting for him to say it was some trick, that Declan had compelled him, that the world still made sense. But he didn’t.

The next few weeks had been a blur of missed hunts, sloppy kills, and whiskey bottles. I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself he’d chosen a corpse over me, and I was better off. But that wasn’t the truth.

The truth was, I’d loved Donovan long before that night. Before Declan and before everything went to hell. It started years ago, on my first mission.

I was still a rookie back then. Barely twenty, too eager to prove I wasn’t just some charity case the Guild took in. They’d assigned me to Donovan’s unit. I remember thinking I’d lucked out.

Everyone wanted to work under him. He was efficient and sharp. The kind of hunter who made even the ugliest kills look clean. We’d been sent after a fledgling vampire hiding in the sewers beneath the city.

The air had reeked of rot and iron. I’d tried to act unfazed, knife in hand, heart beating a mile a minute. I’d told him I was ready.

He’d given me one look and said, “No one’s ever ready for their first kill, Kit. Just remember to aim for the heart, and don’t hesitate.”

I hesitated. The vampire lunged faster than I could think. I froze, every instinct screaming, but my body wouldn’t move. I’d have been dead right there if Donovan hadn’t shoved me aside.

His knife went in smooth and sure, his arm steady even as blood sprayed his coat. The vampire dropped.

I remember him crouching beside me afterward, his voice calm but firm. “You can’t afford to freeze, Kit. You freeze, you die. You die, someone else does too.”

I’d tried to laugh it off, but I was shaking so hard I couldn’t even sheath my blade. He reached out, gripped my shoulder, and said, “You’ll get there.”

That was all it took. That one moment of kindness. That one touch. After that, I’d followed him anywhere. Trained until my hands bled. Killed things twice my size just to hear him say good work, Kit.

I told myself it was hero worship, but deep down, I knew better.

Every hunt, every night at the Guild’s safehouse, every late debrief where it was just the two of us, it all built into something I didn’t have a name for yet. I’d catch myself watching him when he wasn’t looking.

The way he cleaned his blade with careful precision. The way his eyes softened, just barely, when he thought no one was watching. Then he stood by Declan instead of killing him.

After that, something broke.

I stopped showing up to morning briefings. Started picking fights I couldn’t finish. Took on hunts I didn’t care about, just to burn off the ache. Every kill felt heavier. Every bottle lighter.

The Guild stopped trusting me. I stopped trusting myself. The knife I’d once carried with pride started to feel like a reminder of everything I wasn’t anymore.

I leaned back in my chair, the world tilting faintly around me. The whiskey didn’t help, but at least it made the memories softer around the edges.

Donovan had made his choice, and I was still here, half-drunk, chasing ghosts.

“Kit.”

My name hit like a slap. I blinked and turned. Three hunters stood in the doorway, sunlight at their backs, cutting through the dim haze of the bar.

For a second I thought about ducking, pretending I hadn’t heard. But they’d already spotted me. The one in front, Marcus Hale, grinned wide, all teeth.

I’d trained him once, years back. He used to call me sir.

“Didn’t think we’d find you here,” Marcus said, swaggering closer.

His two shadows followed. Leena and Briggs, both younger, both eager. I could smell the Guild’s righteous stink on them from across the room. Steel oil, leather, and arrogance.

“I live here now,” I muttered, raising my glass. “Cheaper than rent.”

Leena laughed, a brittle sound. “He’s not joking, either.”

I ignored her, but my fingers tightened around the glass.

Marcus leaned an elbow on the bar, close enough that I could see my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. I was unshaven, eyes rimmed red, shirt wrinkled.

“Word’s going around, Kit,” he said. “You botched another hunt last week.”

“Did I?” I asked mildly. “Can’t keep track.”

“You let a ghoul get away. Bit a civilian before it was put down. They’re saying the Guild’s keeping you around out of pity,” Marcus said.

Leena made a mock pout. “Poor fallen hero. Maybe Donovan should’ve taken you with him.”

The words hit harder than the alcohol. My jaw clenched before I could stop it.

“Careful,” I said quietly.

Marcus chuckled. “What, too soon? Come on, Kit, don’t look at me like that. Everyone knows. You and Donovan, best buds until he fell for his leech. Guess loyalty’s contagious.”

I downed the rest of the beer, set the glass down too hard. “You done?”

Briggs shifted uneasily, like he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. Marcus just smirked.

“Not yet. Guild’s taking bets on how long till they kick you out. Personally, I think they already should’ve. Can’t have hunters going soft on the job,” Marcus said.

“Soft,” I repeated. “Right.”

“You used to be something,” Marcus said, almost conversational. “The Great Kit Mercer. Now look at you. Half drunk before sunset.”

“That’s quarter drunk,” I said. “Maybe a third.”

Marcus laughed, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

My knuckles itched. I wanted to hit him. Not because of what he said, even though everything he said was true, but because of the way he said it.

Like he was proud of being the one to say it aloud. Marcus was already measuring the space I’d leave behind when the Guild finally decided to cut me loose.

Leena leaned against the bar beside him. “You hear about the new assignment list? The higher-ups are calling it cleanup duty. Guess who got the ghost house case?”

Marcus grinned. “No way.”

“Way. Guess they figured Kit needed something easy. You know, something he couldn’t screw up.”

I barked out a laugh. “A haunted house? That’s not a case, that’s punishment duty,” I grumbled.

“That’s the point,” she said. “Maybe they’re hoping it’ll scare you sober.”

“Ha.” I swirled the empty glass, watching the dregs circle. “Maybe it’ll do the opposite.”

Marcus dropped a few bills on the counter. “Don’t take it too hard, old man. You had a good run,” Marcus pointed out.

They turned to leave, laughing as they went. Briggs gave me a look, which was half-pity, half-warning, before following them out.

A flicker of movement in the mirror behind the bar caught my eye. Just a flash of pale hair and a leather jacket as Marcus’s group passed the window outside. They didn’t even glance back.

I sat there for a long time after the door swung shut, the echo of their laughter fading into the clatter of the street outside.

I wondered if I’d ever looked that young, that sure of myself. Probably. Before I’d learned what conviction actually cost.

The bartender hovered nearby, pretending to wipe down the counter.

“Another?” he asked carefully.

I stared at the empty glass.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “Why the hell not.”

He poured. The foam rose, then settled. I took a long drink, chasing the bitterness down. Haunted house duty. That was the Guild’s way of saying we can’t fire you, but we wish we could.

They sent washed-up hunters to babysit cold spots, chase creaky pipes, write reports that no one would ever read. It was meant to humiliate me.

Maybe it would’ve worked, if I still had anything left to lose.

I reached into my jacket, thumb tracing the worn grooves of my hunting knife’s hilt. Donovan’s voice came back, unbidden. A hunter without conviction is just a man with a knife.

Well, he’d been half right. These days, I wasn’t much of either.