Chapter 8 Kit
KIT
The cell signal out here was barely more than a flicker, but it was enough. I leaned against the cracked wall near what used to be a kitchen window and waited for the Guild line to connect.
Static buzzed faintly in my ear before a crisp, professional voice answered.
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Good to hear from you too, Margaret.”
“Status report,” she said flatly, ignoring me. “The haunting in the Ashford property, what did you find?”
“Nothing.” I glanced toward the doorway. Simon’s shadow moved faintly in the other room. “It’s a hoax. No signs of spiritual or demonic presence. Just rot, mold, and a few broken floorboards.”
“Your last message indicated possible activity,” Margaret said.
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “turns out I was wrong.”
Margaret’s voice sharpened. “You’re never wrong, Kit. You’re reckless, but you have instincts. Why haven’t you filed an official report?”
I hesitated, then let my voice slur just slightly. “Because I’m on a break.”
“A what?”
“You heard me. I’m taking a holiday. Impromptu. Mental health or whatever,” I said.
There was a pause. I could practically hear her disapproval sizzling through the line. “You don’t take holidays.”
“I do now,” I said. I looked down at my bandaged arm.
Simon had rewrapped it with surprisingly steady hands. The skin underneath already looked better. It was less angry, less raw.
“You know, sit by the sea, have a drink, think about my life choices,” I continued.
“Are you drunk?” she demanded.
I smiled faintly. “Maybe. A little.”
“Kit.” Her tone dropped, the kind of voice that had cowed rookies and terrified fresh recruits. “The Guild has tolerated your erratic behavior because you get results. But you’ve missed two reports and gone off-grid for forty-eight hours. You know what that means.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll be on probation.” I let the words roll off my tongue like they didn’t matter.
“You don’t sound concerned.”
“I’m not,” I said.
Another pause. Longer this time. “When will you be back for active duty?” She asked, her tone clipped.
I let out a quiet laugh. “We’ll see.”
“Kit.”
“I said, we’ll see.”
There was a hiss of frustration through the speaker, followed by the sound of keys clacking. She was probably typing up my reprimand in real time.
“You’re on thin ice, Hunter 1179. One more failed mission and you’re done. No pension, no reinstatement. You’ll be blacklisted. Do you understand me?” Margaret demanded.
“Loud and clear.”
“Then file your report. Now.”
Click. The line went dead.
I stared at the phone for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen, watching the faint reflection of my own face on the darkened glass.
The Guild’s logo blinked once before disappearing, leaving me with nothing but my distorted reflection and the quiet pulse of my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
The threat of losing my rank and my purpose should’ve hit hard.
A year ago, it would’ve gutted me. A year ago, I would’ve sat here replaying every word, trying to figure out how to fix it, how to prove them wrong.
How to scrape together enough pride to keep pretending I was still the same man I’d been before everything went to hell. But now? I felt nothing.
Just a faint, tired hum somewhere deep beneath my ribs, like an echo of a song I used to know. Maybe that was what scared me most.
Not the Guild’s threat. Not the idea of being finished. But the realization that it didn’t hurt anymore. It should’ve. I should’ve felt something. Anger, fear, or shame. Something.
But all I could think was that maybe I’d already lost whatever made me care.
Maybe it had slipped away months ago, back when I stopped sleeping properly, when I started getting assigned the missions no one else wanted. Haunted houses, backwater towns, fake calls.
Things no one would notice if I didn’t come back from.
The silence of the house pressed around me, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint creak of old floorboards settling. I rubbed a hand over my face, the stubble rough under my fingers.
The phone still sat in my lap, screen gone dark, its weight oddly final. Like the Guild had just closed a door I wasn’t sure I wanted open anymore.
And maybe that was fine. Maybe I was tired of being useful to people who wouldn’t notice if I disappeared. The realization sat cold in my chest.
I didn’t know how long I stayed like that, just sitting there and staring at nothing, listening to the faint hum of night insects through the broken window.
A soft shuffle of feet made me glance up.
Simon stood near the doorway, pretending to rummage through a torn duffel bag. His movements were too deliberate and too careful. He’d heard the whole thing, I was sure of it.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just kept folding and unfolding the same worn shirt, eyes fixed on the floorboards.
“Eavesdropping now?” I said lightly.
Simon didn’t look up. “Hard not to, when you talk like the world’s ending.”
I snorted. “You’d know if it was. You’d probably smell it.”
That got the faintest twitch of a smile. But his gaze flicked up to mine then, hesitant, searching.
“You okay?” Simon asked.
I wanted to say no. That I was running on fumes, that everything in me felt like it was splintering apart, that I hadn’t been okay in months. But I wasn’t about to spill my guts to a stranger I hardly knew.
“I’ve been worse,” I said instead.
Simon studied me for another second, like he didn’t believe me but decided not to press.
“You should eat,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “You planning on cooking again?”
“I was thinking takeout this time,” he said dryly. “There’s still a small diner down the road. If the building hasn’t collapsed.”
“I can get it myself,” I told him.
“You’re still recovering,” Simon pointed out.
“I’m fine,” I argued.
“You’re limping.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated, maybe a little too sharply.
Simon’s lips quirked, almost amused. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”
He moved toward the door before I could argue, pausing only to grab the jacket he’d scavenged from one of the upstairs rooms. It hung loose on his thin frame, collar turned up against the night chill.
“Here.” I reached for my wallet, flipping it open and fishing out a few crumpled bills.
This time, he didn’t argue, he just nodded. Simon reached out to take the money. His fingers brushed mine, cold and steady, and that same strange current sparked up my arm again.
He didn’t seem to notice it. Or maybe he did, because he looked away too quickly.
“I’ll be back,” he murmured.
I watched him leave, the door creaking shut behind him, and for a while the house was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire.
I could’ve gone after him. I could’ve walked out, found a proper hospital, gotten patched up, gone back to headquarters and pretended none of this had happened. But I didn’t move.
Instead, I leaned back in the chair, letting my gaze drift to the spot where he’d stood.
What the hell was I doing?
Simon wasn’t the first vampire I’d met who pretended at civility. They were capable of kindness, even affection, but it always came with teeth in the end. Yet something about him didn’t fit the pattern.
He wasn’t hiding what he was. Simon didn’t feed on people. He didn’t even look at me like prey. And that made him dangerous in an entirely different way.
Because the longer I stayed, the more I found myself wanting to know what else was real about him. The more I wondered if that quiet gentleness.
The way he kept his distance but still hovered close enough to help, was instinct or choice. I told myself it was curiosity. That was all. A hunter studying his quarry.
But when I thought about the way his voice softened when he said my name. How he’d sat by the fire through the night while I slept, watching over me like some strange guardian, I knew I was lying to myself.
I didn’t just want to understand him. I wanted to see him. To know what kind of creature would risk everything to keep his hands clean of human blood.
I rubbed at my eyes, exhaling. The silence in the house pressed close, heavy with things unsaid. My chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with my wounds.
It hit me then, how little there was waiting for me outside these walls.
Both my parents had been hunters. They died when I was eighteen. One of those “clean jobs” gone bad. The Guild sent a letter, a payout, and that was it.
Friends? They’d drifted off months ago, when they realized I was on a downward spiral, and Donovan…
I swallowed hard. He’d been the only person I’d ever been close to. My mentor. My friend. The one who’d believed there was still something good inside me. Then he’d left the Guild to be with Declan.
Now there was just me and Simon. Gorgeous Simon who had a strange quiet kindness that didn’t make sense. Who couldn’t bear hurting humans let alone animals.
I should’ve left. Any sane man would’ve.
Instead, I found myself waiting for the sound of his footsteps coming back up the path. For the soft creak of the door and that strange flicker of life he brought with him when he entered a room.
Maybe it was loneliness or maybe it was something else. All I knew was that I wanted him to come back. That realization hit me harder than any threat the Guild could ever make.
Somewhere between the blood, the silence, and the half-truths, Simon had stopped being a monster to me. He was just Simon, and I wasn’t sure what that made me anymore.