The words stung more than they should have.
“I understand,” I said quietly. “It’s easier that way.”
He looked over, meeting my gaze at last. “No. That’s the problem. It’s not.”
The space between us felt suddenly too small. The air thick with something unspoken. Regret, fear, maybe something else neither of us wanted to name.
Kit shifted, grimaced, then gestured toward the floor. “You should sit. You look like hell.”
I almost laughed. “I’ve been told worse.”
But I sat, because arguing would’ve meant standing too close to him again. The fire’s warmth brushed against my skin, a faint contrast to the chill that never really left me.
He didn’t speak again for a long time. Neither did I.
When he finally reached for his blanket, pulling it back over his shoulders, he hesitated.
“For what it’s worth… thanks for not feeding on me,” Kit said.
“Wouldn’t have helped either of us,” I said.
He made a soft noise that might’ve been agreement, or might’ve been a laugh. Then he closed his eyes again, exhaustion dragging him under.
I watched the rise and fall of his chest until the hunger faded to a dull ache, until the guilt stopped clawing quite so hard.
When the last light of dusk gave way to full darkness, I let myself look at him one more time.
“Sleep well,” I whispered. “You’re safe, hunter.”
8
KIT
The cell signalout 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.
“Hunter 1179. You’re two days late checking in.”
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.”
