Koa Cimmerian
We were back in our apartment just before dawn. The high from the hunt still buzzed under my skin like a current, making sleep impossible. Casimir directed the usual post-hunt protocol: Sweep theplace, secure the target for client, and debrief during gear check before personal clean up. As usual, something in me still wanted to prowl, to hunt, to tear into flesh with nothing but hands and teeth. A leftover from whatever our father gave us, I supposed. The part of me that never felt quite satisfied with the kill.
“Should’ve killed it slower, Cas,” I complained, dropping weapons one by one. “Fight was too short.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t all enjoy the extended edition of monster slaying.” Zane snorted as he peeled off his sparkly armor. “Some of us like to keep things moving.”
“Oh, like the time you emptied half a clip into a demon that was clearly bulletproof?” I countered.
Zane smirked, his red hair sticking up at odd angles as usual.
“Well, ifsomeonehad warned me that thing had boss-level resistances—”
“Zane. It regenerated in front of you.” The memory still made my blood boil. He’d nearly gotten himself killed, laughing the whole time.
“Details,” he shrugged, already scrolling through his phone.
Infuriating little shit.
Our apartment was cramped, but functional. The walls were bare except for a few maps and a whiteboard where we tracked current jobs. The furniture was mismatched, mostly salvaged from curbs or bought cheap at second-hand stores. We could afford better; we chose not to. Money could be tracked, and equipment maintenance was priority one.
Cas sat in the center of the busted-up couch, his waist-length blond hair pulled back in a tight braid. He disassembled his sniper rifle on the coffee table with practiced precision, the soft click-click of metal on metal a soothing rhythm in the room. Zane flopped behind him on the lumpy cushions, scrolling on his phone with one hand while the other absently toyed with Cas’ braid, flicking the end under his nose, occasionally giving himself a ridiculous moustache.
Cas was famously vain about his hair, which was funny considering how unsentimental he was about everything else, and usually hated anyone touching it. But after a hunt? He never said a word. I figured he knew what Zane needed. This little ritual played out the same way every time, silent and sacred. Neither of them acknowledged it.
It didn’t mean anything. And it meant everything.
Smiling a little, I started sharpening a kukri in slow, methodical strokes. Not because it was dull, just for the sound. Therhythmic scrape of metal on whetstone filled the room. Swish-two-three, turn-four-five-six. My version of meditation. Or maybe just not flipping a table. The blade had tasted more blood tonight than I’d expected, but still not enough to quiet the storm inside me.
Which was why my own ritual came after the blades were done. One snack pack of cookies for a win. Two for a hard fight. A whole bag of chocolate chunk when things went FUBAR, just to fill the hollow. Cookies were cookies. They didn’t fix anything. But they were sweet and good and mine.
They didn’t mean anything. And they meant everything.
Which was why Zane kept getting his ass handed to him when he tried to steal them.
“Hey, hey! I actually found a joint open at the ass-crack of dawn!” he crowed suddenly. “Ordered three larges and wings. Something greasy and glorious to fill the empty pit in my stomach.” His whiskey eyes darted to me. “One of these days, that blade’s going to bite you, Koala Bear.”
“She loves me too much for that.” I ran my thumb lightly along the spine of the dagger I was cleaning. She was my favorite and had been with me for four years now, ever since that job in Nepal. Three hundred strokes in, her edge could’ve split moonlight.
We were deep into our usual post-job routine: Cas dismantling and inspecting each piece of gear, me sharpening every edged weapon I could find, and Zane impatiently waiting for food. The familiarity of it should have been comforting, but tonight it felt like we were just going through the motions. Like we were stuck in a loop that would keep cycling until something broke it.
Then Cas’ phone buzzed.
I ignored it at first, focusing on the throwing star in my hands. Probably the client, wanting an update. Or Sebastian checking in on us. Our older half-brother was the only member of the vampire court that we liked.
Then more buzzes. Three short, two long.
Cas went statue-still, a firing pin frozen mid-rotation, Zane’s joke about vibrator settings shriveled on his tongue, and I threw the star into the wall with a satisfyingthwunk. We all knew that pattern.
Noctem maledicta. All that good meditation I just did, now gone right to shit.
“Tell him we’re dead,” I snapped.
“You first.” Cas stared at the glowing screen like it might detonate.
Zane snatched the device, thumbs flying.
“How’s this: ‘Regretfully unable to attend.’ ”
