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PART ONE

1: The Quick and the Dead

At twenty-nine, I had a higher body count than most serial killers. I’d killed for the first time at seventeen years old. The difference was, my targets were already dead.

There’s a weird fatigue that comes with hunting vampires – one that sinks into your bones and twists your sense of time. It’s not the kind of job you can really switch off from, when an average night has you rolling into bed at 2 A.M., up to your elbows in blood and running on fumes. Your body learns to stay awake whether you want it to or not. Which is how I found myself sprawled on the living room floor at three in the morning, surrounded by half-dried acrylics and an unfinished mural.

It’s also why, when a shadow shifted at the edge of my vision, instinct took over. A faint scuffling from behind the fireplace, and I was crouched and alert, every muscle ready for action.

Across the room, Tom appeared in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug halfway to his lips. “What?”

I held up a hand for silence. The shadow moved again, and I whipped my gaze toward it, tracking its trajectory with measured breaths.

Tom’s eyes were wide when I glanced his way.

Raising a finger to my lips, I shook my head and inched forward. My Wonder Woman socks were silent on the bare floorboards as I crept toward the sound, ready to attack. A silhouette in the doorframe, Tom shifted his weight, and the board beneath him let out a long creak. He winced, but it was too late.

A tiny, furry head peeked out from behind the stone fireplace, skittering across the room to hide under the sofa. I dived, hands outstretched, my fingers scrabbling after it. It dashed under the base of the seat, and I wriggled my hand against the velvet, scrambling to get at it.

Behind me, Tom released his breath as he realised what I was doing. “You’ve got to be kidding me? Erin, it’s a bloody mouse. It’s the middle of the night. It’s what mice do.” I heard his exasperation, but it did nothing to stop me from grappling with the sofa.

“Grab a box or something, will you?” I kept my voice low. The scraping sound had stopped.

“What for?”

The cambric was grazing my arm, but I hadn’t seen it come out. “To trap it!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head – but he disappeared into the kitchen. I held my breath, waiting for the mouse to make its move. Tom came back through, nottroubling to tiptoe, and handed me a stained plastic box.

A faint scratching sound came from the other side of the sofa. As gently as I could manage, I removed my arm from the tight space underneath and straightened, careful to keep my movements small and silent. Tom watched me with a smirk, and I gestured at him to help me lift it. He shrugged and made his way toward the other end of the substantial three-seater.

I counted to three, mouthing the numbers, and we lifted. The floorboards were dusty in the dim light of my table lamp, but the mouse was nowhere to be seen.

Tom let out a bark of laughter and dropped the sofa with a thud.

“It’s like a bad documentary,” he chuckled, sitting down by the ancient bureau I used as a desk and picking up a deck of cards. “‘The hunter’s instincts are sharp and well-honed, allowing her to sense her prey from several miles away.’”

I gave him the finger and returned to my usual chair, though his Attenborough impression wasn’t half bad. “It’s a sodding mouse, not a vampire.”

Tom continued shuffling the cards. “‘Though the hunter may have been defeated, she must try again, in order to survive in the harsh reality of the jungle.’”

I settled back into the cushions, resting my feet on the displaced coffee table – pushed aside earlier to make space for my latest mural. “That’s basically what Jon’s been saying.” I ran a hand through my hair, still gazing around for any sign of the mouse. “Then again, it’s been quiet lately.”

My eyes pricked with tiredness as I surveyed the room,clamping down a yawn. I didn’t spend much time at home, so my floorboards were bare, the walls still the same bland ivory they’d been when I moved in almost six years ago. The only hint of personality was the colourful patchwork blanket thrown over the moth-eaten arm of a once-black sofa, and the bureau pushed against the far wall. Acrylic paints in every hue were scattered on the surface and across the floor, but the canvas was still half-finished. I released the yawn and reached for my mug.

“Surely you’re not going to drink that. It’ll be clock cold by now.”

I raised it in Tom’s direction, firmly meeting his expression of horror. “Coffee’s coffee,” I said, downing the cold, sludgy dregs in one delicious mouthful.

“Uh-huh. Is that what you tell the customers?” He plucked the mug from my hand and took it through to the kitchen, and the sound of running water reached my ears a second later.

I rolled my eyes, knowing he couldn’t see me. “’Course not. But I hate to waste the caffeine.

The water stopped, and Tom came back through, picking up the cards again. “Have you heard from him, then?” he asked, shuffling them like a pro.

It took me a moment to catch up. “Jon? No. It’s been busy at the café. I was planning on calling yesterday, but I’ve not had time.” I paused, glancing at the clock on my phone. “It’s probably too late now. But I thought you said he’d messaged?”

“Not a bloody word since he got on the train. Been trying to track his phone but it’s either dead or…” He shrugged.