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I took a long, ragged breath and shook my head, no longer smelling the rancid stink of the alley. Now was my moment. My favourite dagger was inches from my hand, but I didn’t unsheathe it. I felt sick.

I bent nearer, so close I could count her eyelashes. “We both know you’re far from innocent,” I murmured, mostly to myself. She strained against me, but I tightened my grip, glaring at her. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

She hissed, her lips pulling back to expose sharp white canines – but she didn’t fight. With a sigh, I let go and she scrambled into a sitting position. Before she could get any further, I drew back my fist and struck out, hitting the sweet spot at the side of her jaw. Her eyes rolled back, and she fell limp. I kicked her away, a quick shiver running through me as I brushed myself off and stood up .

Fuck, I wanted to keep hitting her. For a moment there, she’d helped push away the raw, hollow ache that had settled over my heart earlier tonight. But this wasn’t the solution, and some part of me knew it.

Before I could get beyond that thought, something yanked me back by the hood of my coat, and I was thrust against the wall. Shit . I’d almost forgotten about the other one, but apparently, she’d found her bearings while I had my tiny breakdown. My cheek scraped the filthy brick and I began to choke as she lifted me by the throat with one hand. My feet dangled uselessly.

“I tried to play nice, hunter. But that little stunt actually hurt. And you’re right. I suppose…” Her breath reeked of copper. “I’m the predator. You’re the prey.”

I kicked out, struggling for oxygen as she tightened her grip. Her lashes lowered as she shifted me higher and bit her lip almost seductively, eyes lingering on my pulse.

I thought fast. My dagger was still in my boot. Bracing one foot against the wall behind me, I jammed my knee into her middle, raising my leg enough to grab the hilt. Before she could work out what I’d done, I forced it between her ribs, straining my wrist to twist the pale steel. Blood spilt over my hand and arm, sticky and almost black in the half-light. As I slid the blade from her chest, she released me, staggering back into the other side of the alley.

The sight of her bleeding left a sour taste in my mouth, and I gulped down oxygen, trying to clear my head. My dagger clattered to the ground, and I stared as blood bubbled and spilled from her lips. She almost seemed surprised as she slid down the wall and went still.

The prickling sensation beneath my skin lessened as her life – or whatever it was – ran out. I pulled my clean hand through my hair, still panting and trying to recover my breath as I took a peek out of the entrance to the alley. There was no one in sight.

Behind me, the blonde stirred. I imagined her waking up – with me, still standing over her. She’d probably run for it when she saw what I’d done to her friend. I wasn’t sure how comfortable I was with that.

I should finish her and leave. I knew it – hell, she probably knew it – but I hesitated. The fire in my veins still ran hot, but the blood on my hands felt dirty.

Get your shit together, Erin, for crying out loud.

I swallowed. It felt wrong to kill her while she was semi-conscious. Not even a vamp deserved that. The brunette was thoroughly dead, yeah – I’d got the kill I was craving, in the end – but it hadn’t made a blind bit of difference. The knot in my throat was as unbreakable as it had been when it showed up alongside the police.

I sighed. The gold inlay on my blade glinted on the floor, and I scooped it up, shoving it back into my boot without cleaning it. My sleeve and hand were bloody and stained, and I wiped them as best I could on the lining of my coat. It would have to do for now.

Cheery voices floated through the air from the bar four doors down, interrupting my musings. No raised voices, though. No alarm. No one had noticed a thing .

Pulling my hood up over my face, I headed onto the street at a fast walk, leaving the blonde with her hair splayed across the damp ground, the brunette sprawled beside her.

I reined my senses in as I hurried along, shutting down each sensation, desperate for the numbness it would bring. I didn’t want to feel any more.

Here and there, stragglers loitered in the doorways, smoking and chatting, most of them still drinking. A few called out as I passed, but I ignored them, though the aroma of stale beer followed me.

Violence hadn’t helped. I’d been an idiot to think it would – so I guess the vamp had been right about that, at least. The fire in my blood could burn through just about anything, but not this. The truth was, my best friend was dead. Nothing was going to bring Jon back.

My breath condensed into soft white clouds as I picked up the pace. I was so bloody tired. Tired of tonight. Tired of this life. Tired of thinking about death. Twenty-five years of obsessing – I’d been four when I realised I couldn’t escape it – and I still hated that it followed me everywhere I went. Sure, I’d done what most people would and pretended it wasn’t happening for a while – but when you can sense vampires, they can usually sense you, too.

I crossed the road, leaving the hum of the city behind as the shops and restaurants petered out and turned into houses. Most people were heading home, or already tucked in, but every now and then voices reached my ever-sensitive ears from streets away, squeezing every moment of life from the night .

A shadow across the street caught my attention, almost human as it darted behind a fence. My skin tingled for a second and I froze, before the shape transformed into a small tabby that trotted out and into the road at a run. One by one, I released my taut muscles. Jumpy much?

It wasn’t like I thought it was a ghost or anything. I’d never seen or talked to spirits. As far as I knew, it wasn’t even possible. Vamps were the only thing that went bump in the night, and my talent for spotting them was fairly specific. I sensed them stalking their victims: the quick and the dead. And I took it as a sign that it was my job to stop it.

Obviously it hadn’t been enough this time.

Jon was my oldest friend. And let me tell you, when you weird the other schoolkids out for talking about undead people that follow you home, friends are hard to come by. So, for years, he’d been my only friend – the one person who could convince me of the truth when I wanted to pretend I wasn’t a hunter. Then we’d met Tom, started the coffee shop… and things had been good. I’d dropped my guard.

The inferno in my veins was receding now, and the cold crept in through the heavy wool of my coat. I shoved my hands more deeply into my pockets, speeding up.

It hadn’t even occurred to me to worry when Tom had dropped Jon off at the train station a few weeks ago. He’d announced he was taking a trip to Edinburgh – something about visiting an estranged uncle, he’d said. I don’t think I’d even said goodbye.

Then earlier tonight, the police had knocked on the door. Tom answered it, while I panicked and hid. I’d assumed they wanted to speak to me – it wouldn’t have been the first time. It was still a blur, trying to get it straight in my head. One minute we were playing cards, the next…

Dragging my mind back to the now, I turned onto my street, a long row of Victorian terraced houses. I lived alone, but Tom would probably still be there, ready to guilt trip me since I’d run off without a word. My fingers were stiff with cold as I tried to fit the key into the lock.

The hallway was dim, the earliest light of dawn behind me. Tom was asleep on the sofa, his long legs and arms dangling under my blanket. The air was tinged with the clean scent of soap and pencil shavings that always seemed to follow him – familiar and quietly grounding. His usually tawny skin looked ashen in the shadow, short black hair sticking up in all directions. He looked at peace, though I knew that wasn’t the case.

When he’d opened the door to the police, I’d listened in through the open kitchen window. The officer’s tone set my teeth on edge; way too solemn to be anything good. They said they’d found Jon in his hotel room. That his uncle had identified the body. When they called it a suicide, I’d almost burst through and kicked off – it was total bullshit. But as I watched Tom catch hold of the hall table to steady himself, I knew it didn’t matter what they called it. The result was the same – Jon was gone. Moments later, I’d run.

I shook off the memory, though it was only an hour or so ago. The air was warm in the living room, perfumed with the comforting scent of coffee and vanilla. Careful not to make too much noise, I laid my coat on the armchair and stretched, my joints popping in protest. Stray strands of my tangled auburn hair caught the dawn light as it filtered softly into the room, and I pushed them aside with my left hand. Crusted brown blood still stained my other hand, so I kicked off my DMs and padded into the kitchen. Tom stirred through the French doors that separated the rooms.

“When did you get back?” He blinked at me as he appeared in the frame, not quite awake.

I shrugged. “A couple of minutes ago. The sun’s barely up.”

Tom yawned and rubbed his eyes before turning to tidy his blanket away. I turned on the cold tap and washed the blood from my hand, wincing as the water stung my raw knuckles. Without another word, I prepped the coffee machine, grinding beans and pressing them into the portafilter without seeing what I was doing. Behind me, Tom switched on the old radio by the oven. Slow, melodic piano music floated through the room, and my hands stilled. It was one of Jon’s favourites. Tom nudged me aside and took over.

That done, we sat together at my tiny kitchen table, and I picked at the scrubbed, paint-flecked wood. My coffee was too hot to drink, but the bitter aroma and the warmth of the heavy ceramic mug beneath my fingers was soothing.

“Are you going to say something?” He didn’t ask where I’d gone, but I was sure he knew.

I shrugged. I should apologise for running out, but I didn’t.

Tom raised both eyebrows, waiting .

“Do you…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What if he’s not really dead?”

I’d been turning it over in the back of my mind since I’d left. If the only explanation was the worst thing I could think of, so be it. It was better than losing him.

Tom’s eyes searched my face as he pulled his mug across the table, understanding in an instant. “I don’t think so. He wouldn’t want that.”

The sun blazed in through the leaded glass of the kitchen window, illuminating his face, and I turned away. Of course he’d say that. And it was true. I knew it. But I’d still hoped.

“This whole thing doesn’t ring right, though. He wasn’t…” He swallowed. “He’s not a suicide.”

I nodded. The empty chair between us where Jonathan usually sat seemed bigger than usual, and it was a struggle not to stare at it.

“I mean, the body, the way he—” Tom’s hands shook, and he dropped his mug to the table with such force that the liquid sloshed over the edges. I stared at the spillage.

“He must have been released fast,” I murmured.

“I guess they didn’t think there was anything to investigate.” He shook his head. “He wasn’t suicidal, and we both know it. But it doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to look into it. It has to be us.”

I nodded. It sounded morbid, which wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for us – but at least we were on the same page. With Jonathan gone, everything was different. Even if we were wrong – and I didn’t believe that was true – we needed to know. Whoever had done this would be held accountable, I’d make bloody well sure of it.

I spent the rest of Sunday in my armchair, turning the pages of a paperback novel without seeing the words. All I could think about was Jon, and how his death had to be my fault, somehow. I hadn’t protected him enough, hadn’t checked in like I should have… Because the fact of the matter was, anyone connected to me would always be in danger. Of course, I’d thought about it before – but this was the first time the threat had seemed truly real.

While I pondered all this, Tom made what seemed like a hundred phone calls, arranging the things I couldn’t bring myself to help with. At barely thirty, Jon already had a will in place and a funeral plan: we just had to set it in motion. I supposed he’d understood the threat, at least.

As the afternoon drew on, Tom called a few of our friends. It wasn’t a long list these days – people had grown tired of the secrets and excuses, so our circle had grown small. Honestly, I preferred it that way.

“I’m so sorry to—” The person on the other end interrupted Tom. “No. The police told us it was a suicide.” He paused, and I admired his tact as he let the other person speak. “No, neither would I. As soon as we know, of course.”

I knew I should be doing more than just listening in, but I couldn’t talk about Jon in the past tense without my throat closing up. For Tom’s sake, I refused to cry – or so I told myself.

Next on his list was the police department; then the hospital that had carried out the post-mortem. I didn’t know how he’d found the contact info, but it was Tom, so I wasn’t surprised.

“No, Tomal. No, I’m not. He didn’t have any—” His tone was polite, but he was getting nowhere. “I understand. Could you let us know if there are any updates?”

My mind wandered, and I wandered. I watched the patch of grass I called a garden through the kitchen window for a while, following the patterns the light made and the shadows that crept up behind. I wanted it to rain or snow or, even better, storm. The mild, sunny day seemed wrong, somehow. If my eyes must remain dry, then the heavens should at least open.

Eventually, the house grew silent. Tom dozed off with his notebook still open beside him, the pages full of his tiny, cramped handwriting. The sun slipped below the horizon, the air grew cooler, and our first day without Jonathan was over. I knew he’d been gone for weeks, been dead for days… that I was being silly. But it was different. It was the first day.