The Sterling Grand ballroom was the kind of place where people spent more on a single drink than most folks made in a week. Crystal chandeliers threw sparkles across polished marble floors, while men in thousand-dollar suits laughed at jokes that weren't funny and women draped in jewelry pretended to care about charity auctions.
Kaine Cross stood at the bar, nursing his fourth whiskey and watching the parade of fake smiles and designer dresses. The scythe strapped across his back drew nervous glances from the wealthy crowd, but nobody said anything. They all knew what it meant—what he was. Hunter. The kind of man you hired when things got bloody and needed cleaning up.
The bartender kept his glass full without being asked, probably figured anyone willing to drink top-shelf bourbon at fifty bucks a shot—and carrying vampire-killing equipment to a charity gala—deserved the royal treatment and a wide berth.
'Three hours,' he thought, checking his watch again. 'Three goddamn hours waiting for this Marcus Blackwood asshole to show up.'
The job was supposed to be simple surveillance. Follow his target, see who he talked to, report back to the client. Easy money, except the target was apparently fashionably late to his own social event.
A woman approached the bar beside him, close enough that he caught a whiff of expensive perfume—something that probably had a French name and cost more than his rent. She was the kind of beautiful that made smart men do stupid things. Dark hair cascaded over bare shoulders, and her dress probably cost more than everything in his apartment combined.
"Gin martini," she told the bartender. "Extra dry, three olives."
The bartender nodded and went to work. While he mixed her drink, another whiskey appeared in front of Kaine—top shelf, exactly how he'd been drinking all night.
The woman turned slightly, eyeing his fresh glass. "That looks good."
Before Kaine could respond, she smoothly intercepted the whiskey as the bartender slid it toward him, taking a delicate sip.
"Hey now," Kaine said, more amused than annoyed. "Pretty sure that one was mine."
"Was it?" She smiled over the rim of his glass. "I don't see your name on it."
"Lady, I've been standing here for three hours. The bartender knows my order."
"Then maybe you've had enough." She took another sip, her eyes never leaving his. "Besides, you don't exactly look like the martini type."
Kaine glanced down at his black jacket and jeans. He'd made an effort tonight, sort of. "What gave it away?"
"The massive farming tool strapped to your back was a pretty big hint." Her martini arrived, but she ignored it, still holding his whiskey hostage. "What's a hunter doing at a place like this? Slumming it with the upper class?"
She was talking about the giant scythe wrapped and strapped to his back.
Most people pretended not to know what Soulrend was, even when it was obvious. This woman called it out directly, no fear in her voice.
"Work," he said simply.
"Interesting work." She finished his whiskey and set the glass down, finally reaching for her martini. "I'm Elena."
"Kaine."
"Well, Kaine, I'm staying across the street at the Meridian. Room 412." She took a sip of her gin, watching him over the rim. "Knock three times when you're done playing bodyguard."
She walked away without another word, leaving him standing there like an idiot with an empty glass and a head full of possibilities.
'Smooth as hell,' he thought, watching her disappear into the crowd. 'Probably married to some oil executive or pharmaceutical CEO.'
The bartender appeared with another whiskey, eyeing the abandoned martini. Kaine stared at his fresh drink, then at the ballroom full of rich people who wouldn't miss him, then at his watch. Still no sign of his target, and the party was winding down.
"Fuck it," he muttered, downing the drink in one go.
The night air hit him like a slap as he stepped out of the Sterling Grand. The Meridian Hotel sat directly across the street, its art deco facade lit up against the darkness. Getting inside was easy enough—rich hotels never questioned a man who looked like he belonged, even with a weapon on his back.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor felt like it took forever. Room 412 was at the end of a long corridor lined with expensive wallpaper and paintings that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Kaine raised his hand and knocked three times.
The door swung open immediately, but Elena wasn't there to greet him. Instead, she was standing across the room by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city lights below.
"That was fast," she said without turning around. "I was expecting—"
She spun toward the door and froze. The hallway was empty.
Elena stepped into the corridor, looking left and right down the long stretch of carpet. Nothing. No footsteps, no elevator sounds, no sign that anyone had been there at all.
"What the hell?" she whispered.
When she turned back toward her room, Kaine was sitting in the leather chair by the window, one leg crossed over the other like he'd been there all along.
"Nice view," he said casually.
Elena stared at him for a long moment, then slowly closed the door behind her. "How did you do that?"
"Trade secret."
"I was watching the hallway. I heard the knock, opened the door immediately." She walked toward him, genuinely puzzled. "There's no way you could have gotten past me."
Kaine stood up, enjoying her confusion. "Maybe you're not as observant as you think."
"Or maybe you're more interesting than you look." Her surprise melted into something else—curiosity mixed with heat. "I like a man with skills."
"I've got a few."
She crossed the remaining distance between them in three quick steps, and whatever clever response he'd been planning died when she kissed him. Elena tasted like gin and bad decisions, which happened to be two of his favorite things.
"So," she said against his lips, "what other tricks can you do?"
The rest of the night blurred together in a tangle of sheets and loud vocalizations most Operas wouldn't allow.
Elena was full of questions about his work, about the creatures that hunted in the dark, about what it felt like to kill things that used to be human. She listened like someone who actually wanted to understand, not just satisfy curiosity.
When exhaustion finally took hold, they fell asleep wrapped around each other as the city lights faded into dawn.
Kaine woke to sunlight stabbing through hotel curtains and a headache that felt personal. The space beside him was empty, sheets still warm but no sign of Elena anywhere. He rolled over and checked the nightstand clock: 4:17 PM.
'Well, shit. There goes the morning.'
His clothes were scattered across the floor like evidence from a crime scene. He found his jeans, his shirt, his jacket, but when he reached for his wallet, he came up empty.
"Son of a bitch."
A thorough search of the room turned up nothing. Elena had cleaned him out and vanished like smoke. The weird part was, he wasn't even mad. His wallet usually held about thirty bucks, maxed-out credit cards, and a strip of condoms that expired two years ago. She was probably more disappointed than he was.
'Hope she enjoys the free STD test coupons,' he thought, pulling on his boots.
The walk home gave him plenty of time to think about the night before. Elena had been different from the usual socialites who slummed it with hunters for the thrill. She'd asked real questions, understood the answers. Almost like she knew more about his world than she was letting on.
But everyone had secrets. Hell, he had enough of his own to fill a book.
His neighborhood was a slow descent from respectability. Each block got a little rougher, a little more desperate, until he reached the kind of area where people minded their own business and asked no questions. The Soulrend on his back drew fewer stares here—most folks had seen worse things walking these streets after dark.
The moment he stepped into his apartment building's lobby, Mrs. Kowalski materialized like a bad smell.
"Cross! Where the hell have you been?"
She was sixty-something with gray hair pulled back so tight it looked painful and the disposition of a prison warden who'd given up on rehabilitation.
"Out working," he said, hoping to brush past her to the stairs.
"Working my ass. Rent was due four days ago." She positioned herself between him and escape. "Pay up or pack up."
"Look, Mrs. K, I'm expecting a check any day now. Big job, lots of money involved."
"Bullshit. You haven't had steady work since I've known you." She looked him up and down, taking in the wrinkled clothes and lingering smell of expensive hotel soap. "What happened to that government job you used to have?"
"Creative differences with management."
"Right. And what's with the medieval weaponry? Planning to join the Renaissance fair?"
Everyone in the building knew what he was. Mrs. Kowalski just liked to pretend otherwise when it suited her.
"It's for work," he said simply.
She stepped closer, and her expression shifted from annoyed landlady to something else entirely. "You know, Kaine, we could work out some kind of arrangement. I mean, you're not completely useless to look at when you clean up."
'Jesus Christ, not this again.'
"That's... really generous, Mrs. K, but—"
"I'm not getting any younger, and Mr. Kowalski's been dead for eight years." She reached out like she was going to touch his chest. "A woman has needs."
"Tell you what," Kaine said, backing toward the stairs, "give me until Friday. I'll have your money by then."
"Friday," she called after him as he took the steps three at a time. "And Kaine? The offer stands if you change your mind about our arrangement."
His apartment was exactly as he'd left it. One room with a fold-out couch, a kitchen that was more like a suggestion, and a bathroom where the shower only worked if you kicked the pipes in the right spot. But it was home, sort of.
He flicked on the ancient television and started rummaging through his kitchen for something edible. The local news was already running the day's body count—five more dead in the warehouse district, all drained of blood. The reporter stood outside the crime scene with that practiced look of concerned authority that news anchors perfected.
"Vampire activity continues to rise citywide," she was saying, "with official sources reporting three separate incidents in the past week alone."
"Three my ass," Kaine muttered, finding a can of soup that had expired just the previous day. "Try thirty."
The screen cut to Shadowguard Commander Rebecca Stone, standing behind a podium with the organization's emblem prominently displayed.
'Same bullshit different day,'
"The Shadowguard continues to maintain operational superiority against bloodsucker threats," she said with authority. "Our strategic deployment protocols ensure maximum protection for all citizens."
Strategic deployment. That was rich. Kaine had seen their "strategy" firsthand during his twelve years with the organization. Rich neighborhoods got constant patrols and immediate response teams. Poor areas got whatever resources were left over, which usually meant nothing at all.
The memory of his last official meeting still burned. Commander Stone sitting across from him in her climate-controlled office, explaining why they were pulling hunters from the warehouse district.
"We have to prioritize high-value targets," she'd said, like she was discussing weather patterns instead of letting people die. "The mayor's office has made it clear that certain areas require enhanced protection."
"Enhanced protection for who?" Kaine had asked. "The people dying in the warehouse district, or the campaign contributors living in Beacon Hill?"
"That's not your concern, Cross. You follow orders, not politics."
But it was politics. All of it. Bloodsuckers paid taxes too, apparently, and some of them had better lawyers than the Shadowguard. Areas with the right kind of political connections got cleaned up fast. Places like where he lived now? They were written off as acceptable losses.
The breaking point had come during the Riverside incident. Fifteen families trapped in an apartment complex while a nest of bloodsuckers systematically worked their way through every unit. The Shadowguard had three teams available, but two were reassigned to provide security for some pharmaceutical CEO's daughter's wedding.
Kaine had gone in alone. Saved eleven people before backup finally arrived, by which time the building was half-destroyed and the media was already spinning it as a "gas leak explosion."
His official reprimand for "unauthorized solo operations" had arrived the next week.
Stone's voice continued droning from the television about budget allocations and efficiency metrics, but Kaine had heard enough lies for one lifetime. He switched off the TV and tried to focus on his soup.
The truth was simpler and uglier: the bloodsuckers were winning because the people supposed to stop them were playing politics instead of saving lives. The official numbers were bullshit, the patrols protected the wrong people, and half the city government was probably on their payroll by now.
But admitting that would cause panic, so everyone pretended the situation was manageable.
The soup was heating on his single working burner when exhaustion caught up with him. The hotel bed had been comfortable, but he'd gotten maybe three hours of actual sleep. He stretched out on his ratty couch, just planning to rest his eyes for a few minutes.
The smoke alarm's shrieking jolted him awake to a kitchen full of gray haze and the acrid smell of burning metal. The soup had boiled away completely, leaving a black crust welded to the bottom of his only decent pot.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
He managed to kill the heat and crack open his single window before the whole building filled with smoke. The ruined pot went into the sink with a hiss of steam and the promise of a security deposit he'd never see again.
'Well, that settles dinner.'
The evening air outside was thick with humidity and car exhaust. The warehouse district's food scene was like a United Nations of questionable hygiene, but it was cheap and usually edible. Kaine walked past Kim's Korean BBQ cart, where the owner pretended not to see him. He owed Kim forty bucks from last week's emergency meal situation.
Tony's pizza wagon was next, but that bridge had burned two months ago during what Kaine privately called "the great pizza incident." Something about a fight with three bloodsuckers that had ended with Tony's cart getting flipped over and a week's worth of ingredients scattered across the pavement.
The Greek place changed names every few months but still served the same mystery meat gyros. The current owner didn't speak enough English to understand concepts like credit or IOUs, which was probably for the best.
That left Miguel's taco truck at the end of the block. Miguel was good people—didn't ask too many questions, made decent food out of ingredients that were probably legal, and had a flexible payment policy for regular customers.
The scythe on his back drew the usual mix of nervous glances and respectful distance from other pedestrians. A couple of kids pointed and whispered to their parents, who hurried them along a little faster. An old woman crossed the street rather than walk past him.
Being a hunter meant living in the space between fear and gratitude. People wanted you around when the monsters came calling, but they didn't want to think about what you had to become to do the job.
Miguel's truck sat under a broken streetlight, steam rising from the service window and the smell of grilled meat making Kaine's stomach growl audibly. There was one customer ahead of him—some guy in an expensive jacket ordering enough food for three people.
"And make sure the meat's rare," the customer was saying. "I mean really rare. Still bleeding if you can manage it."
Miguel looked uncomfortable but nodded. "Sure thing, man. Whatever you want."
Something about the customer's voice made the hair on Kaine's neck stand up. Twelve years of hunting had given him instincts that went deeper than conscious thought—a primitive warning system that activated around things that weren't quite right. The man's posture was too rigid, like he was concentrating on standing upright. His movements came in distinct segments rather than flowing naturally.
Behind his back, Soulrend gave the faintest tremor against its restraints. The weapon had always been sensitive to supernatural presence, but this was different—not the violent shaking that came with immediate danger, but a subtle vibration that meant predator nearby.
The guy paid with cash—a thick roll of bills that made Kaine's empty pockets ache with envy. He grabbed his bag of food and turned around, nearly bumping into Kaine in his haste to leave.
For a split second, their eyes met directly.
The man's pupils were dilated way too wide for the dim streetlight, reflecting light like an animal's. His skin had that waxy, too-perfect quality that came with being dead for a while. When he smiled, there were definitely too many teeth, all of them too sharp.
But it was the smell that confirmed everything—something like ozone mixed with old copper, the scent that clung to things that fed on blood. Every hunter learned to recognize it eventually, usually right before something tried to rip their throat out.
"Hey buddy," Kaine said, hunter instincts kicking in automatically. "You doing alright?"
The bloodsucker's fake smile faltered. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Then his gaze shifted to the weapon strapped across Kaine's back, and his expression changed completely. Soulrend's trembling increased, responding to the creature's recognition of what it was facing.
The bloodsucker dropped his bag of food and bolted into the street with inhuman speed, moving faster than anything had a right to. Kaine was already running before his conscious mind caught up, twelve years of hunting experience taking over.
"Hey! Get back here, you piece of shit!"
The chase led through a maze of narrow alleys and side streets, the bloodsucker moving like shadow between obstacles while Kaine crashed through garbage cans and tripped over broken pavement. His lungs burned and his legs ached, but he kept pushing forward.
'Getting too old for this shit,' he thought, watching the distance between them slowly increase.
The bloodsucker took a hard right into a dead-end alley lit by a single buzzing streetlight. Three teenagers were clustered around a rusty dumpster, passing something small and probably illegal between them. They looked up as the bloodsucker barreled toward them at impossible speed.
"Run!" Kaine shouted, still fifty yards behind.
The first kid didn't even have time to turn around.
The bloodsucker's claws went through his neck like tissue paper, separating head from shoulders in one clean swipe. Blood sprayed across brick walls in a wide arc as the body crumpled.
The other two kids tried to scatter, but they were moving in human time while death came for them at supernatural speed.
The bloodsucker grabbed the severed head by its hair, spun like an Olympic discus thrower, and launched it at Kaine with deadly accuracy and impossible force.
"Shit!"