Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

“There is nothing that I could discover about you, or about myself, that would make me want to do this any less.” His tone is arrogant and self-assured, and brooks no argument. I hate it. Sadly, I could see myself loving it.

know your smell. I know your skin. Your hair. It’s all familiar. I have it all memorized. And I dream of you—of this. So many dreams, all so different, we must have done it a million times, in a million different ways. Tell me what you’re hiding from me, let’s get this over with, and then let’s do it a million more times.”

But there is a light in his eyes, new and old at the same time, that tells me that there’s no need for me to explain anything. He already knows all of this. Killing vampires is second nature to him—first, maybe. I open my mouth. Then, unsure of what to say, close it. Suddenly, I feel like crying, and I’m not certain I know why. Until Lazlo says, “Aethelthryth.”

Over the centuries, I’ve battled Lazlo more times than I can count. If there is one thing I’m certain of, it’s that when it comes to physical strength and fighting skills, he and I are equals.

And yet, here I am. Looking up at him with my knife at his neck, trapping his larger body against the wall with no difficulty. I have, at last, the opportunity to excise him from my life once and for all. It would be so, so freeing. It might take fifty, even one hundred, years before the Guild finds someone else to hunt my bloodline. It would earn me decades of not watching my back. Of not having to move to a new continent because my hideout was discovered. Of peace. And yet, I hesitate.

Doesn’t explain why his eyes, all of a sudden, seem so soft. Or the fact that instead of pushing me away, instead of hitting back with his own weapons and his own strength, he touches me tenderly. One hand lifts to cup my face, and he gently thumbs my cheekbone. “What are you . . . ?” My voice trembles. I can’t bring myself to finish the question. “Aethelthryth,” he says, calm.

“If you want to kill me, I’m not going to stop you. But first, I’m going to need you to tell me something.”

There must be something I’m missing. I certainly don’t know why I let him lean even closer to me, his own movements causing my knife to press against his throat and break the skin. The scent of his blood melts into me, tantalizingly sweet. His lips find my ear, and he asks, “Where do you think I’ll go once I’m dead?”

“Were you a personal acquaintance of the duca?” a deep voice asked, Italian but accented. Someone else who had traveled from far away to pay their respects. I was leaning back against the stone wall in the great hall. When I turned around, I found a tall, broad-backed man whom I hadn’t noticed before.

My first instinct was inexplicable and yet very clear: to excuse myself and step away. Go back to the inn where I had already decided I would spend the day. But it was just that—instinct. It lasted a fraction of a second, and then I subdued it. “I was, yes. You?” He nodded, but said, “‘A friend of a friend’ might be a better definition. You must have known him better than I did.”

When the man offered me his hand, I briefly hesitated, surprised. The steps I’d learned were probably one or two decades old by now, and I was unlikely to keep up with the rest of the dancers. On the other hand, the duca would have been highly amused by the mess I was going to make of it.

“Some lives run invisibly. Undetected by most. And when a person comes along who sees those lives for what they are, who acknowledges their reality, who reminds people that there is value in different ways of existing . . . A minute of that is worth more than a thousand nights with a lover. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He will live forever through the memories of those who outlast him. I will remember him for as long as I live, and as long as I carry him in my heart, he will be here. With us.” I smiled at the man, but he didn’t smile back. And when I next turned from him, he disappeared into the night.

I’m not surprised that it took me so long to make the connection between the man at the ball and Lazlo. Yes, the mask tattooed on his heart is an exact copy of the one I’d worn. But I’ve lived countless lives, and objects tend to fade faster from my mind than people or experiences.

My arm falls to my side, and I step backward, almost tripping over the already regenerating body of the vampire. Lazlo just looks at me, wiping the blood oozing from the shallow cut on his neck. His posture is unconcerned, almost relaxed.

“Why were you there?” I ask, still reeling. The parade is in full swing—brass instruments and hollers, interrupted by the occasional recording of eerie organ tunes. “Two nights ago, when you saved me? How did you realize I was in danger?” 75 He gives me a silent look, one that demands to know: If you’re not stupid, why are you acting like it? Then he kneels down to take care of the vampire’s body, bending his head like a soldier who’s being knighted.