Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

“Vampire,” he whispered the second our eyes met across the festive mob.

“Slayer.” I sighed.

Not that I enjoy relentless harassment, but what’s a girl to do when the only constant presence during the last millennium of her life has been a guy who’s contractually mandated to murder her?

“As long as you don’t let anyone get to you before I do, Aethelthryth.” “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll always save myself for you.”

When he noticed my eyes on him, he lifted the blade up to his face. And with a smile that did not feel like a smile, he began to lick it clean of my blood. It was . . . Well. It just was.

Today, nearly thirty-six years after that night in Germany, his arms wrap tight around me, his body is a heavy blanket above mine, and his only purpose seems to be shielding me from the sunlight. Today, Lazlo Enyedi saved my life.

My motto is: If I have to suck someone dry every few weeks, why not make it a Goldman Sachs executive?

Slayyyyyy

I thought it was shitty of him not to give me some warning before resorting to violence—a courtesy horse head in my bed, a scribbled note pinned to my door with a bloody dagger.

Did the raccoons eat your prefrontal cortex, idiot? You have to kill him. Immediately.

Ali and her raccoons 😭

“Lazlo,” I say, mostly to shut him up. Dickhead. “Your name is Lazlo Enyedi.”

He stares, unimpressed. “And our work is . . .” “You know. This and that.” I shrug, hoping he’ll assume we DoorDash for a living and leave it at that.

“Ethel. Pretty.” His nod is pleased, but his tone suggests that he’s not above gutting pretty things.

The trick about lies is, one has to put their whole heart into them. So I don’t let myself hesitate. “I’m allergic to the sun.”

Who knows what kind of tattoos he’ll find under that shirt and jeans. Maybe his inner thigh is where he keeps a tally of all the vampires he’s killed. Inked on his chest, he could have a photorealistic rendering of himself throwing someone who looks eerily like me into the sun.

Our species has a clear case of hot-girl tummy, and I’m grateful to the twenty-first century for giving us a final diagnosis.

I feel the telltale itch of my fangs pushing against the roof of my mouth, elongating, and I have to grab the edge of the sink so tight, I’ll never get my security deposit back.

“It was one-sided,” he tells me after he’s done chewing. “From you.” “What?” “The dislike.” “I assure you, it was not.” “And I assure you, when I look at you, I feel anything but that.”

But my white-hot take is that I’ve done nothing wrong, at least not since I began observing a strictly asshole-tarian diet.

Oh my God. Is that a stake in his pocket, or is he just glad to see me?

“I might not remember my name, or anything about who I am. But I could never be near you and not know exactly what you are to me.”

“Thank you,” the girl says solemnly. “I’m going to be a vampire when I grow up.” “And I’m going to be a vampire hunter,” says the boy. “And we’re going to get married.”

Then I clear my throat. “I didn’t know that an apple murdered your family.”

“No matter,” she says. “Your fates are already intertwined.”

“There is nothing that I could discover about you, or about myself, that would make me want to do this any less.”

“I 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.”

Lazlo rolls his eyes, but the man in the Edward Cullen mask nods his thanks and walks closer.

💀

There was some impropriety to the question, but I assumed that the man had overindulged, or that he was simply honoring the Italian custom of being nosy. Either way, I didn’t take offense.

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.

“I have a place.” “Here? In New York?” He nods. “Where?” His smile is small and wistful. “Across from yours, actually.”

“If I wanted you dead, you would be dead.”

“Aethelthryth, nothing would make me happier than having you with me here, or in any other place that I will call home, for as long as I live. Please, come in.”

“So, we talked about the meaning of life or some shit at a dance, and you had fun, and you changed your mind about killing vampires because . . .” I swallow. “Because you suddenly found me cute or something?”