Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

He is, quite clearly, gripping my wrist and pulling me toward the couch. It should trigger my fight reflex and make me headbutt him in the nose, but for some reason it doesn’t. A moment 48later, I’m horizontal with him, wedged tight between the length of his body and the back of the couch.

“Pretending what?” His chest heaves. “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.”

The following morning I realize that, to my utmost shock, Lazlo will need to be fed once more. And in five hours—perhaps even fewer, considering his size—we’ll be here all over again. Because his kind needs food multiple times a day. Absurd.

I should stiffen and push him away, but my body has already gotten used to being surrounded by his. The strength. The warmth. The sensation of being part of something.

By all means, Lazlo, do overstay your welcome, I think.

“So, this is what we do during the day,” he says after a while. “We?” I frown. “We don’t usually spend our days together.” He smiles like I didn’t even speak. “I’m serious. We rarely . . .” I drift off, because he’s taking a strand of my hair between his fingers and rubbing it gently, watching the flow of light orange across his own pale skin. His mouth murmurs a few words in another language—one that I speak, but I pretend not to, because this is not—

“Where do you think I’ll go once I’m dead?” And then it’s my turn to remember.

“The duca. Where do you think he is now that he’s dead?”

Yes, the mask tattooed on his heart is an exact copy of the one I’d worn.

“You stabbed me. As recently as Berlin.” His eyebrow lifts. “And you impaled me in Colombia. Aethelthryth, for people like us, that’s the equivalent of pinching.