Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

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?

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

“What’s your name?” He inches even closer. 21 I could tell him anything. Joan of Arc. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Fiona from Shrek. Sadly, immortality must have made me boring, because I say, “I go by Ethel.” When shitheads don’t insist on using my full antediluvian name.

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 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.”

“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.”

“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.” I try not to gasp, but it’s a blanket invitation—incredibly difficult to take back, and therefore stupid to extend. He must know that.