Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

“Hey,” I told him with a small, amused smile. “Couldn’t bear to let someone else butcher me, huh?” “I know what’s mine,” he muttered in his usual clipped tone.

“Maybe you don’t like me, because I clearly . . .” He stops. Shakes his head. Declares, as though the truth exists only to be molded by his words: “We aren’t nemeses. I don’t want to fight with you.”

I am taking. A vampire slayer. To my home. No: I am leading the oldest and most feared vampire slayer in existence to my place. Despite being a vampire myself. What a time to be undead.

“I just do, Ethel. Just like I know”—his mouth twitches—“other things.”

For the most part, it’s that same old Hungarian script as on his neck and arms, but I also spot flowers that I’ve only ever seen in Eastern Europe, a castle, a coat of arms. On his chest, right on top of his heart, is an ornate Venetian eye mask that looks eerily familiar, but I cannot place it.

The scent of Lazlo does not make me lose my mind, because I’m better than that. But God, it’s sweet.

but Lazlo . . . I have no idea why his specific blood feels so overpoweringly, mouthwateringly delicious,

His hand lingers. When it finally drops to his side, his mouth curves downward, like he’s displeased to no longer be touching me.

“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.”

“No.” I halt, momentarily speechless. “No?” “We both sleep on the couch,” he declares. “Together.” “We can’t sleep together.” “Are there laws against it?” “No.” “Then we sleep together.”

The truth is, this is very enjoyable. Being surrounded. Pressed in. Bundled. It’s evolutionary: My kind was programmed to enjoy tiny, suffocating spaces where the sun cannot reach. And boy, does this specific slayer provide. It’s cozy. And cozy is pleasant. And pleasant—the little things that give joy—is something one learns to value when approaching one-point-four millennia alive.

“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.”

Back upstairs, I find him awake, standing in the small kitchen. “You went out early,” he says, like it’s totally normal for him to wait for me shirtless and freshly showered. “You’re a morning person.”

I can make my own meaning. I can find my own joy. But there is a different kind of happiness in this companionship. A sense of something coming. Like the breeze picking up before a storm.

“Just tell me, Ethel.” “Tell you . . . ?” “What we are.” I straighten a little. “We are people. I thought you knew that.” “What we are to each other,” he clarifies,

“You—” I want to bury my face in my hands. “You don’t even know who I am. You don’t remember who you are. This is— I am basically deceiving you, and—” “I know that. You are odd. And a terrible liar, and not good at being secretive. But I don’t care.”

“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.

“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.”

Until Lazlo says, “Aethelthryth.”

“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?”

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

“I don’t think here is the best location to do this.” “Where, then?” “I have a place.” “Here? In New York?” He nods. “Where?” His smile is small and wistful. “Across from yours, actually.”

“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 start laughing. And laughing. And laughing. Lazlo lifts his head to glare at me. “Glad to see that you find the most meaningful moment of my life hilarious.”