Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

All that transformative, life-changing power is like a current coursing through our veins, and a luscious juxtaposition to the fixed immutability of our own existence.

Of course, that was an issue in and of itself, because I constantly wished for things that weren’t compatible with my destiny.

I wished to travel. I wished to laugh. I wished for ballads and dances and tales. I wished for a life that I couldn’t have, which was, apparently, my greatest flaw.

Still, she wasn’t wrong about me: I want things that do not belong to me all the time. Chief of which: companionship.

His face falls, mortified. Mafia boss? No problem. Douchebag? A line must be drawn.

Well, not true. Less is less. But that’s okay, because less is a good thing. Having an arcade room doesn’t much enhance my enjoyment of existing, so in the last few decades I’ve been gravitating toward small, cozy apartments.

mal de vivre

I consider myself lucky, because I’m not prone to ennui. It may sound foolish, but I never get bored of watching 44the trees change, of seeing girls walk around hand in hand while giggling over a text from a crush, of finding a good poem.

Still, I’ve learned to live in the moment, and to be happy, even on my own. I’ve learned to treasure little joys, like making other people’s lives better by lending a hand or a smile, doing small talk, laughing at bad puns.

An impatient sigh interrupts me, and he crowds me even more against the cushions, which presses him close enough to me that . . . Oh my God. Is that a stake in his pocket, or is he just glad to see me?

This is silly and cringey and exactly why I read books like this.

“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 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.

“I liked your dress.” A smile starts. Turns into a private thing—between Lazlo and his own thoughts. “A lot.”

I can make my own meaning. I can find my own joy. But there is a different kind of happiness in this companionship.

That’s the problem, I think. After a while on this earth, one rarely experiences new sensations.

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

This is being WANTED.

“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.”

I feel disoriented. As though someone is spinning me around blindfolded to make fun of the way I stumble to my knees.

Beautiful comparison

“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.

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.”

He sighs deeply, as though my inability to read his mind is an inconvenience, but one he will try to deal with out of the grace of his heart.

“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.”

Lazlo is so unreadable,

we don’t have to do anything. I can stop if you—” He turns us around until I’m underneath him, and it’s the loudest, most silent fuck no I’ve ever heard.

A knot of heat and friction grows inside me, drags past rational thoughts, and then we’re pulling clothes off each other and he’s touching me everywhere, at once violent and reverent, frenzied and worshipful.