Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

Today, Lazlo Enyedi saved my life.

“Like Dracula. Carmilla.” “Yeah. Or Nosferatu. You know, vampires.”

Amber is the mark of a full-fledged, immortal slayer, whose eternal mission is to destroy vampire bloodlines.

“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.”

He and I, after all, have been this close before. On the numerous occasions that he tried to kill me.

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

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.” A second later, he falls asleep, leaving me to stare at the chevron pattern of the couch for eight straight hours as I try not to enjoy the heat of his body against mine, desperate to decipher exactly what his last words meant.

“What we are to each other,” he clarifies, a note of Come on, Ethel, don’t be obtuse in his tone that I should take more offense to. But I am being obtuse. And he is being remarkably forbearing. “Should I redefine work nemeses for you?” I ask archly.

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

“I think you know,” he says. “And if you don’t . . . I’m sure you can figure it out.” I swallow. “How long have you . . . ?” “Awhile.”

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

Four centuries ago. The 1600s. When the masquerade ball happened.

“Because . . . A slayer and a vampire. Doing it. It has to be a first in all of history, right?” He bends down to kiss me, but not before I see the grin on his face.

For Halloween, we return home.