Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

Although, to be truthful, I only went to Germany because I was hungry.

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?

The only surefire way to kill a vampire was to drag them kicking and screaming into the sun, which Lazlo knew very well. Still, being skewered fucking hurt.

“As long as you don’t let anyone get to you before I do, Aethelthryth.” “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll always save myself for you.”

When he noticed my eyes on him, he lifted the blade up to his face. And with a smile that did not feel like a smile, he began to lick it clean of my blood. It was . . . Well. It just was.

A lot of legends assume that we like to stick together. They speak of clans and nests and hives, where vampires gather to join forces in preparation for our nefarious deeds. They imply that we form a structured society, that we do meal trains, that we date and bang it out and have cute little vampiric children. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Most vampires are extremely territorial. They cannot stand close proximity with others, crave competition even when natural resources abound, and are more likely to murder each other than to extend a dinner invitation.

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

He just saved my life. And I’ve known him since before the 1100s. I still remember his dumb Crusade outfits. Do you also remember when he cut off your chin with his dumb Crusade sword? It took, like, five weeks for it to grow back to the right shape.

“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.

I lean back and study him, wondering about his life outside our centuries-long game of hide-and-seek-and-stab. Does he have a family? A girlfriend or a boyfriend? A polycule? Slayers are immortal until they’re beheaded. They are incredibly strong and enhanced in every conceivable way, sure. Deep down, though, they are still human. They long for connection.

Now that I think about it, by liking live music as much as I do, I may have made it a bit too easy for him to find me.

On his chest, right on top of his heart, is an ornate Venetian eye mask that looks eerily familiar, but I cannot place it.

“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.”

“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’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— It shouldn’t— What is even—

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”