Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

Tracking me down was a special talent of his, just like simultaneously patting my head and rubbing my belly was mine. Everyone was gifted in their own special way. Enyedi’s skills just happened to be useful.

/thats/ her special talent?

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?

kiss him, duh

“Flushed and plump and beautiful. You just fed, didn’t you?” “Beautiful? Aww, Lazlo, I didn’t know you had a crush on— Motherfucker.” He jockeyed the blade back and forth in my belly, which, ouch.

i think he likes her being flushed LOL

“You’re going to have to knock me out if you want me to shut up until sunrise.” “And deprive myself of your company?” He clicked his tongue. “Never.”

OOOOH

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.

i have feelings about this

Today, nearly thirty-six years after that night in Germany, his arms wrap tight around me, his body is a heavy blanket above mine, and his only purpose seems to be shielding me from the sunlight.

i am DEVOURING this

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

morals, honestly

More recently, a few small raccoons seemed to have acquired me. They’d climb up the fire escape and stare into my window until I provided them with food, hiss at me while they consumed the fruits of my labor, and then unceremoniously scurry away, no doubt to some other idiot who’d also purchased a bodega rotisserie chicken just for the occasion.

she buys rotisserie chickens for the raccoons

“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. He moved to free my tied wrists,

HELP

“Thank you, thank you, everyone. That last song, it’s very personal to me. I wrote it for the man I love.” The crowd cheered and whistled. Lazlo’s jaw hardened, probably in disgust at the thought of vampires having feelings. Or smooching. Or, even worse, fucking.

i choose to believe he’s always liked her

At last, he smiled. I could have sworn I spotted an amused dimple dipping within his cheek, but he mouthed a few words at me. I am going to kill you. I gasped. “What was that? Lazlo, did you just say that you’re going to marry me?” He only nodded because about sixty people were staring at him. The same reason I let out my most lovesick sigh. When his eyes burned into mine, I let them. “Lazlo, yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.”

PLS

I am taking. A vampire slayer. To my home.

take him to bed next! who said that??

run back to my apartment, and step inside just as he walks out of the bathroom. Naked.

MORE ADJECTIVES

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

ooooh

“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.” A

OOOH

I decide to piggyback on that. “Of course. But it’s okay, you can take it. I think I have an air mattress”—fun fact: I know I do not—“so I can—” “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.” Goddamn this man. “No, we don’t. What if you have a family? How would your partner feel about that? How would your kids react to Daddy sharing a love seat with—” “I’m not married.” His tone is final. “And I have no children. Some things, a man just knows about himself.” My eyebrow lifts. “Really?”

HE WANTS TO SNUGGLE

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?

giggling and kicking my feet rn

“Ethel, stop it.” “Stop what? I’m only—” “The bugs, the job, the nemeses stuff. You don’t have to tell me the truth, but you can stop pretending.” “Pretending what?” 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.

UHM

“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.”

oh.

“Aethelthryth,” he says, calm. His voice is the same as it was before the attack, and yet completely different. He is the man who saved my life two days ago, the man who kissed me, the man who cleaned up the mess I made in my kitchen, but also something more. “If you want to kill me, I’m not going to stop you. But first, I’m going to need you to tell me something.”

I’m not surprised that it took me so long to make the connection between the man at the ball and Lazlo. Yes, the mask tattooed on his heart is an exact copy of the one I’d worn. But I’ve lived countless lives, and objects tend to fade faster from my mind than people or experiences.

WHAT THE FUCK

from the alleyway, then back at me. “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 try not to gasp, but it’s a blanket invitation—incredibly difficult to take back, and therefore stupid to extend. He must know that. Suddenly, stepping inside feels dangerous for a whole new set of reasons. I do it anyway.

YES

Four centuries ago. The 1600s. When the masquerade ball happened. I can’t wrap my head around it. “So, we talked about the meaning of life or some shit at a dance, and you had fun, and you changed your mind about killing vampires because . . .” I swallow. “Because you suddenly found me cute or something?” “I didn’t suddenly find you anything. I always knew you were . . . cute.” His lips curl as though it’s the first time he’s used the word in all his eons, and it tastes too saccharine in his mouth. “You’ve never not been . . . that, to me. And no. That’s not the reason.”

“But you still tried to . . .” Kill me, I want to say. Because he did. For centuries. Over and over. “After I formed my opinion of you, I focused on the rest of your bloodline. Two other women who, like I said, don’t hurt innocents. I decided to spare them, too. But after that . . .” For 80the first time, I sense some hesitation. As though what comes next, he’s not too comfortable with. Something harder to admit. “I missed you. Watching you. Observing you. I just . . . liked you. It was a new feeling for me, wanting to know someone. Wanting to be known by them as I truly am. So I tried to do that.” “You tried to . . . what?” “To talk to you. To explain that I no longer wished to kill you.” “When?” “In Italy. Then in Derbyshire, during the nineteenth century. In Turkey, a few years later. Thailand and Indonesia. A few more times, too.”

“You stabbed me. As recently as Berlin.” His eyebrow lifts. “And you impaled me in Colombia. Aethelthryth, for people like us, that’s the equivalent of pinching. And after a while, hunting you became the only way to be close to you. I wanted to spend time with you, but I could only do it as the slayer tasked with bringing an end to your bloodline.”

“Maybe we could . . . Tomorrow night, for instance? Meet? And talk? But I’m going to need to leave now. I’ve bled a lot, which means that I’m going to need to feed soon, so I’ll have to find someone who—” 82 “I will help,” he blurts out. I nod. Laugh a little. “You have a lead on someone very shitty?” “No,” he says. But he turns around to open a drawer and pulls out a sharp, gleaming knife. Before I can grasp what he’s about to do, he closes his fist around it and lets the blade slice a deep cut across his palm. “But I’d be happy to provide you with what you need.”

i forgot i was into this

He doesn’t mind that I’m taking. In fact, he’s saying things in Hungarian that mostly boil down to fuck and yes and please. More.

But he was injured, too, and I’m drinking a lot. I force myself to stop, pull back from his flesh, and say, “I don’t want to take too much—” With a flex of his abs, he sits up from underneath me and presses his palm back to my mouth, a silent shut up with this nonsense and take all you want. So I do. Until my blood-drunk, glazed eyes fall on his lips, and I realize that there’s something I crave even more than his blood.

And then I tighten my arms around him as he regains his breath, feeling the kisses he presses against my collarbone, my breasts, the soft flesh under my chin, and . . . 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.”