Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

Still, being skewered fucking hurt.

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.

Today, Lazlo Enyedi saved my life.

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

Stubbornly, I decided to bring shame upon my species by doing neither.

At the very least, I thought, the raccoons will. Once they’re hungry.

Ah, yes. Lazlo Enyedi. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be too heartbroken.

Apparently, I would have preferred it so much, my brain produced him out of thin air.

Clearly, this slayer really wants me to die on his terms.

What the hell am I doing, pulling Lazlo with me? Propping him up against the drywall? Running my hand through his dark hair to assess the severity of his wounds?

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.

Your job—your one, single job, the reason you were bestowed immortality, the reason you were trained in all those things you just mentioned—is to kill creatures like me.

In fact, you want to kill me so bad, you just stopped someone else so that you’d be the one to do the honors.

“What? No. No, not a criminal. You are just . . .” I rack my brain. “An asshole.”

His face falls, mortified. Mafia boss? No problem. Douchebag? A line must be drawn. “Do I really?”

“I’m serious. We are nemeses.” “No, we are not.” I frown. “Why don’t you believe me? We deeply dislike each other.” “Maybe you don’t like me, because I clearly . . .” He stops.

“What happens if you go outside?” “Boils. Pus.” Instant death.

“Ethel?” “Yeah?” “I know that I hit my head. But what happened to yours?”

But shouldn’t there be some trace of an instinct, some emotional residue, an inkling that I am his enemy and that he shouldn’t trust me? Lazlo begins snoring softly. Clearly not.

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.

When my masterpiece ended, everyone applauded except for him. It seemed rude. Much ruder than the usual assassination attempts.

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.

I watched his lips part and his expression flatten—Lazlo’s equivalent of a jaw drop.

I bit back maniacal laughter. If the slayer forced the sunrise upon me because of this, it would have been worth it.

“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.

“I think you know,” he says. “And if you don’t . . . I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“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.”

“Since never, I believe. But I wouldn’t know. I stopped working with them a while ago.”

But four centuries ago . . . things changed, and I no longer wanted any part of that.

“I didn’t suddenly find you anything. I always knew you were . . . cute.”

“I observed. Always from afar. And there was a lot of you to study.

And looking at you, I couldn’t help but think that the world was better. Because you were in it.”

“You stabbed me. As recently as Berlin.” His eyebrow lifts. “And you impaled me in Colombia.

“I gave myself permission to show myself to you once a decade. And the remaining time, I just stuck around. Made sure you were okay.

And whenever we were close, despite the fact that violence was involved, you felt . . . good.”

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