Page 16 of Hot for Slayer
“Didn’t you sleep all day?” I mumble, perhaps more harshly than he deserves, considering his recently concussed status. Maybe too late, it occurs to me that I should pretend tobreathe. “Listen, since neither of us knows whether you are in a relationship, I think that—”
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?
“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.
Chapter 8
The following morning I realize that, to my utmost shock, Lazlo will need to be fed once more. And in five hours—perhaps even fewer, considering his size—we’ll be here all over again. Because his kind needs food multiple times a day.
Absurd.
About half an hour before sunrise, I disentangle myself from him and sneak out to the corner bodega. I buy eggs, bacon, vegetables, pasta, fruit, and something called Pop-Tarts that must have been invented while I was blinking. I stroll back home, baffled that human society has managed to evolve past the hunter-gatherer stage, given the farcical amount of time they dedicate to eating.
Meanwhile, I think with a self-satisfied pat on my own back, I last drank two weeks ago—a guy who worked as a fixer for the Nestlé executive board—and barring unforeseen circumstances, I won’t need to be topped off for three or four more.
Although,something within me asks,wouldn’t a sip of Lazlo be good? Delectable. Thick and rich and unlike anything you’ve ever tasted. It would sit heavy in your belly, power your nerve endings, and you’d finally feel so warm that—
I mentally slap the idiotic voice inside my head, grateful for the distraction when someone asks, “Trick or treat?”
I glance down, anddown, to find an adorable little girl staring up at me. She’s wearing a black cape and plastic fangs, pearl white against her dark skin. Someone drew a shiny, remarkably realistic trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. Next to her, a blond boy holds something that closely resembles a wooden stake.
“I’msosorry,” one of the adult women standing behind them says. “Hey, you two. We’re on our way to school. And trick-or-treating isnotfor the middle of a busy street—”
“I don’t mind,” I say with a smile, crouching down to the children’s height. “I like your costumes,” I tell them.
“Thank you,” the girl says solemnly. “I’m going to be a vampire when I grow up.”
“And I’m going to be a vampire hunter,” says the boy. “And we’re going to get married.”
I try not to choke on my tongue. “Good luck with that,” I mutter, because they’re definitely going to need it. I dig the box of Frosted S’mores Pop-Tarts out of my “Save the Bees” reusable shopping bag and split the contents evenly between their satchels. Judging from the hug they exchange, the pastries must be a hit.
Sorry, Lazlo. But they never pledged to maul me and eradicate my people, so they deserved the tarts that pop more than you do.
Back upstairs, I find him awake, standing in the small kitchen. “You went out early,” he says, like it’s totally normal for him to wait for me shirtless and freshly showered. “You’re a morning person.”
Ha. “Yeah. Sure.”
“You are well rested.”
“Right.” I’m starting to find it more amusing than irritating, the way hestatesthings about me instead of asking questions, and that worries me a bit. Only slightly less than the fact that he has already drawn and latched together all the blackout curtains, despite sunrise being five minutes away.
“How did you know—”
“You are allergic to the sun,” he simply says, like it’s an explanation, and then gets up to take the bag from me and begins putting away the groceries.
He’s been here for twelve hours, and we somehow have a routine.
I need to get him out of here stat.
“You hungry?” I ask as he lines boxes of pasta in the empty cupboard.
