Page 17 of Hot for Slayer
“Very.”
“I’ll make some eggs, then. It might, um, take me a while. Maybe you can have this in the meantime?” I throw an apple in his direction—which turns out to be a mistake when, in the blink of an eye, Lazlo grabs a knife from the wooden block and uses it to slash the fruit into four pieces.
While it’s stillin the air.
The chunks hit the ground with dull thuds, and we stare at them for a long stretch of silence.
Then I clear my throat. “I didn’t know that an apple murdered your family.”
“I ... did not mean to do that.” He scratches the back of his neck.
“Right. No, I know. You cut the apple into four identical pieces by accident.”
“It was a reflex.” He twirls the knife in his fingers with a dexterity that would leave me less unsettled if I didn’t know he developed it to killme, specifically. “But.”
“But?”
He sheathes the blade inside the wooden block. “If I asked you why I’m so good with a knife, would you tell me that it’s because of my pest control background?”
I force myself to swallow. There is something painfully heavy about lying to someone who knows that he’s not being told the truth, but ... what alternative do I have? “I can’t imagine any other reason.”
This time, his sigh is barely perceptible, but his lips are thin. “Then I won’t ask, Ethel.”
He crouches to pick up the apple, and I get to work on his eggs, wondering when I got so bad at gaslighting people.
“I didn’t know those eggs murderedyourfamily,” he tells me after I smash the third shell against the edge of a bowl. The last time I made an omelet, I didn’t have vampiric strength, and adjusting is taking a minute, but— “I’ve got it now, I’ve got it,” I protest, but before I can redeem my kitchen skills, Lazlo is standing behind me, gently prying the eggs from my fingers, taking over. His arms bracket me on each side, and his chin brushes the crown of my head as he works with a cursory, expert grace that I find equally pleasing and irritating.
I should stiffen and push him away, but my body has already gotten used to being surrounded by his. The strength. The warmth. The sensation of being part of something. I pretend not to notice the way his lips press against the back of my head before he moves to the stove to scramble a number of eggs that could feed a family of five for two weeks.
“I had a dream,” he tells me once we’re sitting at the table. For this meal, my cover story is:Not a breakfast person. Lazlo didn’t bother reacting, as though he knows that every single thing coming out of my mouth is likely a lie.
“What kind of dream?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was a memory. You were there, though.”
My stomach sinks. “Were you chopping me into four pieces with a kitchen knife?”
“We were dancing.”
I slump, relieved. “Dancing ... in a club?”
He shoots me a dirty look like he knows what a club is and wouldn’t be caught dead inside one. “More formal than that.” He chews some more. “I liked your dress.” A smile starts. Turns into a private thing—between Lazlo and his own thoughts. “A lot.”
“We’ve never danced together, so I don’t think it was a memory,” I say, unsure whether to be embarrassed or relieved or flattered. “Anyway, I assume you are eager to return to your own home, so—”
“No,” he says, final, happy. At ease.
By all means, Lazlo, do overstay your welcome,I think. There’s no real heat in it, though. Which is stupid. The more he sticks around, the better he’ll know me, and the easier it’ll be to track me down once he regains his memories.
I grit my teeth and plop myself down on the couch, snatching the first sudoku magazine I come across. This is notharmless. Once he remembers who he is, I’m going to have to move, and—
The cushion dips as Lazlo makes himself comfortable next to me, still half undressed. The mask tattoo under his heart shifts with every little movement, daring me to remember where I’ve seen it before. Then he grabs one of my puzzle magazines and a pencil, and begins filling in a sudoku grid with impressive speed.
I blink. Then ask, pathetically excited: “You like sudoku?”
“What?”
“The square thing you’re doing.” I lean closer. “I didn’t think you—” I snap my mouth shut. Reopen it. “Did you just write down random numbers?”
