Page 6 of Hot for Slayer
“Strawberry blond,” he repeats, and even though he doesn’t sayprettyagain, I can almost hear it. And then he continues. “Ethel, since the very second I regained consciousness, I have been very alert to my surroundings. Perhapstooalert, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“No? Well, I know how many exits and vents are in the hallway, and I could easily draw a blueprint for this building. I’ve been counting the cars driving outside, I can guess your weight and age to the decimal point, and I canfeelthat I have at least seven weapons strategically placed on my body—whileyouhave been doing a poor job of hiding a single dagger behind your back. I would also easily be able to reconstruct the series of blows and relative positions that led to this”—the back of his hand brushes against my cheekbone, a barely there touch that has me pulling back and shivering at the same time—“specific pattern of bruises on your skin. This is a degree of situational awareness that doesn’t strike me as typical for a paralegal, so ... whatareour jobs,Ethel?”
I swallow. I should swat his hand away, but I am paralyzed, unable to recall the last time someone touched me voluntarilywithouttrying to hurt me.
“Ethel?” he prompts, finally dropping his arm. He stares, waiting for an honest response.
That I simply cannot give him.
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.
My job is to run from you.
As you can probably imagine, this puts us at odds, even more so because you’re not the type to half-ass anything. In fact, you want to kill me so bad, you just stopped someone else so thatyou’dbe the one to do the honors.
Frankly, I admire your commitment.
Yeah. That’s not gonna work.
“Am I a criminal?” he asks, sounding intrigued by the prospect. “Is that why you’re withholding information from me?”
“What? No. No, not a criminal. You are just ...” I rack my brain. “An asshole.”
He snorts. “Don’t spare the feelings of the infirm.”
“Well, you’re an infirmasshole, so ...”
“I amnot.”
“Excuse me?Iwould know.”
“Why am I an asshole?” He’s scowling now.
“Several reasons.”
“Such as?”
“You ...”Are a literal vampire killer.“Because.”
“You didn’t list any reason.”
I huff. “You wear sunglasses inside, for one.”
His face falls, mortified. Mafia boss? No problem. Douchebag? A line must be drawn. “Do I really?”
“No,” I say, feeling a little guilty. “I’m not even sure you own sunglasses. But you and I, we don’t get along very well.”
He lets out a single dismissive laugh. “Right.”
“I’m serious. We are nemeses.”
“No, we are not.”
I frown. “Why don’t you believe me? Wedeeplydislike each other.”
“Maybeyoudon’t like me, becauseIclearly ...” He stops. Shakes his head. Declares, as though the truth exists only to be molded by his words: “We aren’t nemeses. I don’t want to fight with you.”
