Page 7 of Hot for Slayer
“Says the slayer,” I mutter bitterly, and when his eyes widen, I want to punch myself.
“Slayer,” he repeats, his voice hushed. I tighten my grip around the dagger, waiting for ... I don’t know. For him to remember. For an attack. Definitelynotfor him to ask, “You mean, an exterminator? For bugs?”
My shoulders slump in relief. I hear myself saying, “Yeah. Exactly.”
“And we’renemeses”—his tone is derisive—“because, what? You had a bedbug situation I couldn’t fix?”
Iamthe bedbug, Lazlo.“It’s just in our nature. Because I’m a ... an entomologist.”
“A what?”
This is coming together surprisingly well. “You are a sl—an exterminator, and I am the kind of scientist who studies insects and their behaviors. As you can probably imagine, my existence—myprofessionalexistence, that is—is incompatible with yours. You kill bugs. I keep them alive.”Do entomologists really hate pest control? Probably not. Doesn’t matter.“Conflict of interest.”
The head injury must be working in my favor, because Lazlo asks, “Is that why we’re here? Because of pest control?”
I nod enthusiastically. “You were on a job. I tried to stop you. We both stumbled, that’s why you fell and I have”—I point at my cheek—“this.”
The hesitation on his face spells out:You know all of this sounds like bullshit, right?But instead of calling me outon it, Lazlo says, “Sure. Fine. Let’s just go.” With enviable agility, he rises to his feet. “A doctor will know how to help me remember this stuff.”That you clearly made upremains unsaid.
“Agreed. You should check out Mount Sinai, but Lenox is—”
“You’re coming with me,” he says, scowling again. So deeply, I decide to casually remind him that I still have a dagger with a flick of my wrist.
“Sadly, I can’t.”
“Why?”
The trick about lies is, one has to put their whole heart into them. So I don’t let myself hesitate. “I’m allergic to the sun.”
A slow blink. “You areallergicto the sun.”
“Yes. It’s a pretty common condition, actually.”
“What happens if you go outside?”
“Boils. Pus.” Instant death. “You know. I’d rather wait for sundown to get out. Anyway, it was great to hang out with you. Good luck at the hospital, and ...”
My voice drifts into silence as Lazlo lowers himself back into a sitting position. The tip of his boot brushes against the side of my sneaker.
“The hospital’s the other way,” I joke weakly.
“I’m not leaving you here alone.” He sounds, and looks, equal parts put-upon and determined.
A thought occurs to me: What if he’s faking it? What if he knows that I’m trapped here with him? That he can torture me and keep me at his mercy for the next ten hours? What if he’s just a great actor, toying with a lying mouse?
To test that theory, I ask, “Hey?”
His eyebrow arches:What, now?He must have little faith in my ability to carry out an interesting conversation.
I clear my throat. “Have you heard of vampires?”
“Of course I have.”
My stomach sinks, and I grip the dagger once again.
Until he adds, in a knowing tone: “Like Dracula. Carmilla.”
“Yeah. Or Nosferatu. You know, vampires.”
