Page 11 of Hot for Slayer
“Ethel?” he asks like he’s been saying my name for a while.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Is it okay if I take a shower?”
Is it? Who knows what kind of tattoos he’ll find under that shirt and jeans. Maybe his inner thigh is where he keeps a tally of all the vampires he’s killed. Inked on his chest, he could have a photorealistic rendering of himself throwing someone who looks eerily like me into the sun.
Guess I’ll have to run that risk. “Sure. Towels are in the bathroom.” He heads in the direction I’m pointing, and the breadth of his shoulders makes me think of something. “Are you hungry?”
He stops. Nods.
Shit. “Great. That’s justgreat.”
“It’s great that I’m hungry?”
“Only in the sense that I’m hungry, too.Sohungry. I’ll go down to the store and pick up something.” I dash out of thedoor like it’s being firebombed and head to the Duane Reade downstairs.
I am, of course,nothungry. Because vampires don’t eat. Our bodies reject food in a spectacularly cinematic fashion that would find itself well at home in a vintage horror movie. This is true about any solid or liquid item that isn’t human blood—no matter how close they may approach it. I once took a sip of a bonobo, and hurled intermittently for the following six months. Our species has a clear case of hot-girl tummy, and I’m grateful to the twenty-first century for giving us a final diagnosis.
Back in the nunnery, though, I used to be able to cook. Quite well, according to Sister Wihtburh, even though the abbess would always find some reason to publicly bitch about my meals.Oversalting will not bring you closer to godliness, Sister Aethelthryth. If you are trying to hide your sins behind a curtain of rosemary, you have nearly succeeded.Unfortunately, my last pantry and scullery duties were so many centuries ago, I’m not sure I even remember how to boil water.
Which is an issue, since all I can think of purchasing is several boxes of mac and cheese. I add a clean T-shirt and a pair of sweats to the basket—the largest sizes I can find, yet somehow unlikely to fit Lazlo. I run back to my apartment, and step inside just as he walks out of the bathroom.
Naked.
Chapter 6
Iguess Lazloiswearing a towel around his hips.
But spiritually, culturally, metaphysically, he feelsnaked. And yes, he does have ink all over his body, but it seems to be less focused on narrating the misdeeds of Vlad the Impaler and more on commemorating ... his childhood, perhaps? Family? For the most part, it’s that same old Hungarian script as on his neck and arms, but I also spot flowers that I’ve only ever seen in Eastern Europe, a castle, a coat of arms. On his chest, right on top of his heart, is an ornate Venetian eye mask that looks eerily familiar, but I cannot place it.
“Why are you holding your breath?” he asks after a long stretch of staring, because I’ve been a little too immobile. Vampires do need air, but given the slow crawl of our metabolism, not nearly as much as humans. I could inhale one day, exhale the following, and still be in peak shape.
And yet, I’m suddenly winded. “Sorry, I was just ... admiring.”
His eyebrow rises.
“Theartwork,” I hurry to add.
“Sure. Right. Because it’s the first time you’ve seen it.”
“Yeah, of course it is.” Why is he smiling like we’re sharing an inside joke? “When would I have seen it?”
He stares as if to challenge me, then folds his arms in a beautiful ripple of muscles and colorful ink. “This place feels familiar. But I’m sure you’ll tell me that I’ve never been in your apartment.”
If he had, I’d be dead. “Maybe you did some pest control work for the previous tenant?”
“I must have done a piss-poor job of it, considering.”
“Considering what?”
He points at a spot above my head. When I turn around, there is a giant—
“Spider!” I scream, running to duck behind Lazlo. It’s big and streaked in yellow and gross, and God, I’ve always hated arthropods.
“Interesting,” Lazlo muses.
I whimper, “What?”
