Page 10 of Hot for Slayer
His eyebrow lifts. “Let’s call them, then.”
“I don’t have their number.”
“I’m sure we can find it online.”
My snort is artfully disdainful. “They are aboutiquepest control company, Lazlo. They are not on theinterweb.”
He folds his arms over his chest, clearly ready to throwmeinto traffic—which, somehow, seems preferable to the sly grin he breaks into a moment later. “Okay. Since you can’t take me to my home or to my workplace—”
“A hotel is the only—”
“I accept your offer.”
I blink. “What offer?”
“To help me out.” His eyes gleam. “Lead the way, Ethel. I’ll follow you to your home.”
“What is this gluten that everything seems to be free of?” “This is the fourth store that claims to sell the best bagels inNew York City,” and “The two things might be unrelated, but I noticed fewer rats in places with more hot dog carts” is only a selection of the commentary Lazlo treats me to on the way to my place. I find myself having to school the equivalent of a Martian dropped on Earth on the treachery of agglutinating proteins, but I don’t mind, because it’s better than dwelling on the insanity of my own actions.
I am taking.
A vampire slayer.
To my home.
No: I am leading the oldest and most feared vampire slayer in existence to my place. Despite being a vampire myself.
What a time to be undead.
At least you still have a home,I tell myself, hoping for a positive spin. Teenage Dirtbag burst into flames when Lazlo shoved him into the sun, which means that I won’t have to move out of my beloved apartment.
The thing about immortality is, it’s almost impossible not to build vast amounts of generational wealth. Money hasn’t been an issue for me since Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne as the Roman emperor, and I’ve circled through several accommodations and living arrangements throughout the years, including manors, Transylvanian castles, penthouses, parsonages, farms, temples, cabins in the woods where the mosquitoes tried to drinkmyblood, casino hotels, lighthouses, nuclear bunkers, and McMansions with more chimneys than bathrooms. What I have learned is that less is more.
Well, not true. Less is less. But that’s okay, because less is a good thing. Having an arcade room doesn’t much enhance my enjoyment of existing, so in the last few decades I’ve been gravitating toward small, cozy apartments.
Even smaller and cozier now that Lazlo is standing in it.
“I live alone,” I say.
He nods distractedly, leaning forward to take a close look at the fern I’ve been schlepping around from residence to residence for the last ninety years. “I know.”
“You do? How?”
“Hmm?” He glances at my pile of frayed sudoku magazines, then turns to me.
“How did you know that I don’t have two spouses and three sets of quintuplets?”
“I just do, Ethel. Just like I know”—his mouth twitches—“other things.” His smile vanishes when he catches sight of his own face in a mirror. He stares, perhaps shocked by his own good looks—because, sadly, theyaregood. And heishandsome. Grossly so, despite the broken lines of his nose, the scars lining his skin, and his face that’s not fully symmetrical, like he was painted by an artist self-assured enough to bend the basic rules of anatomy.
“Did you not remember?” I ask. “What you looked like, I mean. You seem disturbed.”
He turns to me and blinks in confusion. “Not by my face. Just my eyes.”
“Oh. Well, that expression right there, the glare? It’s by far your favorite. Youronly, some would say.” He treats me to a particularly nasty one, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“The color, I meant. I thought they’d be ... I don’t know.” He sounds more hesitant than I’ve heard him before,ever, and I am tempted to tell him that I know why:Allslayers have yellow eyes. It’s a by-product of what they’re put through to become what they are, which I’ve heard includes yearslong training by teachers who are not particularly nurturing, and a final rite that often ends in a massacre. Amber is the mark of a full-fledged, immortal slayer, whose eternal mission is todestroy vampire bloodlines. Something else I’ve heard: The Hällsing Guild has been struggling to recruit new members, because becoming immortal no longer feels like a privilege, especially if given in exchange for spending several lifetimes going after creatures who are likely to stuff your left foot up your ass before snapping your head off.
I try not to think about it too much: that slayers, just like vampires, were once humans. We both had to adjust to becoming something new, to the idea of infinity, and that’s no easy feat. Maybe Lazlo’s self-image is tied to what he looked like before becoming a slayer, and his little brain is still buffering over it. But it’s going to catch up any second now, and when it does, he needs to begone. He can stay the night, sure, but tomorrow I’ll kick him out and—
