Page 4 of Hot for Slayer (Scared Sexy Collection #1)
E xhibit number thirty-six that Lazlo Enyedi is not faking the whole amnesia thing: He takes a nap.
In the middle of the day.
Three feet away from me.
One second I’m making up wild facts about swallowtail butterflies to salvage my already-in-tatters entomology cover, and the next he’s lying back to “rest for a minute,” throwing his elbow over his eyes, and breathing quietly.
Sleeping off the concussion—big no-no for humans, but a nonissue for slayers.
His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, and he has to be fucking with me.
No trained fighter lets his guard down this irresponsibly with someone he barely knows. Slayers are never this vulnerable. It can only be a trap.
So I decide to kill him.
I set the blade of my stolen dagger horizontally and lower it to his Adam’s apple, guillotine style. I’m strong enough to cut through the muscles and bones and tendons, and— Where is his self-preservation? Why the hell is he not stopping me?
I slink back to my shadowy corner to sulk, convinced that he’s well and truly asleep. Okay. So his memory is gone. But shouldn’t there be some trace of an instinct, some emotional residue, an inkling that I am his enemy and that he shouldn’t trust me?
Lazlo begins snoring softly.
Clearly not.
I lean back and study him, wondering about his life outside our centuries-long game of hide-and-seek-and-stab.
Does he have a family? A girlfriend or a boyfriend?
A polycule? Slayers are immortal until they’re beheaded.
They are incredibly strong and enhanced in every conceivable way, sure.
Deep down, though, they are still human. They long for connection.
I bet he does have a family. They must be who he spends time with between hunts. After all, I don’t see him a lot. We usually only cross paths once a decade or so. Before Berlin, there was that Pink Floyd tour in 1980, and that David Bowie concert in the seventies, and ...
Now that I think about it, by liking live music as much as I do, I may have made it a bit too easy for him to find me.
I chew on my lower lip, remembering 1964.
My one-night-long career as a singer-songwriter.
Does taking advantage of an open mic night at a seedy underground club qualify as “working in the music industry”?
It should. I certainly had fun singing about youth counterculture.
Even more so after Lazlo appeared in the audience.
“Aethelthryth,” he whispered the second I spotted him in the crowd, his yellow eyes glowing even through the cigarette smoke.
I strove to remember what weapons I’d stuffed into my go-go boots, and thought, Come on, Enyedi. Stop ruining my fun. Next song up is about how lonely I am, and how sad that I haven’t gotten laid in at least three hundred years.
But Lazlo didn’t jump on the stage. Didn’t throw a hatchet at me, either.
He simply let me croon on for a while, with my trite fire/desire and love/above rhymes.
Patiently, he stared with that icy, unsettling gaze as I sang something cringeworthy about how no one understands, I just want to feel his hands .
When my masterpiece ended, everyone applauded except for him.
It seemed rude. Much ruder than the usual assassination attempts. So I decided he needed to pay for that.
“Thank you, thank you, everyone. That last song, it’s very personal to me. I wrote it for the man I love.”
The crowd cheered and whistled. Lazlo’s jaw hardened, probably in disgust at the thought of vampires having feelings. Or smooching. Or, even worse, fucking.
“I haven’t seen him in ... ten years or so? And I was heartbroken when he left me, which inspired me to pour my emotions into some music.” I lowered my eyes. Pretended to sniffle. “But, good news, he came back to me.”
More scattered, good-hearted claps.
“And he’s here tonight.”
The crowd looked around, breaking into excited murmuring.
“So, please, join me in welcoming the love of my life.”
The chatter became louder.
“Lazlo, thank you for being here.”
I grinned at him. People followed the direction of my gaze, brazenly eyeing him. I watched his lips part and his expression flatten—Lazlo’s equivalent of a jaw drop. The hand holding his drink set the glass on the table with a loud thud.
“Hi, honey,” I purred.
The technician in the back must have been less stoned than usual, because lo and behold, a spotlight turned on, flooding Lazlo’s table and the tight purse of his lips.
I bit back maniacal laughter. If the slayer forced the sunrise upon me because of this, it would have been worth it.
“You are the only man for me, baby,” I whispered into the microphone.
A giddy awww diffused throughout the room. Lazlo’s eyes were sharper than needles, but no one could pick that up. They would, however, have noticed if he’d chosen to stick a couple of swords through my chest. He had to restrain himself, and wasn’t that fun?
“I hope you loved the song.”
At last, he smiled. I could have sworn I spotted an amused dimple dipping within his cheek, but he mouthed a few words at me.
I am going to kill you.
I gasped. “What was that? Lazlo, did you just say that you’re going to marry me?”
He only nodded because about sixty people were staring at him. The same reason I let out my most lovesick sigh. When his eyes burned into mine, I let them. “Lazlo, yes. Yes. A thousand times yes .”
The cheers were so loud, no one heard the thud of my heels as I ran backstage.
And since I slipped out the bathroom window and vanished into the poorly lit alleyway, he never did catch up with me to do all that killing he’d promised.
But now, watching Lazlo sleep like a baby, I cannot help wondering why I didn’t once think of that night in the past sixty years.
And, oddly enough, I cannot help wondering if he ever did.