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.

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Chapter 5

I’d like you to walk me to the hospital,” Lazlo says at sundown as we step outside and into the chilly October Manhattan air. He glances around with a very convincing I am but a tourist, new on this planet expression, his face tilted up in wonder toward the skyscrapers. Exhibit number 237 of authentic amnesia.

My first instinct is to agree. Eagerly. I let myself contemplate the bliss of dropping him off at the ER, where he’ll become someone else’s problem. But given Lazlo’s not-quite-human biology, being examined by a doctor could get him in serious trouble. I want to get rid of him, and I’m ready to murder him in a me-or-him situation, but I wouldn’t wish being stuck in some underground lab and experimented upon on my worst enemy.

Which, coincidentally, is what Lazlo is.

“Are you sure you want to go?” I ask. “You may not have insurance, and hospitals are very expensive. Your memory will probably come back on its own now. But I’ll still help you out. I could just take you to your home and—”

“Where do I live?”

Shit. “That, I’m not sure.”

He stops in his tracks, right in the middle of a busy sidewalk, forcing the people behind us to sidestep him. If he were anyone else, New Yorkers would be pushing him into traffic. But Lazlo is tall; covered in striking, unique tattoos; built like a small skyscraper himself. He doesn’t exactly ooze agreeability. The most they level at him is a side-eye.

Meanwhile, he is ogling me like I should feel guilty for not knowing where his house is.

“Honestly, I’m not even certain you have a place in the city,” I say defiantly. “Told you—nemeses.”

“Sure. What about my work?”

“The Guild?”

“Is that what the pest control company is called?”

“Yup. No Pest for the Guilded is your slogan.” I nod. Surely it’ll make the weirdness I just spewed much more convincing. “As far as I know, they don’t have a physical HQ.” Which is true enough.

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 a boutique pest control company, Lazlo. They are not on the interweb.”

He folds his arms over his chest, clearly ready to throw me into 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 in New 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 drink my blood, 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, they are good. And he is handsome. 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.