Page 1 of Eat, Slay, Love

1

There are two things I’m particularly good at: going down online rabbit-holes and finding deals on imported cheese.

There is one thing I’m notably bad at: slaying demons.

I’ve never been more acutely aware of these facts as my tote stuffed with a suspiciously affordable Roquefort and a triple-cream brie—snags on my elbow while I dig through my coat pocket for the salt-and-ash meant to contain the demon currently feeding on a soul thirty feet in front of me.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, yanking the tote off my shoulder and hurling it into the shadows of the Manhattan side street. “Farewell, dear brie. We had a good run.”

The hulking demon still hasn’t noticed me—too busy siphoning from the poor human lying on the pavement, his broad shoulders hunched, breath ragged. My slayer magic hums and buzzes, telling me he’s feeding, and my fingers tremble as I finally find some salt-and-ash mix, loose like lint in my pocket.

I walk slowly, deliberately, scattering the dust as I go, kicking freshly fallen autumn leaves out of the way. An arc becomes a circle. Containment first. The circle severs a demon’s tether to the wider world, isolating it from outside energy while locking its physical body inside the boundary, unable to cross the line in either direction.

It’s a shame I wasn’t more prepared for this. But I’m never prepared. I don’t want to be prepared. I haven’t had a kill in ten full years, haven’t even been hunting, not since what happened with my last one.

My parents and brothers, however, have been relentless about maintaining the family reputation. “This October is your chance, Mayari,” my mother told me just last week. “It’s been ten years too long. You need a kill.”

October is peak season for demons, but it’s not because demons get stronger. It’s because humans get looser. Halloween weakens the boundaries people usually keep tight around themselves, and demons thrive on the permission.

Which this one is clearly taking advantage of.

I close the circle. It locks with a subtle pressure change, as if we’re suddenly underwater.

That gets his attention.

We lock eyes.

“Slayer,” he mutters.

As far as demons go, this one resembles all the other ones. Ethereally beautiful, his face all carved lines and impossible symmetry, with slicked-back dark hair and razor-sharp cheekbones serving as exclamation points to the whole arrangement. A tall, imposing figure, wearing an impeccably tailored suit. Immortals fancy themselves professionals, I suppose, and most have spent generations amassing serious wealth and an even more serious urge to flaunt it.

Something is different about this demon, though. My magic glitches, the same exact way it did with my last kill. It skitters across my limbs, static instead of its typical clean flow. I ignore it, my mother’s you need a kill echoing through my mind.

I swallow, preparing for my killer one-liner. It’s got to be majestic, as it’s my first one in a decade.

I clear my throat, take a deep breath, then loftily proclaim, “Hope you enjoyed your meal, because you’ve officially been—uh—served,” I cough, “your last.”

We wince.

“Was that your line?” he asks with mild incredulity.

Heat floods my face. “The last one you’ll cross,” I mutter.

“What was that?” He cups one hand behind his ear.

“The last—forget it.” I move to pull the silver-inlaid kris from my pocket, then freeze. Pat my coat. Then pat it again.

It’s in the tote.

“One moment, please,” I say, already backing away.

I sprint to where I tossed my bag. “Hey—that’s my cheese,” I tell the rats currently rifling through it. “Get your own. It’s on sale at Murray’s.” I kick them aside. “It was hidden under the expensive goat cheese,” I mutter, digging frantically until my fingers finally close around the hilt of my blessed dagger.

When I turn back, the demon is standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the transparent barrier of the circle and staring at me with faint amusement. “Would you believe me if I said this was a huge misunderstanding?”

“That’s what you all say,” I tell him, stepping forward. My magic jitters again.

“Funny,” he says, “Can’t say the same about all the slayers I’ve met. Process servers, sure, but⁠—”