It was a chilly, clear evening. Not winter chilly, with air so cold it bites the skin, but a nice sort of cold that granted some respite from the blazing hot summer. It had rained almost constantly the past few days, which James took as a harbinger of an incoming cold front; it seemed his suspicions were correct.
There are few benefits gained from immortality, and the most notable of these are almost invariably offset by the less attractive aspects of eternal life. It takes a special kind of person to appreciate things like the ability to read weather patterns with uncanny accuracy when the rest of your time is spent engulfed in anxiety and the knowledge that you will outlive anyone you’re unfortunate enough to care for, and the chances are that if you’re that good at meteorology, you already have (unless, of course, you happen to be a meteorologist—although that might make you immune to this particular dilemma).
James was one such person. Not a meteorologist, thankfully, but someone who took pride in his accuracy in the same field, even in his state of constant fear. It must have been decades since he’d been caught out and about in the wrong outfit for the weather, something he considered an accomplishment, but that he never seemed to get any sort of recognition for.
The only time he ever felt out of place was in his own home. It was barren, isolated—and while it certainly matched his lifestyle, it didn’t feel like home. Nothing did.
Not only that, but he couldn’t actually afford to live there anymore. It was an old craftsman-style cottage that he was renting out, but the owner kept raising the rent in hopes that James would cancel his lease, as they openly admitted that they wanted to renovate it and use it as a bed-and-breakfast, and James living there full time was a significant obstacle to that. James had no real emotional connection to the place, but at the same time he didn’t want to give the owner the satisfaction of running him out.
Besides, he had nowhere else to go. All he could do was argue with the owner on the phone and beg them not to keep driving his rent up, since his wage from the bodega really wasn’t cutting it any more. He was already dipping into his savings to pay the landlord.
He started the long walk into town. The location wasn’t even that convenient for him—it was easily an hour to walk to work every day, and while summer was usually fine, making that trek in the winter was grueling. He was even glad for the cold front today, since making the walk was almost as terrible in July heat as it was in December flurries. If the landlord wouldn’t keep trying to push him out, maybe he could afford a bike or a car…
The only reason he had picked the place was the isolation. It was a lot easier to move about undetected when he didn’t have to worry about being seen coming and going, and as someone who had to kill to survive, that was worth it initially. But his intention was to keep a low profile, and he couldn’t do that if he had to keep taking more hours and calling up landlords.
Fuck it, he thought to himself. It’s time to make other arrangements.
James reached the store about twenty minutes earlier than he meant to, which meant he was there long before Ms. Betancourt would arrive to open up. Typically he wouldn’t mind, but the wind was starting to pick up, and it nipped at his already cold skin. Even for a cold front the weather was becoming almost impossibly wintry for early July, which James didn’t like, even though he far preferred the cold to blistering heat.
Rather than move out of the cold, James avoided his discomfort by falling deep into thought about where to go from here. He didn’t want to move into town if he could help it; it would be more money for less, although it might have some chance of falling into his budget if it was ‘less’ enough, and there was a much higher chance of suspicion if he was caught going in and out at night.
He snapped back to reality when a car door slammed in front of him. The Betancourts had arrived; finally he could get out of the cold.
“How long have you been standing out here?” Ms. Betancourt asked. “It’s frigid out here.”
James checked his pocket watch. “Fifteen or so,” he mumbled. Roxán was staring at him with her wide-eyed stupor, as usual.
Lunatic.
Ms. Betancourt shooed him and her daughter into the shop. The air inside was not much warmer, but it was at least out of the wind.
“Go turn on the heating,” Ms. Betancourt ordered, teeth chattering. Roxán gave a curt little nod and darted off. With her daughter gone, Ms. Betancourt directed her attention back towards James.
“Is everything alright?”
James looked back at her, meeting her gaze steadily. “Yes ma’am,” he said.
The woman raised an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips just enough to look disappointed. “Is that right?” she drawled. “There’s no shame in being stressed, James. There’s no use lying about it; I can see it in your eyes.”
James flushed, but instead of being angry like he expected, he was just ashamed. Something compelled him to tell the truth.
“My landlord is playing games with me,” he told her. “Wants me to bugger off. Keeps raising the rent… I just can’t afford it any more. I need to find somewhere else to stay.”
Ms. Betancourt furrowed her brow. James could picture the gears turning in her head as she thought, deeply considering his words. His discomfort only increased as the temperature rose.
Finally she spoke again. “There’s a flat above the shop, as you know,” said Ms. Betancourt, taking her time and measuring out her words carefully, “we’re just using it for extra storage right now, but I don’t see why you couldn’t live there full time if you wanted to.” She paused, looking up at James intently. “There would be conditions, of course. You would have to keep it clean, and whatever the extra cost of keeping electric running full time would come out of your paycheck. But I would still cover water, and you’re always welcome to join Roxán and I for dinner if you need food.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
James just stared back at her for a moment, thinking it over. It’s not ideal… or is it? Chances are I wouldn’t even really be on record as a tenant, if my bills are just coming out of my pay. Clearly she trusts me, so if anyone did come knocking, it certainly seems like she’d defend my character. I work here, so coming and going throughout the night isn’t entirely unreasonable. The only downside I can think of is that I’ll have to hide weapons up there in a flat this woman and her daughter are intimately familiar with, but if I move in my own furniture it doesn’t seem likely that anyone would go through my personal belongings.
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Ms. Betancourt broke the silence, saying, “Take as long as you need to consider, the offer is always open.”
James wanted so badly to just say yes right away, but he contained his eagerness. He’d ruminate over the course of the day, but if no glaring issues popped out at him he saw no reason to decline. The problem was solved almost as quickly as it arose.
By the end of business, the only problem was still terminating his lease. James approached Ms. Betancourt, jittering with nerves, and accepted the offer. She told him he could move in whenever he wanted, just to let her know first, and to tell her if he needed any help getting settled.
And that was it. James mentally prepared himself to blow the last of his savings on the cancellation fee on his lease as he walked home, an inexplicable spring in his step. No more grueling long walks. He only had to go out and about when he hunted, which would be less frequently now that he didn’t have to use as much energy daily. It almost seemed too good to be true.
The phone call with his landlord almost made James laugh. The man was struggling desperately to disguise his glee that James was canceling on him, trying so hard to sound frustrated or disappointed in some way, and in his elation at finally being free from the man’s control James was numb to the draining of his bank account on the termination. It didn’t matter any more; he was out. He could finally start saving again and stop worrying.
The stress did set in the next morning, however, as he woke up and realized he now had limited time to move out and no access to a vehicle large enough to pack any sort of furniture into. I may as well pack up what I can, he thought. I’ll ask Ms. Betancourt when I clock in. She’ll think of something.
And think of something she did.
“Roxán!” called Ms. Betancourt after a brief moment of consideration. The girl popped her head out of the storage room, and Ms. Betancourt beckoned her over. “Does your friend Artemiy still have that pickup truck?”
Roxán scratched a spot on her chin. “I think so,” she said. “Want me to call him? What do you need it for?”
“James needs assistance moving in,” said Ms. Betancourt. She seemed tense, like she didn’t know how Roxán would react.
The younger girl was certainly taken aback. Her face was cast with uncertainty, and for once James felt bad for her; he wished her mother had said something sooner, if only because breaking the news to her once it was already decided was unnecessarily awkward.
“Mamá,” she said, confusion in her eyes, “why didn’t you say anything? I was supposed to move in there once I was done with school.”
James flushed. It was fully too late to turn back now, and he felt awful. He honestly hated caring about this girl’s feelings more than hurting them, but as annoyed as he was he couldn’t help but feel like he was intruding on family affairs.
James startled, as the embarrassed Ms. Betancourt apparently read his mind.
“James has been working here for years now, he may as well be family. If he still lives here when you’re done with college you’re perfectly welcome to just move back home with me until you decide you want to be fully independent.”
Roxán furrowed her brow and sighed. “I’ll call Artemiy,” she said, dejected. “If he still has it he can probably swing by and pick you up, James.”
He watched as she swiveled around on her heel and slouched off into the back of the shop, and felt guilt creep in, which he tried to fend off. It wasn’t his fault Ms. Betancourt hadn’t been transparent with her daughter, after all. He couldn’t help it if he needed somewhere to live, and who knew? Maybe he wouldn’t even be around any more by the time she was done with school. He wanted to stick around as long as he could, since constant travel was incredibly draining on the mind and body, but if problems arose he had to be ready to run at a moment’s notice.
Roxán emerged some time later, looking a little more like her usual self. “He’ll be right over, James, to pick you up. He’s happy to lend a hand.”
James shifted his weight. “What’s his name again?” he asked, uncertain about this strange, unknown friend of Roxán’s who he presumably had never met.
“Artemiy,” Roxán repeated. “He’s a chill guy, quiet. You’ll get along.”
The work day, already unusually slow, felt even slower because of the looming anxiety around getting into a car with a stranger, whose only connection to James was through someone James wasn’t exactly fond of. He trusted Ms. Betancourt’s judgment, but had adopted some skepticism about her character that hadn’t been present before due to the whole flat debacle.
Not that he was any paradigm of morality. What am I worried about, he mused, it’s this Artemiy guy that should be nervous to drive off into the woods with someone like me, not the other way around.
He heard the dull thud of a car door out front and perked up. That must be him.
Roxán immediately darted out the front door to greet the stranger, and when he came through the shop door, James immediately recognized him as the friend he had seen once, and never again afterwards. He and Roxán were already chatting like they’d been together all day.
“I don’t think we ever met properly,” the tall young man said, looking James right in his dark eyes. “I’m Artemiy Yakovlev, a friend of Roxán’s. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
James took his extended hand and shook it, willing himself not to break eye contact. “James Adler,” he responded, his voice barely breaking a murmur. Artemiy may as well have been towering over him; James knew Artemiy was tall, but standing so close made him feel miniscule.
There was no time wasted on awkward silence. “Time to head out?” asked Artemiy. He raised his eyebrows and gestured towards the door with his thumb.
“Sure,” said James, and Artemiy waved a brief goodbye to Roxán before leading James out to the truck. It was a deep charcoal gray, freshly cleaned by the looks of it. It was clear that Artemiy put a lot of care into maintaining the vehicle.
“Not sure if it’ll be big enough to be efficient,” Artemiy muttered.
James shook his head. “It absolutely is. I really don’t have much at all, wouldn’t be surprised if we can take everything in one trip.”
Artemiy looked ahead, squinting. “I guess that’s not really a surprise. Not like you’re moving into a McMansion.”
The silence in the car ride was painful. It seems like he wants to talk, James thought, but I just don’t know what to say. Quite frankly, he freaks me out.
When they did finally reach the house, Artemiy whistled.
“Not a bad place,” he said, his expression pulled into what James could only describe as an upside-down smile. “A shame you have to leave.”
“I guess so,” said James. “Too much space, and too far from work, though. And I can’t drive.”
“Mm,” Artemiy vocalized. “Well, time to get to work.”
James struggled with the lock before pushing the door open to reveal an almost empty room with an old, busted laptop on the floor next to a couple medium-sized boxes containing all James’ non-furniture possessions. All were taped shut, and for good reason—the majority contained an assortment of items James desperately wanted to protect from prying eyes, not the least of which being a collection of ornate knives sharp enough to cut through flesh like paper. As a vampire, he hardly needed them, but they certainly made his life a lot easier. Being as small in stature as he was, he could use all the help he could get.