I've grown close to.
After about a year, we decided it was time for us to find jobs again. We didn't need the money, but jobs gave us a semblance of normal life, and that was something we both craved. Being a jet-setter is fun for a little while, but it does get old when you don't have a solid home to return to. So we settled in London in a beautiful two-story flat. It had three large bedrooms, an enormous open space that could be used as living area, dining room, and full-size basketball court, all at the same time, and it had a magnificent view of the city from its rooftop terrace.
Steven portrayed himself to the common world as an artist and began painting again. He had been a painter some two hundred years ago, but had not created anything substantial since. We turned one of the bedrooms into a studio, and he set to work making some absolutely beautiful masterpieces. You can find some of them in museums today. I got a job at a local café as a barista. It's something I had always wanted to try, but I was always afraid I wouldn't make enough money to support myself. Now that money wasn’t an issue, I could try all the jobs I could dream of.
We lived quite happily for four or five years, settling down in one place for a little while to create a normal life. Breaking into the social scene, finding jobs, creating a believable back-story—the whole thing was quite a fun challenge. Then we would grow bored of the people or the place, and we would move on to the next great adventure. Sometimes we would be in a place for just a couple weeks. Once we stayed for nearly a year.
But in the end, we always moved. It's great to have that freedom, to not have to worry about money all the time, to be able to just pick up and go whenever you please without worrying about finding a job in the next town. If we couldn't find a job, it wasn't a big deal. We always found jobs, though. Ironically, when money isn't an issue, finding a job is surprisingly easy. You can lie on your resume about your experiences and qualifications without fear of repercussions.
I have tried my hand at everything from that barista job I had in London to being a hair dresser in Paris. Needless to say, my hair dresser days didn't last very long. The first time someone wanted blond hair and it came out orange (let’s forget the fact that it started smoking) they kicked me out of the salon. But it was a fun experience, nonetheless.
Our most fateful home was in a small town in Russia. Holy mother, was that place cold. Steven took up work as a sculptor and I got a job at the local pub. Working at the pub was a lot of fun. Because the town was so small, everyone knew everyone else for the most part, and all the gossips came into the pub after work to spread their new tales. A lot of what I heard was absolute crap, but it was funny nonetheless. Like the story about the baker and his wife, who refused to have sex unless he smothered her breasts in butter. Or the rumor about the butcher's obsession with marshmallows, particularly the part about where he likes to stick said marshmallows, especially after they had been roasted. How is that even possible?
After awhile, we got to know some of the younger townsfolk pretty well. It was the type of town where the older people ran everything and looked down on the youth with their bright ideas and new-fangled ways of doing things. Needless to say, most of the elders in the town did not like us to begin with because we were a younger couple (as far as they knew, anyway). Then when we started hanging out with their children, they liked us even less. They were convinced we were just there to cause trouble, even though we went out of our way at every opportunity to help people whenever possible.
The town, though officially controlled by a group of elders, was really run by the local Catholic church. And the priest made no secret of the fact that he did not like Steven. He was an old crotchety man who made sure everyone knew who he was and what he expected of them. And he expected them to shun us and drive us out of town. But we kind of liked the quaint little place despite the evil old bastard, and we wanted to stay on for a bit. So we persisted in making friends and I eventually won over some of the elders' old wives and widows. They would invite me to tea and their little sewing parties and I would bring them cookies and other baked goods.
In retrospect, we probably should have left when we saw the first signs of unwarranted hatred. We had been there a few months before things started to turn nasty. You see, with everyone being of such a religious persuasion, they were naturally highly suspicious of anything out of the norm. Everything they did was steeped in tradition and superstition. It wasn't long before they noticed that Steven never left the house during the day. The rumor that something was wrong with him spread more rapidly than I could have imagined. I heard it whispered from table to table at the pub, and I saw people pointing at me and whispering behind my back. They would stop conversations mid-sentence if I walked up to their table and smile at me sweetly, like they had been talking about nothing at all.
One of the elder's children was a good friend of ours, but the rumors caused him to become concerned. Instead of talking to us or confronting us directly about it, he started doing research. He spent hours upon hours in the library and when he could not find all the information he needed there, he took a trip to Moscow. Despite all the evidence against the fact (such as the eating solid human food and that the skin was not at all pale or cool), this young fellow came to the conclusion that Steven was indeed a vampire. I never found out what his definitive evidence was. I just knew that we were completely and totally screwed when he turned against us.
I was in the pub when the young man came in. He went straight up to the table the elders were sitting at and started talking to them in an serious tone, looking over at me frequently. It was making me very nervous, as people started gathering around their table in larger numbers, all of them stealing not-so-subtle glances my way. My shift ended and I hurried to get my coat. The pub owner, a sweet middle-aged woman by the name of Olga, pulled me aside as I was putting on my hat and gloves.
"Hurry home, Jane. You and Steven need to get out of here tonight. They know your secret. I know neither of you would harm a fly, but these people are going to crucify him, and you with him, if you do not get out now. Hurry. Thank you for everything you have done for us. Please be safe. I love you and I will miss you."
She pressed my last wages into my hand, shoved me out the door, and turned her back on me. It took me a moment to gather my composure, and that one moment may be what cost me so dearly. I walked as fast as I could toward home without drawing undue attention. Our house was a small, two-bedroom cottage on the edge of town, so I had a little over a half-mile to walk. Before I was even halfway there, several men burst through the door to the pub and started screaming at me in Russian. I had no idea what they were saying but I am absolutely certain it was not, "Please come back. We are not going to hurt you. We have realized what dumbasses we are and we want to be your friend." That would have been too easy.
They started running after me. Do you know how terrifying it is to be a young woman, alone in the dark in the middle of a snow-covered Russian street with about half a dozen angry men barreling down on you? Now that's some scary shit. I turned and ran as fast as my little legs would carry me. I was pretty lazy most of the time, though, so I definitely wasn't going to win any records at the Olympics. I could see the light on in our front room and started screaming for Steven.
Just then, the men caught up with me. One reached out and grabbed for my hair. My hat had fallen off when I began to run, so he had an easy time getting a firm grip. It hurt like a you-know-what when he did that. I had been running as hard as I possibly could, and he not only brought me to a complete stop, but jerked my head back so fast I thought my neck was broken. My feet flew out from underneath me and I landed on my back on the ground, completely out of breath, staring up at six pissed off Russians.
They began beating me and kicking me without reserve. I screamed and screamed for Steven but I couldn't see anything through the flurry of fists and feet. One of them pulled out a thick stick and started whacking at my ribs, and that put a quick end to my shouts. I fought desperately to curl up in
to the fetal position and protect my bruised organs. I heard Steven's name come from somewhere, and I knew it wasn't me. The voice sounded familiar, but it took me an eternity to realize who it was. Olga had seen the men leave the pub and had followed them. She was calling Steven for help.
A bellow of pure, unadulterated anger echoed through the blanketed village and the men stopped their mauling of my poor, unarmed body to look up at the source. Steven flew through the door of our house so fast it blew off its hinges. In the next moment, he was racing down the street, his feet barely touching the ground. He covered the distance so quickly, no one had time to react. The group suffered two broken necks and a crushed skull before any of them moved. Two of the remaining three tried to run and Steven had to take a step to grab one of them. In that time, the third whipped around on me, pulling out a nasty-looking knife as he did so. I still couldn't breathe, but I tried to scream a warning to Steven. Nothing came out. Not a sound. I was staring death in the face and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Steven finished with the fourth man and was grabbing the fifth