Hart awoke from a dream. He had been with his mother the sunny day she had been taken. He had helped her with her bags, dragging the smallest of them to the door for her. She had kissed him on the top of the head as she left, as the KF guards shuffled her into the waiting van. He had been too young to know what any of it meant. Too young to know to be afraid.

Stinging citrus light cut through the haze.

The light above his head buzzed, the metal table in front of him seemed to vibrate. There were no windows, and only one door. Other than the table, and the chair he felt under him, the room was empty.

He moved to stand, but nausea and a heavy clamp on his ankles kept him in place. He tried to remember what came before the dream.

The bomb.

He died.

Hart was intelligent, by mortal standards. He knew that the explosive Dracula held to his head should have been the end of him. He reached for his face, and with growing terror found only negative space. An eye was intact, an ear, both to the right side. The rest was a smooth, leathery hollow, like a deflated football. He was dead, there was no other explanation, save for the one which terrified him.

A crackle, and then the voice of his new god spoke from a speaker in the corner.

“Good evening, boy!”

The king sounded in high spirits.

“You have awoken, my newest descendant!”

The nausea rose. The bite before the explosion. It was a blur, but there was time for Dracula to have given him the gift. Time to curse him.

“I am a vampire?”

A loud laugh fizzed the speakers.

“I see your mind is repairing. Yes, a vampire. One in my own image.”

“But why?”

“I told you. I have questions, and you have still not answered them.”

There was a petulance to the king’s voice. He was not accustomed to having his requests denied. He had forced immortality upon the artist, just to have his way.

“Fuck you.”

“I know that you believe you can resist me. I am enthralled by the stories humans tell themselves, great fictions about who they are and what they will do. But you are no longer human, are you, Hart?”

Hart stared at the speaker in abject fear.

“I told you, our kind is incapable of creation, and what greater creation is there than the mythology of the self? The Hart that walked into my office would never tell me his secrets, but I think a hungry, untamed vampire like yourself will find it in your dark heart to satisfy me. Eventually.”

No. Hart clung to himself. He was still Hart. He still lived in a little house in Stockport. He still had too many pencils and not enough of anything else. He was-

“The pain you are feeling, it will pass. The warm void of our kind will consume you. The little stories of morality and judgement will float away as your body heals. Embrace it, embrace what you are becoming.”

There was a knock on the door. Two KF guards entered, one carried a metal case, the other remained by the door.

“You are my guest, indefinitely. My will constrains your actions while in my home, but I will give you permission to do two things. Would you care to ask me what they are?”

Hart rocked in his restraints, trying to tear them off. He was still weak.

“Where am I?”

“You are beneath The Fang, the centre of my personal business interests. I have used it for many years as a second home. I have kept earth and a coffin here since it was completed. You took my Palace from me, so needs must.”

The KF guard placed the metal box on the table and then moved back to join his colleague by the door.

“You must ask me the question; what are the two things I will permit you to do?”

Hart did not want to ask, but he felt the fingers of Dracula’s mind reach down, cradling what was left of his own. Squeezing.

“Tell me. Tell me what they are!” He screamed. The grip released, a little.

“Open the box.”

He reached forward, unhooking the simple latch on the case, and opening it. Inside was something familiar.

“I have sent you new charcoals. They are, and this is quite charming, from the home you took from me. These are the remains of your crime. My desk, I think, mostly.”

“Why?” He asked, genuinely confused.

“To create art, my boy! I’m no critic, but the provenance of the materials alone feels inspiring, no? Create a portrait of me or your co-conspirators! Perhaps a landscape of the verdant land England will be once you have killed her King?”

Dracula laughed again, viciously.

“I grant you permission. I can have papers sent. Models. Cameras. Anything for your masterpiece!”

Hart looked at the charcoals. He saw only burnt wood.

“I cannot.”

“Ah. Yes. We talked about that a little, I suppose.”

Tears welled up in Hart’s eye. He couldn’t do it. Where once images danced in his mind, there were none. He would never create anything again.

“What else?” He stuttered through tears.

“I beg pardon?”

“What else do you give me permission to do?”

It is impossible to hear a smile, but in the silence, Hart knew he could.

“For that, I will need a little help. Guard?”

With a flurry, the guard who had handed him the box was knocked to the floor by the one hovering by the door. He started to get up, but was kicked, and kicked again. With a slam, the room was locked, leaving only Hart and the broken guard.

“I give you permission to eat, my boy. You will need your strength.”

The guard strained to look up at Hart, eyes soaked in terror.

With a click. The lights went off. With a second click, Hart’s restraints unlocked.

“We will speak again in a few months, Hart. Good evening.”