The king’s office was drenched in shadow. There was a viscosity to it.

Hart’s eyes took a moment to adjust from the cold fluorescence of Satō’s outer office. As his vision returned, he saw it. A large, hunched shape in the corner. It shook with spasms of energy, as wet, sharp sounds tore through the room towards where Hart stood. The artist gasped in a breath of thick, warm air.

The spasms stopped. A slightly pointed ear pricked out towards the sound.

“Mister Hart. Welcome.”

Slowly, the figure rose, its back to the artist. Wide set, strong. Hart could see the sharp lines of expensive tailoring, the sheen of expensive silks.

“Enter. Freely and of your own will.”

The voice was careful, as meticulous as the suit the figure wore. Words were clipped, punctuation resoundingly audible. It had the specificity of one who has learned a language as an adult. In a less imposing figure, it might even have come across as self-consciousness.

“You have found me in the middle of a meal. No matter.” The king, for it could be nobody else, dragged his right wrist across his face, wiping residue from his mouth. Still with his back to Hart, he swung the arm out, spraying a little blood to the ground to his side. He stretched, straightened his jacket, and turned.

Dracula’s front was as carefully constructed as his back. His suit was immaculate. A lily buttonhole hung in his breast pocket. He did not wear a tie, presumably to maintain flexibility when-

No. The only way Hart would be capable of remaining in this room, with this monster, would be to focus only on the horrors before him, not every single atrocity he could imagine. The limp mess of blood and sinew in the shadowy corner of the room was more than enough horror to contend with in this moment.

The pointed features of Dracula contorted, rictusly, into a cruel smile.

“My friend, you must not judge me for how I eat. Hunger is a curse we all share, mortals such as yourself, and those who are not so mortal, as with me.”

With a flick of a long finger, he hit the light switch, then moved to a desk across the room. Thankfully, turning to face him took the artist’s eyes off of the mess in the corner.

“I am your portrait artist, Your Majesty.”

The king laughed, and waved his hand dismissively.

“There is no need for such ceremony. You have witnessed me in the midst of a most intimate act. We are now friends, I think.”

“Yes, sir.” Hart kept his eyes locked forward.

Dracula nodded with approval.

“Yes. ‘Sir’ will do, I think. Sit with me, portrait artist.”

Hart sat in a chair, facing the desk and with his back to the gore. With the lights on, he could see the age in Dracula’s small, cruel eyes. His pointed features were shark-like. He was not ugly, rather… streamlined.

“I like artists.” He said, licking his thin lips.

“You do?”

“I do. I am jealous of you I think. We vampires, we cannot do that which you do. We consume, we do not construct. I think of myself as more of a patron.”

Hart knew this better than most. At a young age, training for national service, he had shown some aptitude for draftsmanship. Once he had fulfilled minimum service, he had been whisked off to an art school in Edinburgh, trained under the masters. It was a fate better than most humans who made it to 30. The majority did not.

“This is something I argue over with my descendants often. Any mortal can be food, but without the special ones, like yourself, we would be without culture, the arts. It is an irony of our kind. We need you to live, as much as we need you to survive.”

It was a romantic perspective. One that conveniently brushed aside the fates of those who were not ‘special’. The pile of viscera in the corner, for example.

“All of that said, however, I feel it is right to begin our conversations honestly: I do not want to be painted. I am not vain in matters of my appearance. As you have seen, I am far more comfortable in shadow. Every image of me that exists was created against my will.”

“Miss Satō’s wish, then?”

“Yes. A wise woman, for her years. She sees the value in the spectacle, the need to perform power as much as wield it.”

The king noticed the wet blood on his right cuff, pulled his jacket sleeve down slightly in an attempt to cover it. A little vanity, perhaps?

“It would be my pleasure to create something historic with you, sir,” Hart said, “Something powerful.”

“Maybe I’d be better off getting someone to take a photograph of my leftovers,” he said, motioning at them. Hart did not turn his head.

“No. Quite. Apologies, that was a vulgar joke, especially in front of a mortal.”

The king stood.

“We will begin tomorrow night. You will bring your supplies here. I will have some of my men bring in more light for you to work by. There will be a gathering of lamps and such. I will also take my breakfast in another room before we begin, so as to not be a distraction.”

Hart was certain the distraction was intentional. Dracula may not believe that vampires could produce art, but he seemed to have no difficulty communicating subtext with ruthless efficiency. He knew he must not allow himself to be charmed or entranced by the king; he had come here with a purpose, a work more impressive than any painting could be.

The artist would take his time. Trace the monster’s likeness with his charcoals, while tracing its comings and goings with a more tactical part of his mind. He would witness only one more death in this room; his, or the king’s.