The bomb was a simple object, a small detonator fashioned from an old stopwatch, attached with tape to a package of plastic explosive. It was simple, but Hart liked simple. Simple was reliable. Simple was easy to make.

It sat deep inside the duffel bag, beneath the art supplies Dracula’s guards had brought to his quarters. The timer was set to 9pm, half an hour after he entered Buckingham Palace for the last time. Security waved him through, he skipped the X-Rays and the bag searches. Hart was now a recognised face, and three generations had passed since the last attempt on the king’s life. They were careless.

Dracula was not in his office when the artist arrived. He must still be eating. Hart unpacked in a hurry, extracting his cameras and paints, setting up an easel facing the chair upon which the king would eventually sit. He curled the bag up around the bomb and placed it between their positions, casually.

He looked at his watch as Dracula entered. 20:47. They made small talk for a moment, before the king moved to his chair. Hart wetted his canvas and began to shape the form of his subject, broad blocks of shadow and light.

“Do not render me too grey and dour, Hart. Every vampire portrait I see is so very grey.”

“Of course, sir, I have only studied you when well-fed. Your tone is warm.”

“Yes, of course. I shall recommend the same regimen to others.”

20:52. The artist willed himself not to look at the duffel.

20:53. Shit. He was looking at his watch too much.

“Am I keeping you from another appointment?” Dracula said with a grin.

“No, no, not at all, sir.”

There was a panic to his brush strokes. He could see himself missing marks, failing to render the specific light of the room. He was making mistakes like a child fumbling with Christmas watercolours. It was fortunate that the subject would never see it.

20:57. He allowed himself to glance at the bag. It was still, and still between them. From this distance, it would destroy the room and kill both of them. He was lingering his glance too long, and raised his eyes to his host.

Who was staring at him with curiosity and contempt.

“Are you worried at all that the bag will dull the explosion?”

“I, uh.”

Dracula rose from his chair and crouched in front of the bag. The artist dropped his brush.

“I would ask you not to spill paint on these priceless floors, but given what you have brought with you, I imagine their damage to be irrelevant.”

He reached a clawed hand into the bag and withdrew the bomb.

“Fascinating. A poorly constructed device. Tell me where you got it.”

20:58. He could feel the fingers of Dracula’s mind grasp at his own, just as he grasped at the bomb. Searching it, squeezing it.

“I will not say.”

“You will.”

Dracula turned the bomb over in his hands, his eyes focusing on the timer.

“It will explode in two minutes?”

“Yes.”

“No time to run, I suppose. So this is suicide for you?”

“I’m proud to die for my country.” The artist stumbled to the ground, knocking the easel over as he did so. The pressure in his head from Dracula’s intrusion was maddening. He was no longer sure if their conversation was outside or within. He heard screaming. He wondered if it was his own.

“You have never known an England without me, not for a moment of your short mortal life. They were all monsters before me, too. Confused, petty monsters. No solidity, no finality. Just endless, meaningless succession. Their blue blood tasted all the sweeter.”

The king knelt, and placed a hand on the artist’s back, pinning him to the ground. He placed his other hand, the one holding the bomb, on Hart’s frantically shaking head. He pushed down, the pressure was excruciating.

20:59.

“You came here to die. You hoped to take me with you. Do you know the size of bomb you would need to kill me? Did you lace it with silver shrapnel? A little garlic oil, perhaps?”

Hart could not move at all.

“You thought yourself prepared? You thought yourself a strategist, overwhelming an old man with charming conversation and charcoals? Miss Satō said I should stop playing with my food, she smelt the RDX on you from the moment you first met.”

Stupid. Stupid. The artist knew his life was forfeit, but there was no serenity in that acceptance. Only frustration, and of all things, embarrassment. The king leant forward fangs bared, and tore into his neck. Hart’s pulse quickened to meet his attacker’s lips, a final betrayal.

The king withdrew, blood running down his jaw.

“I saw plans in your mind in our every meeting. Clear and well drawn. More than I can say for your charcoals. I was fascinated.”

With a cough of blood, Hart asked the only question worth asking.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“My boy, I wanted to know who sent you. Which grand conspiracy secured you these explosives.”

Hart coughed up blood again. More this time. Dracula’s face began to contort, aroused by the scent, the sense memory. He restrained himself. Hart did not know why.

“A dying mortal is useless. The mind is the first thing to go. It scrambles, it flails. I doubt you could give me anything useful even if you wanted to. Chaos.”

Hart was indeed mad with terror. Screaming, shaking under the weight of Dracula’s hands. The pressure on his chest slowly squeezing blood from the wound in his neck. Every rib was broken, his world was terror and pain.

Dracula stood.

“A few seconds now, boy.”

He kicked the broken body of the artist.

“Wake up. Face the fate you chose.”

The king dropped the bomb next to the artist. Hart looked at it, through the eye that still worked. One second.

“Good night, mortal. So ends your mortal life.”

21:00. Thunder. Light. Oblivion. The world exploded, the king and the artist with it.