For the next few nights, Dracula and Hart settled into a routine. Hart would arrive at sunset with charcoals and papers, his host would sit and opine on the news of the day, occasionally drifting into tangential stories of his reign. He even made a special effort to sup before the artist’s arrival each evening. There was little evidence of the violence that had punctuated their first meeting, save for the occasional drop of blood on the king’s fresh lily buttonhole.

By night two, Hart’s hand stopped shaking and the charcoal ceased to crumble in his tightened grip. By the third night, his body had almost fooled itself into believing he was relaxed in the king’s presence.

“Is this the longest you have spent with a vampire, boy?”

“Yes, sir. I have painted a number of your descendants, but for them I relied largely on photographs.”

“Ah, yes, digital photography. An incredible invention, revolutionary for our kind.”

“It must have been strange to see your reflection again, after so long.”

He laughed. A belly laugh.

“Yes, yes, a little shocking. It is easy to convince oneself that slowed aging freezes us in time. It does not, it simply prolongs our suffering.”

“You don’t look a day over eight hundred, sir.”

Another belly laugh.

Despite himself, Hart was becoming comfortable. Dracula had a charm he could turn on at will. The artist imagined that the violence of their first meeting was not so much a test as a scene setting. The king had established his power, unapologetically and monstrously. He could now bask in the shadow of that crime, certain that his guest would remember. A peace built upon a threat. For both of them.

“Have you ever considered a place among our caste?”

“I am too old, sir.”

“Quite. And not nearly beautiful enough. But hypothetically, if the opportunity were offered.”

“I would miss my art.”

“Yes. Thank the devil I was never a particularly gifted child in that respect. I have created an empire as a vampire, I created little as a mortal.”

A braver artist might have pointed out that he did not ‘create’ his empire. The British had done that through their own sadism, long before his landing in Whitby. He stole an empire and declared it his own, as he and his descendants did with all things.

“I think I would very much prefer to remain a mortal, but a long-lived one, sir.” A safer answer.

“I respect a man who is comfortable in his place at the bottom of the food chain. You forgo the gushing ecstasy of human sacrament, but I can see the appeal. I remember some of the unique pleasure of having a pulse.”

Dracula fell into a memory, silent, adopting the pose they had agreed upon. The artist returned to his studies.

‍ ‍

—

‍ ‍

The nights continued. Hart had made many studies at this point, and was as familiar with Dracula’s face as any other. The sharpness of its features, that had so terrified him on their first meeting, were now terrain, rocky and hazardous, but catalogued and measured like so much cartography. His exploration of the vampire’s physical form had removed some of the power, some of that ancient mystery.

The artist hoped this would make his task a little easier. His bomb had remained unnoticed, tucked away in the duffel, which was itself pushed firmly to the back of his lodging’s wardrobe. The lady who ran the place had the stubborn incuriosity of anyone who worked closely with royalty and other vampires. She coaxed a vacuum around the room every other day, but her interest and involvement in his private affairs ended there.

He knew the opportunity to smuggle the bomb into Dracula’s presence was nearing. The guards had begun to pay less attention to him, the checks at each entrance were becoming more casual every day. He imagined he could bring a silver sword in with him and nobody would notice.

No. Hubris. Pride. Hart had to be better than that He needed cover, an excuse to bring the duffel in with him. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been caught already.

“How many more sessions must I sit in this chair, boy?” Dracula was significantly less charming tonight. He was getting bored as only the most pampered can. Fidgeting in his chair, playing with a serrated fingernail, or glancing at the door.

“I am something of a busy man, Hart, and I cannot imagine my face is so interesting as to be immensely challenging for an artist of your talent.”

Hart saw it, an opportunity.

“My studies are nearly at a close. I would like, with your permission, to take one additional night to study in watercolour, before returning to my lodgings and continuing the piece alone.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, if it pleases, sir. I would also like to bring some camera equipment with me, to take some photographs, again, as reference.”

“The last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. I will indulge you that. I do not mean to be rude to you, Hart, I have enjoyed your company. I only wish to return to my work.”

He turned his head to lock eyes with the artist directly.

“I want you to finish your work, too. I find the wait… insufferable. Do it.”

There was a knowledge behind those eyes. Hart wondered if his host had somehow become aware of the plan. His landlady maybe, or his own tells? It was known that Dracula could place images and intentions in mortal minds, but could he read them too?

“Miss Satō wants so very much to have this painting of yours completed. She cares more for such frivolous indulgences than I.”

“It will be your legacy, sir.”

“Only mortals care of legacy, Mister Hart.”

He stood.

“I will see you tomorrow night. Speak to my guards about securing your paints and cameras, they will procure and send them to your rooms tomorrow morning. I expect you to arrive early, dusk. Let us finish this.”

And with that he left. Hart had been gifted that most important of things an artist can be gifted. A deadline.