The Portrait

The night was dark. Storm clouds billowed, thunder rolled, and lightning flashed across the evening sky. The lightning briefly illuminated the cityscape before being swallowed up again in the darkness.

The darkness doesn’t scare me. It scares most people. When we’re children, it’s fear of the darkness itself. As we grow, the fear remains but for different reasons. When we’re older, we’re afraid of what might be lurking in the dark. It doesn’t frighten me. There’s little that does. You see, I’m that which lurks in the shadows. The night is mine.

There was a chill in the air as I stood on an abandoned warehouse roof, but I didn’t feel the cold. I don’t feel most things. All the same, I pulled my overcoat around myself more tightly, enveloped in the shadows. I was most comfortable in the darkness of the night.

I watched. And I waited. Not long now. Some three stories below, the streetlights lining the sidewalk flickered in and out of existence. There he was—just as I knew he would be. Right on time. I’d been watching him for a few days now—I knew his patterns and routines—he was a creature of habit. And for prey, that was not only dangerous, but it was also deadly.

My sharp eyes caught sight of him while he was still only a silhouette in the darkness down the street. I could see him as clear as day. As I said, the night is mine. He was walking toward me but he didn’t know that. Even if he glanced up at the warehouse roof for some reason, he wouldn’t see me. I was one with the shadows.

By my reckoning, my quarry was a young man in his mid-twenties. He was skinny, with messy, windswept hair and a patchy beard. Large glasses obscured his eyes, and his clothes were secondhand. He wore an oversized, knitted sweater and paint-splattered jeans. He had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and he carried a sketchbook under one arm. That was what had initially caught my eye.

He stopped underneath one of the flickering streetlights and glanced up at the darkened, stormy sky. It hadn’t started raining yet, but the rain clouds gathered all the same. The young man tucked his sketchbook under his sweater and kept walking at a more hurried pace. He was about to pass by, right under the warehouse I stood upon.

I hesitated. It was now or never. I felt a momentary, fleeting emotion I hadn’t felt in centuries. Fear. Strange—I wasn’t the one who should have been afraid. I was the one who terrified others. But then, I remembered what this was all for—who it was all for—and my fear subsided.

Silently, I took in a breath and then stepped off the warehouse roof. I hung in the air like a bat, silhouetted against the night sky. I felt that familiar rush of freedom that flight provided, like I could go anywhere—do anything. Then I dropped three stories to the sidewalk below. The wind rushed in my ears, and hair streamed behind me, but I managed to keep my eyes open. I landed in a graceful crouch on the sidewalk right in front of the young man.

The expression on his face was priceless. The young man let out an alarmed shout and fell backward. His sketchbook went flying, and he landed awkwardly on his back, propped up by his elbows.

I picked up his fallen sketchbook as I rose smoothly from my crouch. I glanced at a few of the open pages for a split second and then closed the book. I loomed menacingly over the young man.

“My apologies,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause you alarm.” I held out a hand and helped him to his feet.

The young man brushed off his pants and winced as he rubbed his elbows. “Could have fooled me,” he groaned. “You came out of nowhere—I didn’t see you on the street.”

I pointed to the warehouse roof. “I wasn’t on the street. I was up there.”

His eyes followed my finger, and then he regarded me cautiously, unsure of what to make of me. He took a step backward. “Okay, well, I’ve got to get going.”

 “I don’t think so.”

I took a step toward him and smiled. It wasn’t a very nice smile. It was quite the opposite. The warm, yellow glow from the streetlight washed over me. The young man drew back and gasped. I knew what he saw. As well as what he didn’t.

Here’s what he saw—a tall, imposing figure in a midnight-black suit with a knee-length overcoat with the collar flared up. My dark hair falls to my shoulder and my skin is pale. Bloodless, even. I don’t get out during the day. I prefer that. I’ve been told my gaze is unnerving—people avoid it at all costs when they can. If they meet my gaze, it’s almost hypnotic. My smile is more of a feral grin than anything else, like a wolf baring its fangs to its prey.

The young man flinched and took another step away from me. “You—you don’t have a shadow,” he whispered.

“No. No, I don’t,” I said. The smile never left my face. I stood motionless in front of him, waiting.

“Are—are you a vampire?” he stammered.

I paused and blinked. Mortals surprised me sometimes. “I thought that would have been painfully obvious,” I said. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Are you going to kill me?” The young man positively shook with terror.

“Don’t be foolish, man. Vampires don’t kill people. That’d be a waste. At most, we just drink their blood.”

Blood drained from the young man’s face. Strange. That usually only happens after I bite someone. He’d heard the bedtime stories. Unconsciously, he put a protective hand over his throat and swallowed nervously. As if that would protect him. He looked one second away from turning tail and bolting down the street. Either that or fainting dead away.

I had to act fast, or I’d lose him. And I needed him. “You dropped this.” I held out his sketchbook.

Understandably, the young man still looked flustered. “Uh, thanks?” He snatched his sketchbook quickly from my hand. “Look, mister, I don’t know what you want with me, but I don’t want any trouble. My blood’s no good—not enough iron in it, I guess—I can’t even donate it at blood drives. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be leaving now.”

I stopped smiling and stepped back a bit. “Are you an artist?”

That surprised him. He opened his mouth, about to voice some other plea or excuse—I’ve heard them all—but then stopped. He blinked, confused. That wasn’t what he expected from me. “Uh, yeah. I’m trying anyway.” He gestured at his clothes and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “You can see how it’s working out for me.”

He was being modest. I had seen some of his artwork when I picked up the fallen sketchbook. He had the skill. He just needed a little luck on his side. If such a thing even existed.

“Do you do any portrait commissions?” I asked in an off-handed manner. Inwardly, I held my breath. If he couldn’t help me, I’d be back to square one with nothing to show for my efforts.

“Um, yes, I do.” The young man still looked visibly thrown by my demeanor. He hesitated and then asked, “Do you have something in mind that you want done?”

I nodded and smiled again. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“And if I do it, you won’t drink my blood?”

I placed my hand over my heart and raised my right hand. “Upon my word, I won’t. That’s not why I approached you tonight,” I said truthfully. “Yes or no, you leave here unharmed. Though, I hope you do say yes.”

The young man’s eyes darted back and forth from my still-bared teeth to my lack of a shadow. I saw him weighing his options. He would have made a terrible card player. Mistrust flashed across his face, which was understandable. Mistrust and fear. And yet, there was a burning curiosity in his eyes as well. I could see that. He wanted to know why a vampire wanted to hire him. A fair question. Self-preservation and curiosity warred within him. Curiosity won him over.

 “Uh, sure. Why not?” He laughed nervously. “How about you tell me what you want and we’ll go from there. Would this be a portrait of yourself or someone else?”

“Someone else,” I said. “But there’s a catch—you’ll have to work off the description I give you. Sort of like a sketch artist. Can you do that?”

The young man scratched his beard with a frown before nodding. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “When would you want this done?”

“Now—if possible,” I said pleasantly. “I know it’s a bit of an unexpected rush—not to mention rather late at night—but I’d be eternally grateful if you made the time for me.”

The artist looked taken aback and then glanced skeptically up at the stormy sky. Still no rain. He nodded hurriedly. “Sure, sure, that should work.” He quickly opened his sketchbook to a fresh, unmarked page and pulled a pencil from his satchel before sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk underneath the streetlight.

I blinked, surprised. “Right here? You don’t want to go somewhere else?”

The young man still looked a little nervous in my presence, even with our agreement in place. “Well, I’d rather not invite you into my apartment—if it’s all the same to you.”

“Ah. Yes, I understand.” I shrugged unconcernedly and sat down on the sidewalk next to him.

His pencil hovered over the white, blank page. “Ready when you are.”

We sat underneath that flickering streetlight for several hours as I gave him the description. Mercifully, the rain never came. The artist didn’t say anything, he just listened and drew as I spoke. I watched and I waited. As he went along, he made a few minor corrections here and there, at my request. A line here that wasn’t quite right, a shading there to be fixed.

Slowly, the portrait began to take shape. From scattered lines and shading, a face was revealed. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of it. I knew I had come to the right person. He really was talented.

“That’s perfect.”

The young man smiled faintly at my compliment and set down his pencil. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and then stood. He ran a hand through his hair and stretched with a yawn. He removed the sheet from the sketchbook and hesitated. “Wait just a minute.” He took a protective sleeve from his satchel and slipped the portrait in before handing it to me. “This way, it won’t smudge or get ruined if it does rain.”

“I appreciate that.” I took the portrait from him and held onto it carefully. “And I really do appreciate all your hard work. What do I owe you?”

The young man frowned. “Owe me?”

“This was a business transaction, dear fellow,” I reminded him. I reached into my pocket for my wallet. “What is your price?”

The young man hesitated before shaking his head. “No payment other than an answer to a question—if that’s alright?”

Curious. I nodded. “Ask away.”

The artist gestured at the drawing in my hand. “Why did you want me to do that portrait?”

That surprised me. I would’ve expected him to ask some other question of a vampire. But I suppose, considering the circumstances, it made sense. This was a very strange night, after all.  Silently, we stared down at the sketch for a while. It was a portrait of a woman—fair and slender. Her beauty was captured forever in that portrait. I thought about his question before answering.

“She’s the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” I said quietly. “The love of my life. We’ve been together for centuries, and yet it seems like just yesterday that I saw her for the first time. She hasn’t changed a bit—and even if she had, I wouldn’t care—but somewhere in all those long decades, she forgot. She forgot what she looks like. She forgot how beautiful she is. As you can imagine, it doesn’t help that she can’t see her reflection. I tell her each and every chance I get—night and day—but I don’t think she believes me anymore.”

I shook my head and gazed down at the portrait of my wife. “Since my words are no longer enough, I’m hoping this will help. It’s our anniversary tomorrow. I’m hoping I can show her this, and she’ll remember. She’ll see how beautiful she really is.”

I glanced over at the young man. “That’s why I wanted you to do this portrait. So. Thank you.”

He was silent as he mulled over my answer. I glanced behind me—the sky was beginning to turn from dark to gray. Dawn was on the horizon. I was almost out of time. I had to get going soon, or I wouldn’t live to see another nightfall. The young man looked up and saw it too. He swallowed nervously.

“I guess you’d better get going, huh?”

I nodded. “I guess so. Thank you again for all your help.”

The young man smiled and held out his hand. “You’re welcome. For what it’s worth, I hope it helps.”

I hesitated and then took his hand. “I hope so too.”

With that, we went our separate ways. The artist hurried down the street, back to the safety of his apartment home, undoubtedly shocked and bewildered at the night’s events. He’d fall asleep and wake up wondering if it had all been just a strange and fanciful dream. Or a nightmare.

As for me, I stood there a moment longer, staring down at the portrait in my hand. “I hope so too,” I murmured again to a now-empty street. Then, I smiled and slipped away into the dwindling shadows of the night. I had an anniversary gift to deliver to my wife.

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