Portrait of a Lady Vampire
by Christopher J Burke
As the artist gave the canvas its final brush strokes, Lady Isabella sat frozen in the regal pose she wanted immortalized. She'd held that position since the Moon had risen into the night. Any discomfort would be worth it, though, if Genevieve could capture her essence. She wanted to be able to see herself the way the world saw her.
Seeing oneself wasn't an easy task for a vampire.
Her gaze fixed to a spot to her right, Isabella was aware of the artist's head bobbing. The painter looked from canvas to subject and back again. Then the young woman paused, almost lost in thought. Isabella saw that she held her brush as tightly as she held her breath.
"What is it?" Lady Isabella demanded. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing." Genevieve put down her palette with some hesitation. She cleared her throat before continuing. "It's done. Come and look."
The vampire rose from her seat. The artist stared at the floor, afraid to meet her eyes. Like a solar eclipse, everyone feared looking directly at a vampire. Would her gaze be the beginning of a trance? It was nonsense, of course. The portrait had been properly commissioned. Genevieve had not been compelled to create it. But the air reeked of worry, and waves of tensions permeated the room.
Gathering her cloak about her, Lady Isabella glided across the loft, even though she felt some hesitation of her own. Once upon a time she had been a beautiful noble woman. But then, centuries ago, she'd had been erased from her vanity, never to be seen again. Now, once she rounded this easel, she would once again be able to see herself.
At long last! This was the moment!
Genevieve held breath for the two of them for the reveal.
The vampire recoiled in horror at the sight, as if she'd been presented with a crucifix or a fistful of fresh garlic bulbs!
It was a twisted image, a mockery of beauty. A whitened, pallid face, with sharp, angled lines. She had a strong brow over sunken eyes, with dark rings. Her once rosy cheeks held no color but gray.
Lady Isabella struggled to regain her composure. Then she pointed a sharpened finger toward Genevieve, who had shrunk in on herself, cowering atop her stool. "Tell me! Answer me honestly!" She fought to find the words. Pointing back to the portrait, she asked, "Is that image true?"
She hadn't looked the artist in the eye. As much as she craved an answer, she didn't want it compelled.
