Immortal Portraiture

Portrait Fitting

The historic Tuchlauben district in Vienna was quiet. All of the drapers’ and tailors’ shops were closed for the night; except one. Golden light, filtered through cream jacquard curtains, spilled out onto the stone walkway from Lehman’s Atelier. 

Inside, the tailor’s shop smelled of linen starch, cedar, and subtle panic. Which was to say—Julien Sinclair had arrived early.

Sinclair was one of Lehman’s longest-standing clients. Otto Lehman, the current proprietor, was servicing him just as his father had, and his father before him, and his father before him. You see, Sinclair had been a client since Lehman’s Atelier opened in the mid-eighteenth century.

He sat in a sleek, leather chair, one leg crossed casually over the other, hands resting along the arms with practiced ease. His posture was effortless. His stillness, curated. He was a man who ruled every room he entered.

He wore a black double-breasted coat tailored to within a breath of the laws of physics, the lapels sharp enough to draw blood. Underneath, a high-collared dress shirt in crisp white. No tie. A glint of simple, round sapphire blue cufflinks at his wrists. His slacks, a deep charcoal with a faint herringbone pattern, broke precisely at the top of his polished Girotti boots. 

His hair—dark chocolate threaded with flecks of silver—was swept back, glossy but never stiff. A single lock, uncooperative as always, threatened to fall along his temple, but didn’t dare.

Steel-gray eyes scanned the boutique—not impatient, just assessing.

The room itself had changed little since the shop’s opening, which was one of the reasons why Julien Sinclair continued to frequent the establishment. The original oak floors—laid in an intricate angular pattern—gleamed beneath Julien’s boots. Every brass fixture reflected the light from the chandelier and threw it back in warm, deliberate flashes. Shadows danced across the cream-colored walls, their movements the same since the shop’s opening. Modern men felt small beneath the fifteen-foot ceilings. Julien filled them.

Otto Lehman flitted in and out of view—adjusting hangers, straightening fabric samples, murmuring apologies in a panic about the tea still steeping. The man was visibly sweating. Julien had not commented on it. Yet.

The gilded silence was broken only by the soft ticking of a clock and Otto’s anxious clearing of his throat.

And then—

The door swung open with flair.

“—and I said, quite clearly, white tulips,” came the voice, melodious and French and mid-lament into his phone. “What does he do? He plants marigolds. Marigolds. In the same bed. Yes! The same bed as the tulips! I can feel my soul wrinkling.”

Aldéric Rousseau entered like a man who knew he was always interrupting something, and believed it improved the moment. His deep navy coat was unfastened, catching slightly on the breeze as he stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

He stopped dead when he saw Julien and pocketed his phone with a goodbye.

“Ah. You’re early. Of course you’re early.”

Julien didn’t move. “You’re late.”

Aldéric removed his gloves slowly, like peeling off disdain. “No, I am on time.”

Julien turned his head just enough to allow one eyebrow to arch in Aldéric’s direction.

Otto appeared, his voice one note away from a shriek. “Monsieur Rousseau—your espresso is still being pressed, I wasn’t certain when—”

“Let me guess,” Aldéric frowned at Julien. “Monsieur Sinclair arrived early and destabilized the schedule.”

“He destabilized the staff,” Otto muttered.

Julien allowed a single glance toward the window, where the shadow of a couple passing by etched onto the curtains.

“Good evening, Aldéric,” he said finally.

Aldéric tossed his gloves onto a side table and ran a hand through his light brown hair. “If I must be here, I expect reparations in wool.”

“The wool rack is behind you. Try not to offend it.”

Aldéric dropped onto the beige chaise lounge, one theatrical gesture away from honoring its fainting-couch heritage. 

“Orange! Marigolds! With my white tulips. The gardener has clearly suffered a head injury.”

Julien steepled his fingers. “Monochrome rage. How quaint. Shall I send a condolence card to the begonias?”

“No. Send one to me. I had to look at them.”

The tailor emerged with a yardstick in his hand and terror in his eyes. “Sirs. May I begin your measurements?” His neck spun back and forth like a nervous bird. “Your third companion has not yet arrived.”

Julien glanced down at his wristwatch. “That man treats punctuality like a peasant revolt.”

“Something to be avoided at all costs?” Aldéric guessed.

“Exactly.”

“Lachlan will arrive when the spirit moves him,” Aldéric muttered, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Or when he finishes brooding against a stone wall somewhere.”

Julien reached for the tea Otto’s assistant set on the table in front of him. He stared down at the liquid, frowning.

“Reading tea leaves now, Julien?”

“You know that does not work.”

“Then stop assessing.”

“I do not drink anything unworthy of me.”

“You’ve grown more impossible since I saw you last.”

“That was yesterday.”

“And?”

Julien pressed his lips to the rim and sipped carefully. He pulled back and frowned at the cup’s contents before setting it back on its saucer.

“I am in Vienna,” he replied smoothly, “the city of refinement and Strauss. I rise to meet my surroundings. Something you might try, if only to match your cravat to your socks.”

“Oh, but I have.” Aldéric smirked. “Midnight blue, both. Subtle, yet smug.”

Otto cleared his throat.

Julien gestured with two fingers. “Aldéric. You’re up.”

“Pardon?”

“It would be uncivilized to abandon a hot cup of tea.”

“And what would you call this?” Aldéric muttered, shrugging off his coat with a dramatic sigh. “Indentured servitude? I’ve only just arrived.”

Aldéric stepped onto the tailor’s pedestal, adjusting his cuffs. Otto scurried around him with measuring tape and pins, fluttering with nervous precision.

Julien’s eyes narrowed, his voice flat. “Your cravat—”

Aldéric met his gaze in the mirror. “What about it?”

“You said it matched your socks.”

“It does.”

“It does not.”

Aldéric looked down at his reflection. “It’s midnight blue.”

“It is midnight blue with pink diamonds.”

“Well,” Aldéric sniffed, smoothing the fabric, “they are extremely masculine diamonds.”

“You look like a game of baccarat at Versailles.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”

“You would.”

Otto’s hand visibly trembled as he measured Aldéric’s inseam. 

Julien reclined, a rare smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me, do the diamonds go all the way down?”

“You’ll have to buy me dinner to find out.”

Julien raised his teacup in silent salute. “Hard pass.”

The shop’s door banged open.

“Bloody hell, do none of these streets go in a straight line?”

The voice was deep, rumbling with exasperation, and laced with an accent that couldn’t decide if it was Irish, Scottish, or British.

Lachlan Sullivan was a walking middle finger to etiquette. His boots were caked in a mixture of dried mud and mystery, and it flaked away with every step, leaving breadcrumbs across the polished wood floor.

“Do you need help, monsieur?” Otto’s assistant called, rushing toward him with a tiny broom and dustpan.

Oblivious of the mess he trailed in, Lachlan looked around the room, then at Julien. “Oh, you’re both here. Excellent. That’ll make this less painful.”

Behind him, the assistant dropped to his knees and began sweeping with the energy of someone trying to clean away sin.

Aldéric, still on the pedestal, pointed without looking. “Shoes off. Immediately. Before the wood absorbs your trauma. And stop stomping, I have pointy little pins very close to mes délicatesses.”

Lachlan unbuttoned his coat and tossed it over a chair. “I don’t understand a word of the French. And before you explain, I don’t care.” He stepped across a pristine white area rug to a table stacked with fabric swatches.

Julien watched the muddy footprints form behind him with a mix of horror and inevitability. “He is bespoke adjacent.”

“Like a feral cat loitering outside a five-star restaurant,” Aldéric added.

Lachlan picked up an olive green bolt of merino and held it to his shoulder. “This one feel too pretentious?”

“You’re standing in a room where tea is served in porcelain and my cravat is a topic of analysis,” Aldéric said. “Pretension is the floor.”

Julien set his teacup down and rose from the chair. “Otto, we’ll need Scotch. Immediately.”

“I only have sparkling water,” he whimpered. “And a local Riesling.”

“You poor, unarmed man.”

Otto blinked twice, as if Julien’s request had triggered a minor system error.

“There’s a pub on the corner.”

“Do they deliver?”

“No.”

“Have them try. Promise them gold or scandal, whichever currency motivates.”

“I will send my apprentice.” Otto clapped his hands three times.

A boy who looked barely old enough to shave was handed a wad of bills and dispatched with the urgency of a footman in a Russian novel.

Julien returned to his seat, one long leg crossed over the other, watching the fitting resume like a hawk observing community theatre.

Otto, still visibly shaken, fluttered around Aldéric’s waistline. “Now, the jacket. This one is brushed velvet. The lapel is a satin peak, quite flattering—”

“Hmm.” Julien’s voice, sharp as a letter opener. “What is that shade?”

Otto hesitated. “Aubergine.”

Julien narrowed his eyes. “It’s plum.”

“Aubergine,” Aldéric repeated, chin lifted. “We are not heathens.”

“It’s plum, Aldéric. The painter will never be able to match that.”

“It is a bold jewel tone,” Aldéric countered. “It sings against my complexion.”

“It screams.”

“It is evocative, mysterious, and regal.”

“It is overripe.”

“You have no imagination.”

“You have enough for both of us.”

Otto made a sound like a deflating soufflé and muttered something about shoulder seams.

Lachlan was picking mud from beneath his fingernails with a cufflink. “If this turns into a duel, I’m betting on the one who brought his own blade.”

“That would be both of us.” Julien tapped the side of his jacket.

“But,” Aldéric turned slightly in the mirror, admiring his reflection, “only one of us would win.”

“Losers wear plum.”

The doorbell jingled again. The apprentice tripped into the room, cheeks flushed and curls stuck damply to his forehead. In each hand, he held a bottle aloft as if returning from war: one green-glassed and familiar, the other squat and brown with a questionable label that suggested it had either been hand-lettered or cursed.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer,” he panted, arms trembling. “They wouldn’t let me open a tab without a signature, so I signed ‘Julien Sinclair.’ I hope that was correct.”

Julien took both bottles and examined them with the air of a disappointed sommelier. “This one tastes like regret,” he said, tilting the brown bottle. “And this one,” he eyed the green bottle, “is a fine choice if your palate was injured in a fire.”

Aldéric gave a faint hum. “It is so adorable when you pretend to have taste.”

Julien gave him a wintry glance. “Pretend implies effort. I assure you, I wouldn’t waste it on you.”

He passed the green bottle to Lachlan. “Drink this one. It won’t kill you, but it may make you question your childhood.”

“Most things do.”

Lachlan uncorked the bottle with his teeth, one elongated canine catching the cork with elegant precision.

Julien tilted his head. “Charming. Do you use that technique at dinner parties?”

Lachlan took a swig directly from the bottle, then hissed through his teeth. “Oh, that’s vile.” 

He tossed back more.

Aldéric cleared his throat. He had turned to face the room, arms lifted slightly for effect. His jacket caught the light with a velvet sheen. His trousers were black. His cravat was a swirling black and plum paisley.

“Well?”

Lachlan looked up from his bottle, squinting. “You look like an eggplant.”

Julien lifted his hand and gestured at Lachlan. “I told you it was plum.”

Aldéric’s jaw ticked. “It is aubergine.”

“You’re aubergine,” Lachlan muttered.

Aldéric’s hands dropped to his sides. “Otto, we must start over.”

The tailor made a soft, tragic sound. “But the trousers—”

“Ruined by context,” Aldéric snapped as he ripped off the cravat and jacket. “Let us begin again.”

“Enough.” Julien shrugged out of his coat and unbuttoned his cuffs. “You have had your turn. Now, allow me to remind the room what taste looks like.” 

He reached the pedestal and waited.

When Aldéric didn’t move, Julien growled. “Off. Now.”

Aldéric crossed his arms. “I’ve only just begun… again.”

“You have begun enough.”

Aldéric stared down at him, refusing to yield. 

Lachlan, sipped from the bottle again. “I love standoffs. They always end well.”

Julien arched a brow. “Are you going to make this difficult, Aldéric?”

“It’s only difficult when someone forgets the order of things.”

There was the faintest jostle. Not a shove. Not a push. Just enough pressure to wrinkle silk.

Otto watched in horror from behind a bolt of wool. “Messieurs, please! No vampire altercations in the salon! Last time we lost a chandelier!”

“Is this foreplay?” Lachlan’s arm was slung over a mannequin’s shoulder. 

“Us, or you and the mannequin?”

Lachlan grinned. “Jealous?”

“I like my partners a little more—” Aldéric ran a hand seductively down Julien’s arm and purred. “—alive.”

“I am dead,” Julien said flatly. “Now get down and let me do my fitting.”

Aldéric stepped off the pedestal huffing as if vacating a throne under protest. “Fine,” he muttered. “Enjoy your moment.”

“I intend to.”

Otto approached Julien. His hands shook so hard the measuring tape fluttered like ribbon in a breeze.

Julien watched him with mild curiosity. “Are you well?”

Otto gave a weak, strained smile. “No, monsieur. It’s your reputation. It arrives early.”

“And?”

Otto’s voice wavered. “My father said you have the most exacting standards in Europe. And the coldest temper.”

Julien’s smile emerged slowly, a gleam of teeth that promised consequences. “Both of those observations are true. Be precise, and you will experience only one.”

The measuring tape slipped through Otto’s fingers.

Lachlan snorted.

Oblivious, Aldéric was lifting fabric swatches to the light with theatrical scrutiny. “Is this cerulean or azure?” he mused, holding one swatch beside his shirt sleeve. “It feels indecisive.”

Lachlan ambled over. “They’re blue.”

Aldéric shook his head. “You are a barbarian.”

Lachlan pointed at both swatches. “And those are blue.”

“Your opinion on color is invalid until you stop dressing like a chimney sweep.”

Lachlan looked down at himself, then shrugged. “Better than looking like an eggplant.”

From the fitting pedestal, Julien’s voice was mild. “If either of you says 'aubergine' again, I’ll have the walls painted in it and bury you behind them.”

Aldéric angled himself slightly so he could better view the pedestal.

Julien stood statue still, with Otto circling him like a terrified little moon orbiting an exasperated planet. The fabric draped over his shoulders was a rich charcoal wool, impeccably smooth. Underneath, his waistcoat and trousers were black, the only contrast a crisp white shirt, utterly devoid of pattern or flair.

Aldéric clicked his tongue. “Of course he chooses greyscale. If Julien had his way, the entire portrait would be in black and white.”

Julien didn’t move, but his voice carried. “Because it is timeless. Unlike plum paisley, which screams ‘opera patron with opinions about port.’”

“I am an opera patron with opinions about port.”

“Then wear the plum paisley.”

Lachlan, now seated on the edge of a low settee and swirling the Scotch bottle like a wine snob, declared, “I’d wear paisley.”

Both Julien and Aldéric turned, eyes wide.

Lachlan shrugged. “I would. Blue. Not plum. Not circadian. Not asparagus.”

“Cerulean and azure,” Aldéric corrected.

“What did I say?”

“Just keep drinking your scotch,” Julien said, flicking a speck of lint from his sleeve. “The bottle understands you in ways we never will.” 

Otto finished the last pant cuff measurement and stood. With visible awe, hands fluttering, he said, “It was a pleasure, Monsieur Sinclair. Truly. Your posture, your bone structure. It's as if a sculpture stepped down from its plinth to lecture us on elegance.”

Aldéric snorted. “Oh, now we admire bone structure?”

“You have excellent bone structure, Monsieur Rousseau,” Otto said hurriedly. “But his is… architectural.”

Julien stepped down smoothly. “You are welcome.”

Lachlan, bringing the bottle of Scotch to his lips again, found it plucked from his grasp with no ceremony.

Julien took a long, appraising look at him. “Your turn.”

Lachlan squinted. “I wasn’t—”

“And take off those god-awful boots,” Julien said. “This is for a portrait, not a prison lineup.”

“They’re lived-in.”

“They’re a crime,” Aldéric muttered, still flipping through swatches. “Honestly, even the mannequin recoiled.”

Lachlan craned his neck to study the mannequin. “It looks unchanged to me.”

Julien pointed at the floor. “Off. Now.”

Lachlan sighed and unlaced his boots, muttering something under his breath about “fashion fascism.” The boots hit the floor with two solid thuds, and then—

Silence.

Aldéric almost dropped the lilac swatch he held in his hand.

Julien lowered the Scotch bottle to his side.

Otto bit into his fist and blinked back tears.

Lachlan stood in one chartreuse argyle sock, barely clinging to dignity via a toe seam, and one black athletic ankle sock with a gaping hole exposing the back of his heel.

Julien blinked once. “Those are not a pair.”

“They’re close,” Lachlan said.

“They are not close,” Aldéric hissed. “One of them has aspirations of being a golf caddy and the other looks like it lost a fight with a raccoon.”

“They’re both socks.” Lachlan mounted the pedestal with the confidence of a man who had long ago stopped caring.

Julien passed the Scotch to Otto. “I will compensate you for a riser replacement. You cannot possibly use that one again after those socks have touched it.”

Otto began measuring Lachlan and had to call over an assistant.

“You have such a large frame, Monsieur Sullivan.”

Lachlan grunted.

“Have you chosen a color?” Otto asked.

“Green.”

“I thought you were doing blue,” Aldéric argued.

“I changed my mind. Olive green suit. Something that gleams in the light. Black button-down. New black boots. Black cufflinks.”

Julien recoiled. “That actually sounds fashionable.”

Lachlan cracked his neck. “I am full of surprises.”

Julien narrowed his eyes. “What are you playing at?”

“Just figured if I have to be painted next to the two of you for eternity I might as well look like I belong.”

Aldéric’s mouth dropped open. “Gods, you are full of surprises.”

Julien studied him a beat longer. Something had shifted. Lachlan had just claimed his place at the table—not with chaos, but with intention. “I’m still burning the socks.”

Portrait Sitting

The street was quiet—the kind of hush that lets every whisper of sound taste like an echo. Julien leaned against an ornate cast-iron streetlamp, his posture casual, unaffected, as if he were merely resting. Its halo of light bent crooked across the cobblestones, a soft distortion that suggested light itself had learned to bow when he stood near it.

A pang tightened his chest.

The sidewalks kept their old-world lines—iron balconies, narrow doorways, stone that remembered the footsteps from centuries passed—but the romance was gone. No gaslamps. No flickering amber fire.

Only the mellow hum of electricity washing itself over wet pavement.

Across the alley, a wrought-iron gate stood guard between two crumbling stone buildings, their facades swallowed in ivy. The gate might have disappeared entirely into shadow if not for the ornate gold sigil crowned along its arch.

Aldéric swept around the corner, his footfalls silent while his coat snapped haughtily behind him. He surveyed the alley with a bored sigh.

“How long will we be waiting for Lachlan?”

“I told him ten-thirty,” Julien said, “which is thirty minutes ahead of our actual appointment. Meaning he’ll arrive at exactly—”

Heavy footsteps thundered into the quiet, echoing like a slow drumbeat against the stone. Julien lifted one brow.

“—eleven.”

“You absolute prick,” Lachlan muttered as he appeared, glaring at both of them. “I knew you fucked with my time.”

Julien’s smile sharpened. “Right on schedule.”

Before Lachlan could retort, a soft click sounded as the old wrought-iron gate unlatched.

Aldéric angled a look into the dark passageway.

“I see we’ve chosen ambiance over comfort.”

“The High Council prefers discretion.” Julien gestured them forward.

“Discretion smells like mold,” Lachlan muttered.

With Aldéric at the front and Lachlan bringing up the rear, the trio slipped beneath the arched entryway and followed the sloped corridor downward. Small iron sconces flared to life one by one as they passed, casting an amber shimmer across the damp stone. The air cooled, dried, and took on an older, heavier scent the further they went.

None of them spoke. Three sets of immortal senses stretched into the darkness ahead.

Aldéric’s head tilted slightly. The stone itself felt alive, listening.

Lachlan’s shoulders tensed against a weighted presence.

Julien’s finger tapped against his thigh. They were being watched. Unseen.

The passage finally ended at an arched oak door, ancient and imposing.

Aldéric frowned. “Am I supposed to knock?”

“Three times fast, then two times slow,” Lachlan said soberly.

Julien turned to him, eyebrows drawn tight. “What is wrong with you?”

Lachlan shrugged. “Seems like the kind of door that prefers a secret knock.”

The door swung open, its ancient hinges silent.

Aldéric studied the open doorway, shrugged, and stepped through.

The underground sanctuary opened into a vast vestibule with a domed ceiling covered in faded frescos. Above them, men in long capes with hunting dogs at their heels were running through dark forests after unseen prey.

Lachlan stopped and pointed up. “That chandelier is wood. It’s got a hundred little candle flames on it.”

Lachlan looked at Julien. “That’s a fire hazard.”

Julien’s face remained passive. “And you are a hazard to proper decorum.”

They stepped further into the cavernous room. On the right, open archways led to large gathering chambers and a ballroom. To the left, there was a line of doors, each with a different facade. Some were metal, some were wood. Some had knobs, some had levers, and one had no obvious way to open it at all. All had a peephole or a window to verify who requested entry from the grand hall.

A door at the far end opened, the sound echoing through the chamber. A woman of timeless beauty emerged and stood silently in front of the door, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for their approach.

When they stopped a few feet in front of her, she turned to Lachlan, “There are two hundred and fifty candles on the chandelier, to be precise.”

Lachlan’s eyes grew wide. “It’s worse than I thought.”

“But still not as bad as your manners,” Aldéric stepped around him to follow Julien and the woman down an arched stone hallway with a deep red carpet in its center.

Without turning, her footfalls precise and deliberate, the woman said, “The Council’s esteemed portrait painter, Evert van Rijn, is ready for you. He will be putting your likenesses to canvas this evening.”

Closed doors stood silent on either side of the hall, each with a gaslit sconce above it. Most were quiet from the other side, but voices echoed from a few, screams bellowed from others.

The woman abruptly turned through an open door and led them into an elegant chamber with soft neutral walls, gold sconces, and an enormous, baroque-style canvas stretched in wait at the far end. 

The woman motioned them forward, then slipped out, the door closing behind her with a dignified hush.

Three identical chairs faced the blank canvas, each subtly adjusted for height, their placement deliberate and premeditated.

Julien stopped just short of the nearest one. “Absolutely not.”

Aldéric wrinkled his nose at the center chair. “Is this assigned? Because I refuse to sit at the end. That’s where politicians and dull men sit.”

“I’m not sitting on the end,” Julien said. “It implies I’m the least important.”

“You’re not the least important,” Aldéric offered lightly. “You’re simply the most replaceable.”

“I will end you.”

Lachlan pushed past the other two. He looked at the chairs as if he were choosing a barstool, and then dropped himself unceremoniously into the one on the left.

“There,” he said, sprawling. “Sorted. I’m left-handed anyway.”

Aldéric blinked. “That’s not how symmetry works.”

Julien glared at the remaining two chairs as if they were traps ready to spring shut.

Aldéric sighed. “I suppose I can give you the middle, darling. You do so love being the center of attention.”

Julien raised his chin. “I do not.”

“You do,” Lachlan and Aldéric replied in unison.

Julien lowered himself into the center chair, smoothing his coat as if brushing an insult away.

“Are we ready now?” the artist’s voice called out from behind the canvas.

“Physically? Perhaps. Emotionally? Never.” Aldéric took his seat next to Julien.

A hand holding a paintbrush snaked around the side of the canvas and pointed to Lachlan.

“Sit up.”

Lachlan grumbled and straightened his spine. “How long are we going to be here?”

“Couldn’t we have just taken a photo like all the kids do today?” Aldéric asked.

“I would never want a photograph of myself blown up to that size,” Julien huffed.

Aldéric turned to Julien. “What makes you think you’ll be more flattering in oil than in digital print?”

Julien tugged at the bottom of his coat with both hands. “One always looks better in paint than pixels.”

“Tell that to anyone Picasso painted,” Lachlan quipped.

“Did you see the woman who posed for The Weeping Woman?” Aldéric asked.

“Well, no, I wasn’t there.” Lachlan crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I don’t have a habit of stalking artists’ studios like someone I know.”

“I did not stalk him.” Aldéric glared at Lachlan. “We were friends.”

Julien inhaled sharply. “Dear Gods!” His head turned slowly to look at Aldéric. “You were Head of a Man with a Straw Hat!”

Aldéric pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. “No one is supposed to know that.”

Julien laughed, full-bodied, head tilted back. “But of course that is you!”

Aldéric’s eyes narrowed. “Putain de merde! You fucking own it, don’t you!”

“I wish I’d known it was you when I purchased it. I would never have put it in storage.” Julien put a finger to his chin, his eyes rolling up in thought. “Now, wherever shall I place it? I’m thinking… the guest powder room. Yes! Right above the toilet.”

“So that men look at me while they pee? No! Fuck no.”

“It won’t be vampires.” Lachlan examined the dirt under his fingernails. “Only mortals piss.” 

“How is that better?” Aldéric asked, incredulous.

“You could kill ‘em if they don’t like it.” Lachlan chewed on his thumbnail. “Or hypnotize them.” 

Silence.

Aldéric’s mouth hung open. “You started with killing then de-escalated to hypnosis.”

Lachlan shrugged. “I’m a de-escalator kind of guy.”

Aldéric turned to Julien who was smiling broadly, bright white fangs visible.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

Julien put his hands out, palms up. “What?”

“Don’t you fucking dare put my name next to that painting.”

“Oh, come now, Aldéric.” Julien sat up straighter, still grinning. “I am discreet.”

“I’ll buy it from you.”

“It is not for sale.”

“I will steal it from you.”

Julien’s eyes darkened. “You touch any piece of my art collection and I will remove your fingers.”

“Which ones?” Lachlan asked.

Julien leaned to look past Aldéric at Lachlan. “Which ones what?”

“Which fingers?”

Julien closed his eyes and shook his head. “All of them!”

“One at a time or all at once?” Lachlan asked without looking up from his own fingers.

“If he did it all at once,” Aldéric muttered, “he’d have to remove my whole hand.”

“Both hands if he’s removing all your fingers.”

A high-pitched giggle fluttered from behind the canvas.

As one, Julien, Lachlan, and Aldéric turned their heads in that direction.

The giggle continued.

Lachlan leaned towards Aldéric and stage-whispered, “What do ya think he’s laughin’ at?”

Julien closed his eyes. “I hope he is not laughing at how he is portraying us.”

“Do not worry, Mr. Sinclair,” the painter’s voice called. “You will be very pleased with how you are portrayed.”

Aldéric’s brow furrowed. He looked at Julien. He turned to look at Lachlan. Then faced forward towards the canvas. “What about me? Am I going to be pleased?”

Portrait Reveal

The building looked unremarkable from the street—a stately Viennese facade of pale stone and iron-framed windows, indistinguishable from the law offices and private banks that flanked it. But the parking lot told a different story. Black sedans with tinted glass lined the narrow side street, their hoods still warm. A Bentley idled at the curb. A Maserati sat parked at an angle that suggested its driver had never once been told no.

Vampires streamed toward the entrance in pairs and clusters, their movements deliberate, unhurried, dressed as if arriving for an opera. Dark coats and gloved hands, the occasional glint of something expensive and gold at a throat or wrist.

The heavy wooden double doors stood open. Beyond them, a wide corridor of polished marble stretched forward—floors and walls both, cool and veined, reflecting the figures that moved through it like ghosts. Closed wooden doors lined either side of the hallway, each one a private setting for Council business. Tonight, no Council business was being conducted. Tonight, the building served as a makeshift art gallery, the corridor served only as a processional.

Julien walked its center. Not because he chose to, but because the crowd made room.

Vampires who had been mid-conversation fell quiet as he passed. Some inclined their heads—an old habit, half-reverent, half-afraid. Others simply stepped aside, pressing closer to the marble walls to give him a wider berth than necessary. No one touched him. No one stood in his path. His name moved through the corridor faster than he did, whispered from mouth to mouth like a warning dressed as admiration.

Julien didn't acknowledge any of it. His arms were loose at his sides, his expression fixed somewhere between boredom and mild irritation, the look of a man attending his own coronation and wishing it would hurry up.

Aldéric was half a step behind him and twice as loud.

"—and I said, did he answer you or did he not? Because I asked a direct question. A simple question! 'Am I going to be pleased?' Four words. Five, if you count the contraction as two, which I do, because I am thorough—"

“Contractions are uncivilized,” Julien said under his breath.

Aldéric was gesturing with both hands, his black overcoat swinging with every emphatic point, his voice carrying far enough to turn heads that had already turned for Julien. Where Julien drew silence, Aldéric drew attention and he wore it like a second coat.

Lachlan trailed behind them both, hands in his pockets, watching the procession of elite immortals with the expression of a man who had wandered into the wrong building and decided to stay for the open bar.

"Lot of capes," he observed to no one in particular.

“Why wouldn’t he answer me?” Aldéric demanded. “Am I going to be pleased? The portrait is being revealed in front of the most elite vampires in Europe!”

Julien didn't break stride. “If there are Gods, you will be very displeased.”

“Why?” Aldéric’s voice rose an octave.

“Because you have asked that question seventy-seven times in three days and the only proper retribution is for your Immortal Hall portrait to be as awful as your Picasso portrait.”

Aldéric stopped in the middle of the corridor. Vampires pushed past him with grumbles and stares.

“That was a really mean thing to say, Julien Sinclair!” Aldéric’s voice echoed against the marble walls.

Julien stopped and slowly turned around. He tilted his head to the side and cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“My Picasso portrait is not awful.” Aldéric crossed his arms over his chest. “Not everyone can say they have been painted by Picasso.”

“Or that they hang in Julien Sinclair’s powder room,” Lachlan said, walking up from behind him. “You, my friend, have both.” He rested his elbow on Aldéric’s shoulder.

Aldéric shoved Lachlan away.

Julien stepped closer to Aldéric. The vampires walking past him were careful not to make eye contact or touch him.

“Are you pouting, Aldéric?” Julien’s tone was imperious.

Aldéric dropped his arms to his side and pressed his lips into a thin line. “No.”

“Then get into that room. Now.”

Aldéric frowned at Julien, then stomped past him. 

Lachlan bowed his head toward Julien, a laugh threatening to bubble out of him, then jogged after Aldéric. 

Julien took a breath, pulled his shoulders back, clasped his hands behind his back, and stepped into Portrait Hall.

The room opened before him, long and narrow, stretching deep between two towering walls. The ceiling—coffered wood, dark and geometric—climbed so high above them that the uppermost panels dissolved into shadow, unreachable by the low golden light of the wall sconces below. The marble floor gleamed beneath his feet, pale and veined, cold as a frozen lake.

Portraits lined both long walls. Dozens of them. Gilded frames of every size pressed together without order or logic. Massive canvases shouldered against smaller ones, recent additions wedged into whatever space remained. Centuries of vampire elite stared down from the walls in silence. All rendered in the same unmistakable hand. Luminous faces and pale hands emerged from dark attire and shadowed backgrounds, each figure had been captured with the same uncanny clarity, the same glossy precision, as if the painter had not aged a day between the first portrait and the last. Because he hadn't.

On the left wall, centered and elevated on a platform of two broad marble steps, sat the Council table. It was enormous—dark carved wood, ancient and immovable, built for permanence rather than beauty. Seven high-backed chairs stood along its far side, each one ornately carved, their seats facing outward toward the room. They were pushed in tonight, evenly spaced, more than an arm's length apart. Empty. The seats of power, unoccupied but watching.

On the right wall, more portraits. And somewhere near the back, behind the gathered crowd, a new gilded frame held a canvas that had not been there before tonight.

Vampires filled the hall in clusters of dark suits, muted voices, and the occasional sharp laugh that was quickly swallowed by the high ceiling. Julien moved through the crowd, accepting nods he didn't return. He looked for Aldéric the way he always did—by following the noise, the gestures, the gravitational pull of a man who never met a room he couldn't command.

There was no noise. No gestures. No gravity.

Julien found Aldéric pressed into a corner, curled in on himself, gaze focused on his shoes.

Julien put his back against the wall beside him. The room watched. He let it.

"Looks like Lachlan found our portrait and is pleased with what he sees," Julien nodded towards the back of the room where a grinning Lachlan was pointing at a portrait on the wall.

Aldéric did not move.

Julien moved to stand beside him, his back against the wall. “Aldéric, I am sure you look fabulous in the painting. How could you look anything but fabulous?”

Aldéric let out a breath. “It’s not about me.”

Julien raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Aldéric glanced sidelong at him, jaw tight. The words stacked up on his tongue, but they refused to move. His gaze flitting to the polished marble floor, the hem of Julien's perfectly cut coat, the dark gleam of the portraits lining the walls. His voice finally clawed its way out of his throat, quieter than he meant it to be. “It’s about being next to you.”

Julien tilted his head, his expression unreadable. Other vampires ebbed and flowed around them like water. Aldéric forced himself to straighten a little, though his hands still fidgeted against the seam of his trousers.

“Your Shield,” Aldéric murmured, eyes darting toward the painting Lachlan was still admiring with a smirk. “You’ve just started your Shield. A leader needs—needs someone strong standing beside him. Not someone who…” His shoulders tightened. “Not someone who can’t stop making a spectacle of himself. Not someone who keeps embarrassing the only person who ever gave a damn about him. What if standing next to you in that portrait makes you look… less?” The last word came out hushed, as if whispering it could make it sting less.

Julien exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t quite a sigh, but Aldéric winced anyway. “You think my reputation,” Julien said slowly, his tone sharper than any blade Aldéric could name, “could ever be harmed by your presence?”

Julien stepped closer, voice low enough only Aldéric could hear. “Aldéric, you know me better than anyone ever has and you still choose to remain beside me. You challenge me when no one else dares and make me see the world through a different lens. You won’t let me forget the man I once was.” Julien's hand rose toward Aldéric's shoulder. Close enough to feel the warmth of the velvet. Not close enough to touch.

It fell back to his side. “You don’t diminish me, Aldéric. Your light makes me shine brighter.”

Julien’s gaze dropped to the floor. “You are half my soul. The bright, fun, flamboyant part that I seem to have lost.”

Aldéric’s breath caught. Neither moved. Aldéric stared at Julien as he remained focused on the floor. A silence held between them. Aldéric broke it first.

“Lost it? Oh, Julien, you never had any of that to lose.”

Julien stepped back, his lips twitching and his eyes glittering. “I can be fun.”

Aldéric pushed off the wall. “In what world, Julien?”

Julien opened his mouth, closed it.

Aldéric put his arm around Julien’s shoulders and led him into the room towards the portrait. “Politics, strategy, art shipments. Not fun, Julien. Dancing, card games, feeding. Fun.”

“I feed plenty.”

Aldéric laughed. “I should not have included that one.”

“But you are right. Feeding is quite enjoyable.”

Lachlan turned as they approached. “That depends on who you’re feeding from. I’ve had a few feeds that were not enjoyable in the least.”

Aldéric draped his other arm around Lachlan and the three, standing side-by-side, looked up at the large baroque-style painting, wrapped in an ornate gilded frame. In oil paint, the three men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, turned slightly toward one another. Formal. Elegant. Immortal.

Julien stood in the center, expression impassive, in charcoal pants and black knee-length waistcoat. Blood red cuff links cut against the white of his shirt. His steel grey eyes tracked movement across the room, as guarded in oil as in life.

Aldéric was on Julien’s right in a deep purple velvet jacket, black trousers, and a black and purple paisley cravat perfectly situated on his neck. His smile seduced even on canvas.

Lachlan was on Julien’s left, his shoulder brushing Julien’s, one hand in the pocket of his olive green suit pants, the top two buttons of his black dress shirt undone, a smirk raising the corner of his mouth.

“I look damn good,” Lachlan said.

“You chose a perfect ensemble,” Julien replied.

“It brought out your eyes,” Aldéric said.

“Rumor is, the painter is the Master of the 1540s,” Lachlan said. “This definitely looks like his work.”

Julien slowly turned to look at Lachlan. “You know the Master of the 1540s?”

“Not personally like Aldéric and Picasso. I wasn’t alive in the 1500s. Though I guess we all sorta know him if he is the one that did this portrait.”

Julien closed his eyes and shook his head. “That is not what I meant. I meant… ah, fuck it. Never mind.”

“I’m wearing my favorite pair of socks up there.”

“It’s not a photograph,” Aldéric said.

“What socks were you wearing?” Julien asked, the words coming out slowly around his hesitation to know the answer.

“The ones you saw at the tailor shop.”

Julien pinched his nose. “You have ruined a perfectly good portrait.”

Aldéric waved his hand toward the painting. “It’s not a photograph! They’re not really there.”

“Does not matter. It is ruined by context.”