By morning, after conducting some additional research, Makishima had reached a conclusion: on the contrary, this was exactly the kind of thing L would do. The stifling, erotically charged atmosphere of the castle hadn’t affected him in the slightest — he had come to Count von Weisshaar’s domain with a sincere and unwavering intention: to exterminate vampires.

The following evening, when L descended for dinner, the collar of his shirt was once again left invitingly open, revealing several conspicuous love bites and two neat puncture marks on his neck, trailing a nearly visible scent of exquisite temptation in the air.

"My castle is not the kind of place where one should walk around looking like that, Mr. Lawliet," Makishima said, pouring the full chill of the Arctic into his tone. 

"Is something the matter?" L asked with feigned innocence.

Makishima glanced around to ensure Erzsébet and Carmilla were still enjoying their sweet daytime slumber in their coffins. It was just past twilight — still early — and they were alone in the dining hall.

"Do you want my sisters to figure out what happened last night?"

"So you’re finally done pretending you’re not vampires?" L exclaimed in triumph. Then, with a sly note of hope in his voice, he added, "But aren’t you even a little tempted to... do something to me?"

"I took a quick flight to London last night…"

Yes, there were certain advantages to vampire existence.

"…I did some research, went through the church’s genealogical records. Turns out, your family has been hunting vampires since biblical times. Your blood is highly toxic to us. The luggage you brought is packed with stakes, garlic, crosses, and bottles of holy water. And, well, I did see what happened to poor Mina with my own eyes, so — no, I will not be biting you. Don’t hold your breath."

L’s enthusiasm noticeably dimmed.

"I’d be willing to spare you the agony of dying from the venom in my blood and grant you a merciful death instead. A swift stake to the heart, a clean beheading. Consider it a kindness."

"Unfortunately, I’m not quite ready for that," Makishima replied, his voice dripping with venom. "In fact, I dare say I intend to resist. There are plenty of ways to kill a man without biting him, and I don’t see you bringing any of your stakes or holy water to dinner."

It was only now that L seemed to fully register just how precarious his situation was. He tensed, fingers tightening around the dinner knife — his only available weapon. But Makishima made no move to attack, and after a moment, the would-be vampire hunter hesitantly asked:

"You’re not going to kill me?"

"Not unless you try to ambush me with those stakes."

"And if I do try?"

"Then we’ll see. For now, though, I strongly suggest covering up those… marks of debauchery."

Makishima tossed him a cravat.

L scowled but begrudgingly wrapped it around his neck. Throughout dinner, he remained sullen and withdrawn, though eventually, Erzsébet and Carmilla managed to draw him into conversation. Fortunately, they were no longer shamelessly throwing themselves at him as they had the night before — clearly, they had taken their brother’s claim over the guest seriously.

At last, L muttered, "Fine. I’ll look at your library. And that… Giotto of yours."

"...Giotto’s use of shadows in this painting is rather unusual. In his time, artists hadn’t yet mastered the depiction of volume, which is why art historians were hesitant to attribute this piece to him. But it undeniably bears his style, and there’s substantial evidence that it was painted during his lifetime. His use of color was also well ahead of his contemporaries. Look here — see how the light falls on the angel’s wings?"

Makishima spoke with enthusiasm, feeling like Henry Higgins attempting to instill some semblance of culture into Eliza Doolittle. And besides, an art lecture was an effective distraction from... other thoughts.

L, however, still looked brooding. Clearly, his mind was elsewhere.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

"I’m going back to London."

"What?"

"I like the castle and all, but the plot... isn’t really working for me."

Oh, trust me, I know exactly what you mean, Makishima thought.

"...I’ve been thinking. I don’t actually want to kill you. Not with stakes, not with holy water, not even waiting for you to bite me. And yes, yes, I know — you’re being civil. But I can see the way you look at me. Like a birthday cake. And I’m afraid that one day, you won’t be able to resist."

"That’s what you came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?"

"It was."

L exhaled, as if exasperated with himself.

"But when I imagined it… I realized I wouldn’t be happy if you died. Even as a vampire, you…"

His words trailed off, and then he said it, with a simplicity so unguarded it was almost disarming:

"I like you."

Makishima had never been able to say something so plainly.

"…I enjoy spending time with you. Hell, I even tolerate your rambling about paintings. But since I don’t want to kill you, there’s no point in staying here."

"Fine. The servants will help you pack. Make sure you don’t forget anything from your impressive collection of anti-vampire weaponry."

"This isn’t some kind of trap, is it?" L asked warily. "You’re really just going to let me leave?"

"Yep. Let’s just say I’ve developed a genuine fondness for you as well."

Makishima was thoroughly relieved to be spared the need to explain the… unique conventions of this particular genre. It seemed the problem was about to resolve itself.

"I’d love to kill those insufferable, sharp-toothed hussies before I leave," L added dreamily, "but I suppose you’d be against that. They are your sisters, after all. And, well…"

He hesitated, then admitted:

"Being friends with you has shown me that some vampires might not be entirely awful."

Makishima rifled through the usual clichés and pulled out an appropriate one:

"If you swear to never hunt vampires again, I’ll stop killing humans and survive on animal blood instead."

L nodded solemnly.

For a moment, they almost believed they were telling the truth.

Reconciliation. Friendship. A symbolic exchange of vows. Makishima thought it made for a rather elegant conclusion.

At least, as elegant as a story could be, given the dubious setting.

...The only problem was, the story wasn’t over yet.

In his magnanimity, Count von Weisshaar chose to spare his beloved’s innocence — oh, reader, do you see how the arrival of Elias in Blutstein had cast a light upon the count’s rotten soul? — but in doing so, he unwittingly placed him in terrible danger. He did not know that, during their evening conversation in the dining hall, his sisters Carmilla and Erzsébet had not been asleep. The cunning she-devils had been watching, listening to their every word.

They bore Elias a bitter grudge — not only for the ruthless way he had destroyed their sister Mina, but even more so for resisting their charms, untouched by lust or vice. Yet, fearing their brother’s wrath, they dared not attack the young man within the walls of Blutstein. Instead, they wove a far crueler plan: they would wait for him beyond the castle’s gates and kill him without a bite — now that they knew the secret of his poisonous blood.

Grief-stricken at their parting, the count felt more alone in his cold domain than ever before, and so he did not immediately notice that his sisters had disappeared. But when realization struck, his heart clenched with fear. He took to the air, streaking toward the path the carriage had taken.

The scent of blood and death reached him from afar.

Alas, he was too late.

The carriage lay overturned, the horses gasping their last breaths, their bellies slit open. His treacherous sisters, unwilling to face his fury, had already fled the scene, but the coachman — drained dry, his skin as pale as chalk — spoke more clearly than words of who was to blame.

Inside the wreckage, he found his beloved.

A jagged shard of the carriage’s axle had pierced the boy’s chest straight through. He was still breathing, but life was slipping away, fragile as candlelight in a storm. The count fell to his knees and cried out in desperation:

"Will you forgive me if I make you like myself? If I force you to share the burden of immortality?"

The dying boy was too weak to speak, but he looked at the count and smiled — so gently that Weisshaar knew, at once, the answer was yes.

As everyone knows, a mere bite is not enough to turn a man into a vampire. For the transformation to take hold, the vampire must drink the human’s blood, offer his own in return, and then spend the night with him in a grave…

And so, Makishima did precisely that.

He tore into the skin of his wrist, letting thick, dark blood pool before pressing it to L’s lips. Then, without hesitation, he carried him to the nearest cemetery — of which, unsurprisingly, there was no shortage around Blutstein. He found an empty grave, unceremoniously discarding what little had previously occupied it. The only step left — the hardest of all — was to drink L’s blood himself, and to pray that after this "glass of sweet framboise" he did not meet the same gruesome fate as poor Mina.

He sank his fangs into L’s neck with the delicacy of a dessert fork in tiramisu.

Then promptly shoved his fingers down his own throat and vomited. Twice.

Makishima dearly hoped that the ritual itself mattered more than any chemical reaction in the blood, because if even a drop of it had reached his stomach, he was doomed.

When he was about to rinse out his mouth, a scorching pain flared in his throat. His breath hitched. Every part of him that had touched the poisonous blood burned and swelled as though from some terrible venom. His limbs trembled, weakening. He barely managed to crawl into the grave before collapsing onto L’s limp body.

Well. How romantic.

That was his last thought before darkness took him.