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He dreams in red.
Red for the blood dripping from the corner of her mouth, that sickened him then as no blood he'd ever seen in battle had. Blood that now, he remembers as the perfect size and shape to be licked off slowly.
Red for the life he holds now, sweetly pulsating in the vein of an unconscious rose, waiting to be plucked.
Red for the fire that burns in his veins, sustaining him from year to year, decade to decade, century to century.
Red for her lips, red for her nipples, red for her maidenhead. Red for the damned blood in her body that he will relinquish from her when he is by her side once more.
When Jonanthan Harker comes to him, for a time, his dreams are infused with black, for hair he remembers flowing over bare white shoulders. He does not like the way women dress in this England, but he will suffer it, for his Elizabeta is underneath, and ten thousands seas could not keep him from her.
He awakes, starving, although he ate his fill on board. His lust is so great he becomes an animal, prowling through obscure streets in search of life. He follows the threads of passion in the air, and encounters a woman with hair red as his darkest nightmares.
She is wanton and willing, and he drinks of her greedily.
Black.
The black fall of his dreams, hair soft as a raven's wing, framing the face that has haunted him since before he was himself, looking on him with horror.
The blood throbs in her veins, from fear, not passion.
He cannot bear it.
"No. Do not see me," he whispers.