Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (21 page)

If
she just put it on…

“Put
it on.” His encouragement startled her, but she didn’t turn from her
reflection, transfixed, just as she had been in her dream. The ties felt warm,
almost alive in her fingers, as if they wanted to be joined, and today she had
no objection. Her head swam, and she wasn’t sure it was from the lack of oxygen
she’d experienced during the assault or the intoxication she felt with the
necklace in her hands. She didn’t understand it, she just knew she wanted it.
She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything.

“It’s
beautiful. You’re beautiful.” Kauffman was beside her, but she barely noticed.
She felt his breath against her neck as he lifted her ponytail, his wrinkled
old fingers moving over her bruised throat, her collarbone, tracing the dark
line of the choker. “It was meant for you, Lydia. It’s been waiting. Do you
feel it?”

She
did. The soft fabric encircled her slender throat, looking as if it belonged
there, but more than that, it
felt
right. She hadn’t felt anything was
right in the world since her mother had died, but for the first time there was
no more pain, emotional or otherwise, and she knew it was the necklace. It made
no sense, no logical sense whatsoever, but her body overrode her brain,
whispering the truth with every nerve impulse, every sizzling snap of a
synapse.

“All
you need to do is choose.” The old man’s voice was a hoarse whisper in her ear,
one hand squeezing her shoulder, the other still holding her hair out of the
way. “Put it on.”

Did
she have a choice? It truly felt as if the ends of the ribbon were tying
themselves as her fingers moved, crossing them, knotting them once…

“Oh
yes.” Kauffman’s eyes moved over her reflection in the mirror, and she saw with
wonder that she was already being transformed—the dark circles beneath
her eyes beginning to fade, the bruises at her throat as well. “So perfect, so
precious.”

Her
fingers automatically made a fat loop, crossing the other ribbon over, pressing
it through to make a second loop. When she pulled it taut, glancing into the
mirror, the transformation was complete. She was as she had been in her dream,
and when she looked down to see herself nude, she was neither surprised or
ashamed.

“You
will be my treasure.” His hand touched the blonde curls on her head, the other
moving to the ones between her thighs, forcing her to spread them with stiff,
arthritic fingers.

Lydia,
so transfixed by the change in herself, absorbed in the absence of painful
emotion, hardly noticed his touch, and she certainly didn’t pay attention to
how tight the band around her neck was growing. Not at first.

“Forever,”
Kauffman’s fingers moved inside her, pressing deep. “I’ll keep you forever.”

She
gasped as the velvet grip on her throat constricted, but no sound came out, no
sound at all. Panicked, she reached behind for the ties to yank herself free,
and found nothing at all but the smooth, velvet surface of the choker at the
base of her neck.
There were no ties
. Her wide eyes met Kauffman’s and
his thin lips stretched into a knowing smile, moving in front of her, lifting
the softness of her breast in his other hand as he continued the motion between
her legs.

Shaking
her head, she began to struggle, using her nails and raking at her throat,
looking for the velvet edge so she could tear the necklace off, but there was
nothing, no seam at all. It was as if it had become part of her, had melted or
melded into her skin somehow, and now it was so tight she could barely breathe.

The
pain was sudden, searing and blinding. She would have collapsed if the old man
hadn’t caught and held her, and she didn’t have time to think about his
strength as she fought the binding around her neck, trying to escape the pain.
The world went from black to white to black again, and she thought she would
surely faint.

Please!
The sound didn’t come out of her mouth, it was just her lips forming the word.
Help
me!
Nothing. There was nothing but the pain, the darkness, and the taste of
blood, bitter copper on her tongue. She tried to scream, she bucked and shook,
but there was no escaping the horrible agony of the moment.

And
then, just as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Kauffman shushed her as she
regained her strength, her footing, trembling in his arms, but it didn’t
matter. She couldn’t make a sound. And when she looked over the old man’s
shoulder at her reflection in the mirror, she saw several trickles of blood,
like scarlet tears, running down her throat to pool at its hollow.

“Beautiful,
beautiful,” Kauffman whispered as he pressed her toward the big centerpiece
bed, the one she’d dreamed of sleeping in. As he laid her there, licking his
lips at the sight of her, Lydia shuddered, remembering the words she’d once
heard him say:

I
like to keep things. I like to look at them.

When
he entered her, she didn’t scream or cry or thrash. She turned her head and
looked at the woman in the portrait, at her bright eyes, at the dark line at
her throat, like steel velvet, and she finally understood.

I
like to keep things. I like to look at them.

Then
her eyes closed and she lost herself in the taste of her own blood.

He
figured it had to be a hoax. Five thousand dollars to paint a nude portrait?
Who the hell advertised for something like that on Craig’s List? Ian sat there
in his boxer briefs, chewing on a slice of leftover pizza and contemplating the
phone number in the ad.

He
was still convinced it was some sort of joke when he pulled his Dodge Shadow up
to the address the man had given him on the phone. He double-checked the
Mapquest directions just to be sure it wasn’t 1313 Mockingbird Lane before he
knocked on the door. He couldn’t find a doorbell.

He
fully expected Lurch to answer—instead, he got Uncle Fester.

“Hi,
I’m here about the painting,” Ian said when Fester just stood in the doorway
and stared. He wanted to shade his eyes, because the sun was actually glaring
off the bald man’s head. “I mean…I’m here to do the painting. We talked…on the
phone?”

The
old man gave a stiff nod, stepping aside to let him in and Ian followed,
blinking around at the spacious foyer, the spiral staircase. Every surface
shined, and he understood immediately that the ad wasn’t a joke, and unless
this guy was into some weird sex stuff or something—in which case he was
pretty sure he could outrun an old man who walked with a cane—he was
actually going to get paid five-thousand dollars to paint. The thought excited
him.

“Upstairs.”

The
guy was about as talkative as Lurch, Ian thought wryly as he climbed the
stairs, unable to shake the surreal feeling that he’d walked into the pages of
some gothic novel. The old man’s gnarled, arthritic hand turned the knob on a
door at the top of the stairs, swinging it open. Ian’s eyes widened at the
sight of the room, resplendent, the light from the windows warm and perfect for
painting.

“Beautiful,”
Ian murmured, stepping into the room, and although he was talking about the light,
his eyes fell onto the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen in his life. He had
to blink several times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things as he took in the
figure of a woman, half-reclining and fully nude on a settee. Her face was
expectant, her eyes bright, as she watched them enter the room, and Ian noticed
a book spread open on the seat beside her.

“My
wife.” Kauffman made the gruff introduction. “You will paint her there, on that
settee.”

Ian
blinked, glancing between the old man and the obviously young woman. She
couldn’t have been any older than he was, barely out of college, and although
he had drawn, sculpted and painted countless nudes without a thought of sex,
there was no doubt that she aroused him. Perhaps it was the shock of it—had
she been waiting for him to arrive this way, remaining nude, waiting for the
artist?

“Well,
that’s fine.” Ian filled the sudden silence, clearing his throat. “Nice to meet
you, Mrs…?”

The
women opened her mouth, but put her hand to her throat, and it was the first
time Ian noticed the black choker there, her only adornment.

“Kauffman,”
the old man said with a nod. “I’m Kauffman. And she can’t speak.”

“Oh.”
Ian blinked again, wondering if the surprises would ever end. “Well, just so
you know, Mrs. Kauffman…you can wear something when I’m not painting. A robe
or—”

“No.”
Kauffman held up his hand. “This is how she remains.”

“I
can even work from photos,” Ian went on, his puzzled glance moving between the
unlikely pair.

Kauffman
shook his head again. “I’ve done my homework, Mr. Baker. When you answered my
ad, I looked extensively into your background. Only child, parents dead in a
boating accident, graduated sum cum laude. You’ve done freelance work and had a
few favorable showings since graduation, but you haven’t really ‘made it’ in
the art world, have you? What I am most interested in is your portraits,
especially the Nora by the River series.”

Ian
nodded, feeling the air go out of his lungs. Anyone could be Googled, of
course, but the thought of this man digging into his past made his skin prickle
with some sort of dark heat.

“I
can paint from life, of course,” he agreed. He wasn’t going to say no to five
thousand dollars, no matter what the eccentric request. He’d paint standing on
one foot if he had to.

“Goot.”
Kauffman’s accent was clear on that word, strong and crisp, and he moved
silently across the room, approaching his wife. “I will leave you two alone,
then, to get started. I want a masterpiece to hang over the mantle.”

Ian
watched the man’s bent index finger trace the black line of the necklace at the
woman’s slim throat, and he couldn’t discern the hot look in the woman’s eyes.
Was it passion? Fear? Anger?

“I
want something I can keep for generations,” Kauffman explained, turning to face
the young painter again. He pointed to the blank wall above the tall, wide
fireplace, a wall which looked freshly painted. “Hung right there.”

Ian
took in the size of the space, swallowing before he said, “I don’t think I
brought a canvas that big.” Kauffman frowned, his eyebrows knitting, and Ian
quickly responded. “But I’ll start sketching today, just to get a feel for the
subject, and I’ll bring a larger canvas on my next visit.”

“One
month.”

For
the second time that day, Ian’s breath left his body.
A month?
The painting
being commissioned had to be six feet tall and even wider, and the style
requested – his paintings of Nora had taken him years,
years
to
complete – was impossible to rush. She would have to sit for him eight
hours a day, five days a week. He would be living and breathing it. He did,
with his work, but to have it done in such a short time?
A month?
It was
impossible!

And
all for five thousand dollars. He didn’t even want to start the hourly wage
math in his head.

The
old man turned to go and Ian struggled to find his voice. “Mr. Kauffman, I
don’t think—”

“One month.” Kauffman’s voice was firm. “I am not an
unreasonable man, Mr. Baker, but that is the deadline. If you require anything
to make it happen thusly, I trust you will let me know.”

Ian frowned. He hated talking money. He hated feeling like
he was pimping himself out for it, but damn. Five thousand dollars for a job
this big, so much work, so much time and effort…?

“What was your gross income last year, Mr. Baker?” Kauffman
asked, seeming to read the young man’s mind, his eyes glinting as he leaned
forward on his cane.

Ian flushed, glancing at the nude woman on the sofa. She
was watching them, listening, and for some reason, her presence flustered him.

“Thirty-two thousand dollars,” he finally managed, his lips
barely moving. He felt numb.

“I will double it.” The old man moved toward the door,
hesitating at the entryway to remind them. “One month.”

When he was gone, the woman turned her eyes to Ian and he
swallowed as he met them. They were brightly blue, but they were watchful,
expressive, even as her face remained motionless. He wanted to say something,
perhaps make some joke about the strangeness of it all, make her laugh. Then he
remembered—she couldn’t speak.

“I have to go get my things,” he explained, motioning
toward the door. “They’re in the car. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t acknowledge his words except to continue to look
at him, although he thought he could feel her gaze even when he turned to leave
the room. He didn’t bring all of his stuff, instead just his bag with his
pencils, charcoals and a sketch pad. He liked to make a few initial sketches,
just to get a feel for his subject. He shut the trunk, thinking of the
“subject”—the beautiful, silent woman with the piercing eyes up there in
that ostentatious room, married to a man who was probably old enough to be her
grandfather.

There’s a story there, for sure
, he thought, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Too
bad I’m a painter and not a writer.
He knew his painting would tell a story,
they always did, but probably no one but Kauffman would ever see it, hanging
like a prize over the fireplace mantle. And what would it mean to the old man?
Already, it seemed to him that the woman in the room upstairs was nothing more
than a keepsake, something beautiful to be admired, like a diamond set in black
velvet on a jeweler’s tray.

Ian looked up, startled to see the woman standing in the
window watching him. She was still nude and there was no shame in her stance,
her breasts thrust upward, her chin jutting, but her eyes…even this far away,
he could feel the longing in them.