The Velvet Choker

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, and 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.

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PART TWO

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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 out run 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 behind him, 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 wide. Ian's eyes widened at the sight of the room, resplendant, 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 entry way 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.

Twice his yearly salary in a month, he reminded himself, giving a slight wave to acknowledge her as he headed toward the front door. Even if he never found out the story behind the strange woman he was about to paint, he would ultimately have one hell of a story to tell about the month he spent doing it, he was sure.

* * * *

Professional models were always so easy to paint. They understood what an artist wanted, how to assume a pose and keep it. He didn't know how they kept their minds occupied—did they recite baseball statistics, the times tables, fantastize about the future, meditate?—but for whatever kept them silent and still, he was grateful.

He had been dreading doing another painting from life. If he couldn't get professional models, he preferred to do his work from photos or sketches, because his experience with real people who modeled was they loved to talk. They talked about their gardens, their stock portfolios, their children. They fidgeted, shifted, got up twice an hour to use the bathroom, and by the end of the session, were asking, "Are we done yet?" like a five year old on a car ride.

But Lydia wasn't like that. She was a dream subject, obviously quiet, but also unnaturally calm and still, resting in the same position day after day, hour after hour.The semi-reclining pose Kauffman had chosen was convenient, of course, but she never fell asleep, as some subjects in those poses did. Sometimes he would get so lost in his work, he'd forget she was real—until he met her eyes.

God, her eyes. He didn't have any idea how he was going to capture that expression, her face, the way her eyes followed him, asked him questions, conveyed some distant longing she couldn't express. And he had almost reached that point. It was easy, those first weeks, to work on the background, the room itself. She had insisted on staying in position, anyway, even though he told her she didn't have to. He'd encouraged her to get dressed, take a break, but she wouldn't.

Instead she watched him from her repose on the settee, and he found himself wondering—just who was the subject here? Now it was time for him to focus on her, to trace the now-familiar curves of her body with his gaze and his brush. He'd been avoiding it, he knew, afraid of what he might uncover, not in the painting, but in himself. Three weeks with a silent ghost of a woman and he thought he might be falling in love.

"Lydia, I need a break." Ian stood and stretched, seeing her eyes follow his movements. Sometimes, she looked so hungry, as if she were starving for something. "Isn't about time for the old bat to bring us lunch?"

Lydia smirked, her eyes dancing as she sat, too, following his stretch with her own, her soft, long limbs flexing with the motion. Reaching under the settee, she brought out a pad and pen he had given her, their means of communication. She refused to use it at first, shaking her head vehemently, her eyes wide with fear, when he explained what it was for, but she had become more comfortable, although she still hid it carefully from sight.

You look tired.

He nodded, looking down at her girlish handwriting as she showed him the yellow pad. "I couldn't sleep last night."

A frown knitted her brow and she cocked her head at him before she wrote, Bad dreams?

Ian shook his head, watching her as she stood, how perfect she was, her hair like spun gold in the sunlight. "No, not bad dreams. Incredibly good ones." He sighed as she touched his cheek, her eyes worried, and he took her hand, holding it there and turning so his lips pressed a kiss against her palm.

Lydia jumped, pulling away as if burned.

"Lunch time, princess."

They both startled at the sound of Mrs. Bauer's voice outside the door. She rolled a trolly tray through, but Ian noted she would never come in herself. They had a girl who came to clean the room, a petite blonde who stared at them with big, wide blue eyes as she worked, but aside from her, no one but Kauffman ever visited.

"Think she poisoned the soup?" Ian joked, lifting silver lids to see what that day's fare was.

She wouldn't dare.

He shrugged at her written words, pushing the tray over to his chair and pulling another chair over for her. He marveled at how she looked so comfortable doing everything in the nude, even sipping soup and eating sandwiches. He had tried, a few times, to ask about the nudity, but all she would say was: He wants me that way.

And Ian had learned quickly, what Kauffman wanted, Kauffman got.

He wolfed his lunch down, not discovering how incredibly hungry he was until the first bite, and then ate the rest of Lydia's as well. She watched him, an amused smile on her face, and a warm look in her eyes that made him flush.

"Artists are pigs," he declared, burping loudly. "It's a well-kept secret, but it's true."

Lydia shook her head, still smiling as she stood and walked to the other side of the canvas. Ian stiffened, watching. She was there, on the sofa, not finished, of course, just a ghost of a woman now, needing real flesh. Crossing her arms in front of her breasts—a gesture Ian strangely hadn't ever seen from her—she frowned at the canvas for a while, so long Ian cleared his throat to get her attention.

"What, do you hate it?"

She shook her head, still frowning, her hand going to her throat to touch the cameo on the velvet choker she always wore. Striding back toward him, she picked up the pad and wrote furiously, turning so he could read it.

I need to show you something.

Ian grinned. "Are you finally gonna show me where he buries the bodies, then?"

Lydia didn't smile. Instead, she took his hand, pulling him toward the bed, and for a moment, just a brief moment, he entertained the thought she was going to offer herself to him, just like that. The thought excited him beyond reason, and he knew he'd have to be completely crazy to take her up on such an offer. But she led him past the bed, stopping in front of the dresser.

"It's the closet, isn't it?" Ian joked. He knew it was locked—the first day, he'd looked for a place to put the portrait, and Lydia had insisted the closet was off limits. It's his. What wasn't, around here, Ian thought at the time, although he didn't know how accurate the thought really was. Kauffman owned everything—and everyone—who came through the front door of his lair. "That's where he does his secret experiments, right?"