The brush whipped and slashed at the canvas and Helena had no idea why. It was as if her arms and hands had a mind of their own and the vision of the subject in her mind no longer mattered. She looked at her model, trying to bring the subject back into focus. Trying to clearly see the man sitting a few feet away and how she was going to capture his essence on the canvas.

 

   Mort sat reading a book. He had been told to relax as having his portrait done could take a while. Sensing he was being stared at, Mort looked up from the pages.

 

   “How's it coming?”

 

   There was no reply. Only an intense staring, as if Helena was looking right through him. Not through, actually, but more like beyond him. At least beyond his skin, his flesh, his bones. It was like the artist was looking beyond the physical and into his soul. Mort felt like he was being probed. “Is everything okay?” Again, there was no immediate reply. It was Mort's turn to stare. He peered into Helena's gaze.

 

   “Yes.” Helena's eyes returned her to the physical world. “Everything is fine.”

 

   Mort nodded and smiled. She smiled back and turned her attention back to what was developing on her canvas. She looked at Mort again. His face was so simple. She wouldn't have called it handsome, in the classical sense. But it was well-proportioned and attractive. The way Mort had looked at her hours earlier was soothing, yet intense — almost exuding strength... commanding trust and respect. Back on her canvas, Helena saw the outline of a face on which jagged strokes had craved a nose, eyes and eyebrows, a mouth — it was a face that looked nothing like the one of the man sitting across from her. The portrait she was creating was not Mort.

 

   Helena's eyes darted from the man to the sketch. A few feet away, Mort sat looking at his book. His face was calm and relaxed. That was certainly not the case on the canvas. The brushes were filling in details. The basic shape of the face was similar, but, in the evolving painting, the chin was buried, slanting the face toward the neck. The sharp nose and flaring nostrils cast an angry mood. The most striking feature was the mouth. Lips parted in a slight smirk bared an elongated canine tooth. Beneath the furrowed brows, blank eyes stared back at Helena.

 

   She was confused. Where was this image coming from? All her portraits, while realistic, had an abstract quality to them. That was their beauty. Their charm. Helena often told people who sat for her that the paintings were what she saw with her mind's eye. But this was different. She looked toward Mort again, then closed her eyes — hoping to see what she should be painting. There was only black at first. Slowly, details began to emerge — materializing in glowing strokes. The straight nose. The nostrils flared. The downcast face began to raise and she could see lips starting to part. There was no sound, but Helena could discern a snarly growl. The upper lip, raised at the corners, exposed glistening white teeth, accented by fangs where the canines should be. Suddenly, the brows furrowed and the eyes sprung open. So did Helena's.

 

   Mort was looking at her. “You okay?”

 

   Helena nodded. But she wasn't okay. She was confused. What had she just seen? She turned her glance back to her canvas. The painting was finished — exactly has she had seen moments earlier in her vision. The hypnotic stare in the eyes. The snarling ruby-red lips. The sparkling white teeth and... the fangs. She was scared. Helena covered the canvas with a cloth. Part of her hoped that horrid face would be gone.

 

   Helena stood up and started making her way toward the balcony. Some fresh air would change things. Maybe she was tired or warm or both. Air would be the best thing.

 

   “Helena. Are you okay?” Helena felt Mort's hands on her shoulders. His fingers caressed her neck. “Is the portrait done? Can I see it?”

 

   “NO!” She blared and turned to face Mort, trying to hide her emotions. “I just need a short break.” She put on a fake smile. “It... my creativity just isn't flowing right now.”

 

   “Do you want some wine?” Mort asked. She nodded.

 

   While Mort was at the kitchen counter, Helena returned to the canvas and lifted the cover. The gruesome face stared back at her — same as before.

 

   “Here you go.”

 

   Helena hadn't heard Mort approaching and barely had time to drop the cloth over the painting.

 

   “Thanks.” She took a sip.

 

   “Come on. Let me have a peek.”

 

   “Absolutely not. Now, go back over there and sit down.”

 

   Mort smiled and did as he was told. He leaned back in the chair, cradling the glass in both hands. He dropped his face a bit, looking at Helena with an air of smugness as he sipped the wine.

 

   Helena's mind raced as she looked at her creation. How was she going to fix this? What was she going to do?

 

   “It's no good. My creative juices just aren't flowing today. I'm sorry. I wasted your time.”

   “Let me be the judge of that.”

 

   Helena started to shake her head, but, before she realized it, Mort was standing behind her. His hands firmly gripping her shoulders. She sat motionless, staring at the monster on the canvas — waiting for Mort's response.

 

   She felt the man's breath on her neck. “It's perfect.” She felt his lips kiss her. Helena closed her eyes.

 

   The pain of the puncturing teeth was brief. She could feel the blood in her body race to the point where Mort was entering her. The darkness lit up with a kaleidoscope of colour. There were bursts of light — like fireworks. Then, everything was white… blindingly so. And then, there was nothing at all.