"Alright brother, I'll holla."

The young black man with the nappy dreadlocks and bulging bloodshot eyes waved a hand behind him as the door to the club closed. He stuck his well-chewn toothpick back into his mouth, scanning the empty streets with hungry eyes. The night was still young, and like any street-level urbanite, he knew of a dozen different ways to keep the fun rolling. One particular way was tucked into his jacket pocket, right beside a box of rolling papers. His toothy grin widened and he jogged across the empty street, eager for a quick toke.

He slowed his jog as he reached the sidewalk, sliding into a stroll that was almost too casual to be inconspicuous. He jerked his head from side to side. Assured that the area was free of police, he ducked into the nearest alley and reached in his jacket.

"Yeeeah, baby," he whispered to himself as he took a long smell of the plastic bag's contents.

He leaned up against the warm brick wall, holding the bag in one hand and reaching for his papers with the other. He slouched a bit, secure in the concealing darkness of the alley.

A hand exploded from within the blackness, locking around his windpipe like the talons of a hawk around its prey.

Most people on the street knew him simply as T, but his mother never called him anything other than Timothy. It was at that moment, as the predator's claw dragged him deeper into the concealing darkness while choking off any attempt at a plea for help, that T thought of his mother. He wished he had the opportunity to apologize for what he had said to her before leaving the house that morning.

"Don't kill me," he sobbed as the attacker threw him hard against the brick wall. The bricks felt cold now, cold and lifeless.

"Open your eyes," a voice rasped.

"Shit, man, please," T cried, his face soaked with tears. He was about to become the next drainer. He'd be on the cover of the Tribune the next morning. His mother would see him dead.

"Look at me!"

Slowly, his eyelids relaxed, and he struggled to peel them back.

"Hello, T."

The Spyder.

"Shit, man. I'm sorry...I'm sorry 'bout the weed...Don't fuckin' drain me, man"

The Spyder's hand shot forward, once more squeezing the skittish man's trachea, silencing him. The specter's eyes were wide and black, so intense that they instantly shredded any visage of strength T might try to muster. The vigilante's breath was hot, even in the summer air, as it scraped across T's face.

"Are you still in contact with Ron Middleton?" the Spyder asked, his voice hard and grating in the informant's ears. "Just nod."

He did.

"He is working on the drainer murders, with that Nostromo man?"

T nodded again.

The Spyder released his grip, but knocked T's head back against the bricks as he did so. The young man slumped a bit as the Spyder removed a manila envelope from his jacket. He tossed it at T. It struck his chest, and fluttered to the ground in front of him. After a tense moment, he bent down and scooped it up.

"Tell Middleton it's a present," the vigilante said, staring contemptuously at T.

The informant studied the envelope, as if its blank exterior might calm his nerves or somehow reveal what was inside. He rubbed his head, still doubled over and trying to shake the pain in his skull.

"Two days," the Spyder said sternly, drawing T's attention back to his shadowy form. "I will contact you two days from now. Tell Middleton if he has anything to tell me, get it to you before then."

"Wh-where...?"

"I will contact you," the Spyder repeated, his words hanging in the air as he strolled leisurely into the darkness. It seemed to swallow him whole. Within seconds he was gone, once more consumed by the gaping maw of the city's night.

T breathed heavily, collapsing into a sitting position against the alley wall. He glanced back towards the street, seeing his bag of marijuana sprinkled across the pavement. He swallowed heavily, choking his fear back down into the pit of his stomach and fanning himself with the envelope. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bricks, enjoying every breath of air he took. The sweat which covered his body began to dry as a cool breeze entered the alleyway.

Timothy suddenly found himself with an overwhelming urge to spend the rest of the night with his mother.

...comeintomyparlor...

Artifice Comics Presents
The Spyder: Nostromo #2
"The Insanity of Passion"
By Bill Castonzo

...comeintomyparlor...

He pushed open the glass double doors with one fell swoop. And for a brief moment, everyone stopped. He moved with a liquid grace, commanding a confidence borne from experiences most of the officers in the Harbour City Police Department could not even begin to fathom. His presence was ageless. One could not help but stare. His face was chiseled with deep wrinkles, but the bone structure was still sharp and defined. His jaw was strong, as were the coal black eyes set deep behind a protruding Roman nose. Thick black hair was combed back, still slick with styling gel. He wore a beautiful dark blue Italian suit, protected by a long, black trenchcoat, even in the heat of the late Australian summer. He wasn't exactly physically imposing, both his height and build were average at best, but the way he stood and the way he moved all but screamed with a natural authority. The officers almost held their breaths as they regarded him.

Guillermo del Nostromo. Occult specialist from the Supers Division of the Italian secret service.

Behind him, Harbour City Detective Ron Middleton marched into the station, wearing a grave expression, and suddenly life resumed and the respectful stillness was broken. Middleton carried his jacket in his left hand and a manila envelope in his right, his undershirt dampened with sweat and unbuttoned at the collar.

"It won't work," he said to Nostromo. The men walked side-by-side into the station, their appearances drawn in stark contrast and their leather shoes clicking in a syncopated rhythm along the dirty linoleum. Neither man looked at the other as they conversed, but a mutual respect was palpable. "The Spyder's too smart for that."

Nostromo smirked noticeably.

"No man can outsmart you forever," Nostromo said in his rich Italian accent.

"Yeah, it only seems like it," Middleton retorted in his decidedly less melodic Australian.

"This is the opportunity we need. He is making himself available to us, deliberately," Nostromo pressed.

"Right. That's my point...He knows that we know where he's gonna be. There's no way he's gonna let himself get within a hundred meters of T unless he can be absolutely certain we're not tailin' my man. I'm tellin' you, Guillermo, the Spyder's unbelievable. He'll know. It won't work. He won't let it."

Nostromo stopped, and turned to look Middleton in the eye. The Italian man smiled pleasantly, breaking the intensity of their conversation.

"Fine," he said. "Then we decide on another plan. Simple, eh?"

"Yeah," Middleton said, rolling his eyes and walking the few remaining steps to his ground floor desk. "Real fuckin' simple."

He tossed the manila envelope on top of the thick layer of clutter and sighed.

"I gotta move some of this shit into my office..." he grumbled. Nostromo chuckled a bit, studying the overflowing desktop.

"Hey, Mid..."

Nostromo and Middleton both turned at the sound of the voice. Donnie Wong approached hesitantly, scanning the rows of desks and cubicles as if looking for someone. He had a peculiar, almost concerned, look on his face. Nostromo took silent note of the young Asian man's demeanor.

"Mid, I've been lookin' for you, man," Donnie said nervously, stepping in close next to Middleton. "I gotta talk to you real quick about..."

"Hi, Ron!"

All three men turned at the sound of this sweet new voice, ringing out sharply from behind Donnie. Maggie Pierce stood smiling in a curve-hugging skirted suit ensemble. Her short-cropped hair was teased into a classy updo, and the deep crimson of her lipstick seemed to make her soft round face glow. Nostromo raised a semi-impressed eyebrow and Middleton made no effort to stifle his toothy grin. The weight of the morning's meeting with T seemed to lift from his shoulders. Donnie, on the other hand, let his eyes drop to the floor.

"Maggie," Middleton greeted warmly, stepping away from Donnie and Nostromo and grasping Maggie's extended hand with both of his own. "Have you met Dr. del Nostromo?"

"Briefly, yesterday. Though Dr. del Nostromo met a lot of people yesterday, I'm sure," Maggie said humbly as she turned. Nostromo's fingers wrapped lightly around her own as she moved to shake his hand, and he slowly lifted her knuckles to his lips for a soft, gentlemanly kiss. She smiled, faltering a bit as her eyes met his. The corners of her mouth drooped slightly, her eyes growing curiously wider, even as his own eyes narrowed while his smile curled higher.

"Miss Pierce, of course. A pleasure to see you again," he purred in his deep baritone.

An awkward silence fell over the group. Maggie seemed unable to break Nostromo's gaze. The last vestiges of her smile slowly faded as she studied something buried behind those coal eyes.

"Maggie, did you need me for anything, or...?" Middleton said. She shook her head, the pretty smile returning to her features as she quickly turned away from Nostromo. The old Italian straightened up a bit, a knowing smirk remaining on the corners of his lips. He adjusted his coat, keenly observing the exchange between Middleton and Pierce.

"Yeah...Do you think I could talk to you for just a second?" Maggie asked.

"Sure..." Middleton said hesitantly. He turned to Donnie. "But first, what'd you need, Donnie?"

The young forensics man swallowed visibly, looking quickly to Maggie, then back to Middleton.

"Y'know...It's, uh, nothing important. I'll grab you sometime later."

Donnie flashed a meek smile and shuffled away quickly, not making eye contact with Maggie as he passed her by. He quickly disappeared into a stairwell.

"Weird..." Middleton mused to himself. He looked back to Maggie, who was still smiling at him, and once more any concerns he might have had were abruptly pushed from his mind. "Guillermo, gimme a second?"

"By all means."

Middleton strolled a few meters away, completely occupied with the fiery forensics expert. Neither of them noticed Nostromo's glare. He studied them intently for a moment, the smirk promptly dropping from his features. His eyes bored into the oblivious Maggie, peering forth darkly from under the shadow of his lowered brow. There was something about that young woman that elicited a tingle in the pit of Guillermo del Nostromo's stomach. Something in her voice, her movements, her eyes. Something he did not trust.

Slowly, he turned away from his colleagues' conversation, his thoughts momentarily lingering on Maggie. His suspicions about her would have to be resolved, preferably sooner than later. But there was a matter of greater  concern. He carefully picked up the manila envelope, folding the flap over and slipping the small stack of papers out of the top. He glanced over each sheet with a distinct purpose, looking for very particular information. He found it. All of it. Something about a missing finger. A mysterious black gel. With a live, cellular structure. An organism. He slid each of the pertinent sheets out of the container, folded them thrice, and tucked them neatly into his jacket before resealing the envelope. He dropped it back upon the messy desk and turned to see Maggie depart Middleton with a warm handshake and flirtatious stare.

Nostromo smiled reassuringly and folded his hands in front of him as Middleton approached.

"And what did Miss Pierce have to say?"

Middleton chuckled.

"I have a date tonight," he said, beaming.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," Middleton said as he approached his desk. He began to gather the papers together, still chuckling to himself. Nostromo watched him with a smile of his own. "Anyways...Let's get some of this upstairs. Then maybe we can take a look at what's inside this envelope."

* * *

"Amie?"

"Over here."

Norrington saw a waving hand protrude from a cubicle on the far side of the dark room, illuminated by the light of the microfiche screen. He closed the door quietly, not wishing to further disturb the few other Tribune staffers looking through the extensive archives, and made his way to the empty chair at Paige's side.

"You find anything?" she asked, still clicking through the various headlines.

"Nothing new. Born in '40 in Sicily to Salvatore and Eugenia del Nostromo. Graduated Oxford in '62. Worked as an SI with local authorities in Calabria, then Rome, for a few years, before he went federal. Then some case rundowns, etcetera etcetera. Same old song. I'm not really sure we're gonna have much luck on the web, at least not with any credible sources. Because of the nature of most of his investigations, they're notoriously poorly documented."

"Damn it," Paige murmured, reclining in her chair. She tapped at the button in front of her, scrolling randomly through the headlines as her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Norrington's eyes glazed over as he watched the old newspapers flash by on the screen, like fragments of memory bursting across a public psyche. Murder, magic, masks. Norrington cringed at the arcane history of this super-powered world.

"What's wrong?" Paige asked, noticing his flinch.

"Nothing," John replied. "Nothing."

He looked again to the screen. His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. A moment passed.

"So have you found anything?"

"Not really," Paige said. "Some short blurbs about the cases that we've already found on various websites. Nothing too interesting. Like you said, none of it's well documented. These fuckin' old-time papers...They were either too scared or too fuckin' stupid to dig into any of the super cases. They'd rather be ignorant...Ignorant of these people that changed the world around them every day."

"Not everyone has your strength."

Paige looked skeptically at Norrington, who returned her gaze with a look of bared, vulnerable seriousness.

"Thank you," she smiled, almost surprised.

"It's true, Amie. Especially after what happened to Ramsey Long, disappearing before he could even finish his Freelancer Chronicles, a lot of writers thought that those kinds of stories were suicide. The people you might piss off were just too powerful. Not many writers could go out and get the kind of dangerous stories that you do."

"You think you can, though. That's why you're here, isn't it? So I can't be that special..." Amie countered, not wanting to believe a man as strong and confident as John could speak with that kind of humility.

"Well...I'm different..." John said uncomfortably. He turned away, his voice heavy. Paige was puzzled.

"John...?"

She had struck some sort of a chord. Touched upon something which made him react with such deep-seated emotion. There was more to John Norrington than what he led on. And it intrigued her greatly. She placed a gentle hand on his hard, strong shoulder. He looked to her with tender eyes.

"John, why are you different?"

"I'm sorry..." he said, straightening up and shrugging away her hand. "We should really get back to work. I didn't mean to embarrass you or anything..."

"No...No, John, not at all," she replied, collecting herself. "I'm flattered, really. But hey, listen, I think we might've exhausted this angle. We can just use what we already have on this Nostromo guy...There may not be 

"No," John insisted. "No, I don't trust him."

"Why?" Paige asked curiously, not understanding the reason for John's 

"I just don't," he said defensively. He certainly was moody. Almost dark, at times. His tenderness had vanished, replaced by the intensity she had seen glimpses of in him on more than one occasion. She could not figure him out.

"John...What is it about you and supers...?" she whispered, as if wanting to keep it to herself but simply not having the restraint. The connection between the science beings and John's mood swings, while subtle, was undeniable. John seemed taken back by the comment.

"N-nothing..." he stammered quickly. He rose from his chair. "Nothing. Look, I just need some coffee is all. I'm a little jumpy. Too much time spent dealing with 'drainers' and spiders...You want some coffee? I'll get you a cup."

He headed quickly for the exit and shuffled out, letting the door slam behind him. Paige was left alone with her racing thoughts and growing suspicions.

* * *

Waiting.

I screamed until I had no breath left, and then I screamed some more.

* * *

"Here we are, Miss Pierce."

Middleton grinned from ear to ear as the door swung open, and he gestured broadly for Maggie to enter. He winked at her.

"Thank you," Maggie said sweetly, playfully tickling Middleton's stomach as she passed him. He filed in close behind her, flicking the light switch adjacent to the door.

"Y'know, I just realized I didn't have time to clean..." Middleton said, cocking an eyebrow as he glanced around the apartment. In the small kitchen nook, dishes lay dirty in the sink and the countertops were dull from lack of scrubbing. Past the kitchen, his familiar tan overcoat and a pair of slacks lay strewn over the armrest of the musty old couch which sat against a side wall opposite the modest television set. Middleton leaned to his immediate left, deftly sliding the door to the unorganized hall closet closed.

"Don't worry about it, I know what it's like trying a keep a place on such an erratic schedule," Maggie said, waving off Middleton's worry and strolling over to the couch. She scooped up the coat and pants.

"Yeah..." Middleton said sheepishly as he followed her across the room. He sloppily arranged the couch cushions before taking the coat from Maggie. He felt her fingertips brush lightly yet deliberately across his hand as he did so, and he smiled to himself as he turned back toward the closet.

"This was nice. Y'know, us going out tonight," Maggie said as she smoothed and folded the slacks. "Sometimes I think I'll go nuts if I don't take some time away from work every now and then. You ever get that feeling?"

"Well, it was wonderful tonight," Maggie replied warmly. "Dinner was absolutely delicious. I never thought I would like French food!"

"Yeah, you get to know all the good places to eat when you're working the beats. Never thought I'd like French food either...It was Mitch that actually turned me on to that place..."

"Mitch?"

Middleton paused, his hand lingering on the hanger as he placed the coat in the closet. A moment passed.

"Oh...He's just a friend. Used to be with the department. You haven't met him"

"I see," Maggie said. She slung the neatly-folded pants over her arm and turned away from Middleton, taking in the apartment. "This is a pretty nice place, Ron. Real...cozy."

Middleton shrugged his sport coat from his shoulders, and as he did, his eyes could not help but settle on Maggie.

She really was beautiful. Her flared black pants swished loosely above the floor around her heels, but hugged her shapely thighs and butt with a classy yet suggestive tightness. The animal print of her ruffle-cuffed blouse was certainly something she would not wear to work, but again was worn in a classy sophistication another woman might not be able to pull off. She was short, and her curves were unarguably a bit exaggerated, but for a woman of her age, she kept herself in good shape. And Middleton just loved the hint of mystery he saw in her eyes.

At first, he had thought his attraction to her was simply one of proximity. It had been a while since Middleton had been close to any woman, let alone a good-looking woman, either personally or professionally. Her presence was a welcome respite. But the more he was around her...The more he heard her voice, caught a whiff of her perfume, saw that glimmer across her eye, the more he realized that she was more than a passing fancy. She struck a chord in Middleton. She was someone he could relate to, talk to...And in his life, people that he could relate to were much too few and far between.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, absently tossing his sport coat into the closet. He was entranced by her.

"Absolutely," she smiled, turning and walking to him. She strolled in close, her dark, almond eyes locked with his. She held out the slacks for him, and this time it was his fingers that found their way across hers.

"What'll you have?" Middleton asked, slowly pulling himself away and setting the pants down upon the countertop which separated the kitchen from the living room.

"Surprise me," she smiled, turning away.

Middleton promptly took to his cabinets, removing ice, glasses, napkins and various liquors. Maggie strolled back to the living room and melted down into the couch, making herself comfortable. Her eyes roamed.

"Y'know, Maggie, this really was a good idea," Middleton called over his shoulder. "I...I had a great time."

"I'm still having a great time, Ron," she called back, her eyes still drifting about the living room. There was a small circular table in the corner, next to the television set. Curious, she rose, meandering toward the TV and the few framed photos which sat across the top. She studied them with little interest, instead letting herself wander to the table. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Middleton still preoccupied with the drinks. She snapped back around.

Various case-related papers, strewn about messily on the tabletop. A manila envelope. Her eyes passed over the words scribbled in Middleton's handwriting across the front: "Drainers", file from Spyder. Her eyes went wide.

"Ron...This envelope...What's in it?"

"What...?" Middleton said, looking back over the kitchen counter and to the far side of the apartment. "Oh. A file from one of my informants. Supposedly the Spyder gave it to him. Shit, I haven't even had the chance to look at it, between trying to get myself organized at the office, meetings, and that robbery this afternoon. I'll have a look at it in the morning."

Maggie murmured something unintelligible in response, but had very little interest in Middleton's plans for the file. She peeked over her shoulder, ensuring that her companion had returned to work on the cocktails. At an almost panicked pace, Maggie fumbled with shaky fingers at the flap of the envelope. She tugged out the papers, flipping through them frantically, her eyes rapidly dissecting each sheet's contents. She whispered to herself as she scanned through the file, seeking very particular information. Something about a missing finger. A mysterious black gel. With a live, cellular structure. An organism.

It wasn't there.

Relieved, she let out a sigh, and slid the papers back into the envelope.

"Maggie?"

Surprised, she let the manila document slide from her fingers. Gathering her wits, she mustered a smile and turned. Middleton stood with two glasses in his hands, wearing a confused expression and staring behind her at the file.

"Maggie, what...?"

"Just looking at what you had here," she interrupted, sauntering close to him and gently slipping her glass from his hand. She sipped, very deliberately locking eyes with him.

"Why were you looking at-?"

"Ron," she purred, lowering her eyebrows. She took the other glass from his hand and set both drinks down atop the television. She cozied in close, rubbing herself up against him and letting her hands explore his chest. She massaged him slowly, swaying back and forth against him in slow rhythm. He bit his lower lip. It had been so long. With a tired sigh, he finally gave in to the feelings he had thought long lost to him. His weathered, strong hands clumsily wrapped around her hips, as if they had forgotten how to truly hold a woman. She didn't seem to notice. "Let's forget about work tonight, Ron. I think we both need a good, long break..."

Their lips locked. It was a deep, long kiss, passions erupting past a facade of professionalism neither could stomach any longer. They wanted each other...Needed each other.

To a man who had spent far too many years concerned with killers in masks and men in the darkness, she was almost too warm. Her lips tasted better than any cuisine France could offer, and her skin was soft and inviting, like silk under a desert sun. Every curve of her body was a path waiting to be explored, and Ron Middleton was achingly eager to let the rest of the night begin.

* * *

The intertwined silhouettes moved away from the first window, the soft backlight lingering in their place. They reappeared in the next window over, illuminated only momentarily by the bedroom light. He saw the old detective fumble clumsily with her blouse. He saw the both of them laugh before kissing once more. Long, passionate. They tumbled upon the bed as his hands reached around for the clasp of her satin black bra, and her hand moved for the light switch. The room went dark.

In the first window, the small circular table was still visible, just in front of the television set upon which two glasses sat, perspiring a bit more slowly than the two lovers in the next room. The manila envelope lay conspicuously upon the table. The dark stranger who crouched among the shadows on the rooftop across from Middleton's building knew what the woman was looking for in there and why.

Satisfied by the outcome of the night's events, Guillermo del Nostromo smiled and turned away toward the moonlight.

* * *

"Hey, Ted, have you seen Maggie Pierce?"

The uniformed officer looked up from his paperwork.

"No, Mid. Thought she was with you this morning?"

"Yeah, she came in...I mean, we're working on the drainer case," Middleton spouted quickly. "Together. Maggie and I. Anyway, we had an early lunch together, but I had to meet with Ross afterwards and I now can't find her anywhere."

"Hmm," Ted replied thoughtfully. "Sorry, man, last I saw her was with you this morning. You might wanna check with Donnie."

"Yeah, I would, but I can't find him either."

"Well shit, man, maybe they're out together. Y'know...Eh? Y'know?" Ted snickered with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows. Middleton shot him an icy glare. "Or...y'know, maybe not."

"Yeah, maybe not," Middleton sneered. "So you haven't seen Donnie then either?"

"No, man, sorry."

"Thanks..." Middleton murmured, already turned away from the officer's desk. He floated out into the rows of desks like a lost man.

"Hey Mid!"

Middleton turned. Donnie hurried toward him, looking worried. He seemed to be wearing that expression a lot lately.

"Mid, we never got to talk yesterday," Donnie said gravely.

"Hold that thought, Don. Nobody's seen Maggie since lunch...Did she come back, or...?"

"Ron, it's Maggie I need to talk to you about..."

"Donnie," Middleton said sternly. "I know what you're going to say. I mean, you're around both of us enough to realize it. And honestly, any relationship Maggie and I might develop outside the office is entirely our own business, so I don't need any lectures."

"Mid, that's not-"

"-is bullshit!"

Both men turned, nearly jumping at the sound of the shrill voice. All eyes in the room wandered curiously towards the front of the station.

"What fuckin' now?" Middleton grumbled, marching to the front desk. Donnie hurried along beside him, but the detective paid him very little attention.

"You listen to me, I'm not here trying to get any inside tracks or trying to blow any investigation. I'm just looking for background information on a contracted associate of this department. The people you protect and serve have a right to know this shit! Is that some new policy Briggs has instated, hiring weirdoes with shady pasts and not letting the media know about any of it? Is that it?"

Middleton rubbed hard at the bridge of his nose.

"Jesus Christ."

Amie Paige was inches from the female desk clerk's face, having resorted to making a scene after having discarded her initial plan of attack when confronted by a woman. But her perfect breasts still jiggled hypnotically underneath the low-cut, skin-tight shirt she wore. The young photographer Parsen stood behind her uncomfortably, nervously clutching his camera as his eyes skittered around the station, studying every officer that passed him. Next to Parsen stood a strong young man with a defiant expression that Middleton did not recognize, who stood in silent support of Paige. Middleton approached intensely.

"Miss Paige..."

Paige turned.

"Middleton," she scowled, taking a step toward the protective presence of the man behind her.

"Can I help you with something?" Middleton asked with no small amount of annoyance.

"An interview with Nostromo," she demanded, crossing her arms and (perhaps) inadvertently propping her breasts up higher toward her clavicles. Middleton shook his head in disgust, his lips tightening.

"DOCTOR del Nostromo isn't available at the moment," said Middleton, correcting the way she addressed the investigator. "Perhaps if you'd made an appointment..."

"Oh, that is such bullshit," Paige retorted, pointing an accusatory finger at Middleton. "You know your people have me unfairly blacklisted, I can't get shit done over the phone..."

"And I can't imagine why that would be the case with a goddamn sexual harassment suit pending," Middleton growled sarcastically.

"I'm still a member of the goddamned press and I doubt Briggs-"

"Oh, please, do I really have to be threatened with the mayor's wrath from every reporter that comes in here demanding something? Blow me."

"Excuse me? Wasn't it you who was just bitching about sexual harassment?" Paige snapped.

"Calm the fuck down."

"Hey," the well-built young man interrupted, stepping forward. "Take it easy, we just want to ask Dr. del Nostromo a few questions."

"Who the fuck are you?" Middleton exclaimed, turning toward Norrington then back to Paige. "Who the fuck is this? Your john?"

"Oh, that is real damn professional," the young man sneered.

"Did you all hear that? Do you hear the way he's talking to me?" Paige protested.

"What's your name, son?" Middleton asked, ignoring the irate reporter.

"It's Norrington..."

"No, excuse me, you need to answer my fucking question, Middleton. Where is Nostromo?"

"Listen, you fucking-"

"Didn't I just say not to talk to her-"

"What's the deal here, Middleton?" Paige persisted. "You guys trying to cover something up? Vampires? Is there some kind of fucking vampire loose in this city?"

"You have been smoking way too much-"

"Look, you don't have to talk to her-"

"You shut the fuck up!"

"That's it, isn't it? Goddamn garlic and silver bullet, night-stalking, turning-into-bats vampires! I swear to God I will spread that all over Harbour City if you don't..."

"You deceitful little bitch. If I read anything like that this department will slap that rag you work for with such a fucking lawsuit-"

"Fine, go fucking right ahead, see where it'll get you. Tomorrow's headline: Stay in the sunlight, Harbour City!"

"Fuck it, get the fuck out!"

"Fuck you!"

"Son of a b-"

The argument escalated into a series of shouted profanities. Several uniformed cops advanced to intercede as shoving began.

"Excuse me."

The baritone voice almost echoed through the lobby, and instantly silenced the screams. Guillermo del Nostromo strolled cooly into the hallway from the nearby stairwell, smiling pleasantly. His black, sunken eyes slowly scanned the heated crowd, and his hands waved back and forth in a soothing rhythm.

"No need for the shouting, eh?" he said, chuckling. He glanced to Middleton, whose eyes met his, and the old Italian nodded slowly with that reassuring smile. Middleton sighed, and his shoulders dropped along with his defensiveness. Nostromo's head swayed left, and his eyes met with Paige's beautiful green irises. His smile widened, and he looked her up and down. His lips parted to a toothy grin. She returned the smile, suddenly at ease.

"Good," Nostromo said simply. "Nothing is ever solved with curses and shouts. Now then, who did I hear screaming about vampires?"

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment.

"That was me," Paige said softly. She extended a hand, which Nostromo promptly kissed. "I'm Amie Paige, Dr. del Nostromo. That whole...vampire thing...was just kind of a joke. I'm a writer with the Harbour City Tribune."

"Ah yes, I've read your work," he said. "Really wonderful."

"Thank you," she said, surprised and flattered.

"Of course. However, Miss Paige, if you think you're going to find this 'drainer' by shooting bats out of the night sky, you're sadly mistaken."

"Well, obviously. It...It was just a joke," Paige answered meekly.

"I mean, if you really consider it, how do we even know vampires only come out at night anyway? I myself am an Italian. I love my marinara made with several cloves of garlic. Does that mean I can't possibly be a vampire?"

Middleton cringed at the comment, but Nostromo's smile was again reassuring.

"You can't believe everything you see in movies, after all," Nostromo said ironically.

"No...No, of course not," Paige agreed.

"The truth, Miss Paige, is that our investigation is still under way," Nostromo said, his demeanor lightening. "We have several promising leads, and I can assure you that none of them involve Dracula."

They all chuckled nervously.

"But if my ears did not deceive me, it seemed that you had a few questions about myself as well as my investigation," Nostromo said, manifesting a dignified yet excited grin. Paige, her interest peaked, cocked an eyebrow the way only she could. Nostromo's eyes narrowed as his smile widened. "I'm sure we could arrange something in a setting a bit more...Personal?"

Paige almost blushed.

"That would be...great," she replied, batting her lashes with the last word.

"Wonderful. And will your associates be...joining...you...?"

Nostromo's voice faded to silence as he regarded Norrington and Parsen. The smile dropped from his face, and as it did, the tension seemed to balloon once more within the lobby. There was something in Nostromo's expression that Middleton hadn't seen. An emotion almost foreign on a face that always seemed calm. Like something from deep within bubbling up; a buried darkness, a buried rage. A buried understanding. Parsen squirmed nervously under the older man's glare. Norrington, however, stood firm. But even his strong shoulders slouched a little bit, and his eyes nervously dropped to the ground the longer Nostromo stared. Parsen glanced back nervously at Norrington, but found no reassurance.

"Um, they don't have to..." Paige said softly.

Nostromo shook his head, his eyes lingering suspiciously before refocusing on Paige.

"I'm sorry?" Nostromo said.

"They don't have to...join me," Paige said, a sly smile creeping its way onto her face as she stepped forward, aware that her breasts had drawn Nostromo's full attention. "It could just be the two of us."

"Amie..." Norrington suddenly protested. Nostromo scowled sharply at the young man, and he quickly backed off.

"It's fine, John," Amie said, coldly dismissing her new partner's concerns. "Just fine..."

"Good," Nostromo said, his eyes quickly shifting to Norrington and Parsen, then to Middleton, then back to Paige. "We'll set something up. I'll be very much looking forward to it."

* * *

He needed four different keys to unlock his apartment door. They jingled softly as he slipped them back into the pocket of his thick, loose-fitting jacket.

He stepped into the small dwelling on weary legs. He hadn't slept in three days. Anticipation, waiting, but most of all shock at a recent revelation, had left him in a state of insomnia that even nights spent prowling the rooftops of Harbour City had not been able to shake.

He dropped a ratty duffel bag on the floor as the door squeaked closed behind him. He latched each one of the four locks before turning with a sigh and leaning back against the door.

The apartment was still new to him. The down payment had been made with money that wasn't actually his, but he had convinced himself he had earned it anyway. Besides, it was better off in his hands than those of the bastards he had taken it from. The neighborhood was the kind where landlords accepted large cash payments with no questions asked. The apartment itself was dreadfully bare. He had neither the means or the motivation to furnish it, and as such the kitchen consisted of only a few bare essentials while the only other room, besides the bathroom, contained a mattress, a few sheets, a pile of old street clothes, and an array of makeshift exercise equipment. It was terribly empty, even for such a small place.

He much preferred to spend his time among the smokestacks and gargoyles.

The air in the apartment tasted thick and musty, as though it were rotting. It all felt so foreign. Most definitely not a home...Barely even a place to sleep.

He opened his eyes slowly, breathing in the putrid air. It was cold. Too cold.

The lone window on the far wall was broken. A cold breeze snaked its way through the apartment.

He tensed, too late.

Something incredibly fast sprung forth from the darkness to his left, slamming hard into his chest and wrapping tightly around his ribs. Several solid blows to his forehead. The room grew exceedingly dark.

He struggled, but the other's strength was greater than his own.

More blows to the face, then to the ribs.

He lost his breath, and wheezed for air between the pounding of his mouth and nose.

Mercifully, the beating ground to a halt.

"The Spyder, I presume," the attacker hissed as his heel dropped slowly yet firmly upon the Spyder's throat.

The Spyder clung tenaciously to his consciousness. He squinted into the darkness. The moonlight which sparkled against the broken glass of the window began to frame a silhouette.

"Who...?" the Spyder wheezed, fighting to see the face of his attacker.

The other leaned down closer. A sharp, chiseled face. A strong jaw line. Jet black hair. For a moment, the Spyder's heart raced. Zuleta. Was this man Zuleta?

"You may have heard of me..."

An accent. Not the Grim Knight's voice. An Italian accent. His features slowly swam into the Spyder's view. A large Roman nose. High, Mediterranean cheekbones. Weathered, wrinkled skin. Deep-set, coal black eyes. He had seen this man's picture in the newspaper...On the front page of the newspaper.

"Nostromo," the Spyder said. "You're...Nostromo..."

"Correct," the Italian man said. His face was becoming clearer. It was splashed with a mingling of both his and the Spyder's blood, marred by several abrasions from the headbutts he had thrown.

"How...How did you...?"

"What? How did I find you? Please, you made yourself available to me," Nostromo smirked. "Dealing with the informant 'T' and the police as though you controlled this city. Like you are smarter than everyone else in it."

"I wasn't...followed..." the Spyder coughed.

"You didn't think you were. But such a task is easy for one of my considerable...talents."

"I'm not...not the drainer...you maniac..." the Spyder spat defiantly.

"I know."

The Spyder's eyes narrowed as Nostromo spoke. It had to be a trick of the light. But no, it was unmistakable what he saw. The cuts across the old Italian's forehead were no longer bleeding...They were closing. His skin was healing itself at an incredible rate.

"What...what are you...?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Nostromo hissed. He smiled broadly, giving the Spyder a perfect view of his canine teeth. His pointed, almost inch-long canine teeth. The vigilante's eyes went wide.

Nostromo threw back his head and cackled wildly, stepping harder down on the Spyder's windpipe. Slowly, the world again began to fade to black.