We are aching.

And the aching thirst which must wait until dusk to be quenched only grows ever stronger.

The black sedan was entirely unremarkable. From a distance, one could probably not even tell the make or model. It was perfect for its purposes, slipping through the streets and alleyways of Harbour City unnoticed by all but those who knew what to look for. The small round jester head, complete with pronged cap, peered through the night with a huge smile from atop the sedan's antenna.

The car rolled to a halt, its headlights already long extinguished, at the mouth of an alleyway. The night was still early. It was better for these sorts of things. The more normal activity there was on the street, the less conspicuous the back alley meeting would be.

The driver and the man riding shotgun, one a white man and the other an Aborigine and both built like tanks, exited the car simultaneously, carrying their sub-machine guns with them. They harshly regarded the four nervous black men gathered in the alley, before the Aborigine pulled open the door to the back seat. A black man with a shaved head and pin-striped suit emerged, the bulk of a Beretta clearly visible in the front of his pants. He nodded at the shabbily dressed quartet and smiled broadly, indicating for them to approach the vehicle as he calmly strode around to the trunk. They did so, all the while keeping their eyes trained on the men standing threateningly with guns in the air.

"A wise decision, gentlemen," the suited individual said as he popped open the trunk of the car. From inside, a small Latino man peered out into the alley, his eyes watering in abject fear. The entirety of his body was wrapped tightly in clear packing tape, save for his eyes and the small portion of his nose containing his nostrils. "It would've been a shame if Mr. Rogelio here had to be the fourth man to die before we got our point across to your little gang."

"P-point's made, muh...Mister Hardgraves," one of the four black men stammered weakly. "We ain't got no choice. It's a deal, man, Jesters get a cut of everything we make."

The two men holding the machine guns shifted aggressively.

"Who gets a cut, Rick?" said Hardgraves impatiently. "Not sure if our point has been made clearly enough..."

"No, no, my bad, man...sir..." the speaker, Rick, stammered quickly, affirmed by vigorous nods from his three silent companions. "We...We get a cut, a small cut, from everything we make sellin' for the Jesters. You're the boss, all the way, man."

"That's right, Slick Rick" Hardgraves smiled deviously. On cue, the large Aborigine advanced, causing the four gang members to jump. But the large man passed them by on his way to the trunk, where he reached in with but one hand, and scooped up Rogelio, whom he deposited rather roughly to the ground. "Now we talk specifics," Hardgraves continued.

"Hey man, you just tell us where and when. We sell our shit, you get the money."

"Wrong," Hardgraves replied curtly, kicking Rogelio in the stomach for emphasis. "You sell OUR shit."

"But we got a supplier, we could hook up all the Jes-"

"No," Hardgraves hissed. "Your supplier is already being taken care of. You sell only drugs shipped through my associates."

"Okay, man, no problem..." Rick paused curiously, eyeing Hardgraves. "Hey...Did you just hear that? That sounded like a goddamned tiger or something..."

"Tiger?" Hardgraves spat, his face registering a mix of confusion and rage. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

The white man charged around from the other side of the car, gun brandished in front of him.

"They're wired!" he exclaimed.

The Aborigine grabbed Rick by the collar of his oversized jean jacket as the three other men jumped back.

"That right, Ricky?" Hardgraves said, producing and cocking his Beretta. The white enforcer kept his gun trained squarely on the other three gang members. "Was that a codeword? You cut a deal with the fuckin' cops...?"

"No, man, shit!" Rick muttered through tears. "I really heard a...a growl..."

His voice trailed off as his eyes slowly focused on the shape which seemed to bleed out of the inky shadows of the buildings above the black sedan. Two glowing red eyes blinked to life, and suddenly Rick's tear-streaked face was not the only part of his body that was wet.

"Oh shit."

It happened before anyone could fire. Something incredibly fast and horrifically inhuman snaked and wrapped its way around the alley, engulfing each of the men in the maw of its darkness. Veins and arteries were slashed apart with a surgeon's knowledge, a blind man's precision, and a devil's mercy. Rivers of crimson were opened upon the dark alley floor as the long, snake-like arms of living darkness snapped and twisted between the shadows. Screams too horrible for any sane man to muster were silenced before their echoes had even bounced back through the stone canyons of Harbour. The corpses all fell in a gory rhythm.

And the tendrils of leathery death which had burst forth from the shadows like the heads of Hydra slowly retracted, dragging along the ground in deliberate patterns, siphoning the spilt life liquids from each and every crack and crevice of the alley pavement. They wrapped their way around the bodies, wiping each corpse clean of its blood before greedily sucking the last lingering drops from each of the already-invaded wounds.

Slowly, the tentacles shrunk back into the darkness, bouncing playfully about the alley for a moment as the feeding wound down, before twisting and wrapping around themselves, and retracting back to whence they came: the small, lithe figure of a human being wrapped in pulsating, cracked dark red flesh. A demon from within the shadows, with skin which swirled and throbbed like some wine-red colloid. It had no mouth and no nose, and its eyes glowed a deep, rich scarlet. The living blood siphons, the tendrils, had shrunk to not more than two feet in length, and the appendages were suspended eerily of their own accord about the shoulders of this disgusting portrait of a killer.

The thirst is again satisfied, if only temporarily.

We have much to take care of this night.

...comeintomyparlor...

Artifice Comics Presents
The Spyder: Nostromo #3
" Hunting the Hunter "
By Bill Castonzo

...comeintomyparlor...

Earlier...

"I'll be in the car," Parsen said quickly, already halfway to the parking lot as he finished his sentence.

"You okay?" Paige called out.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'll just be in the car." He was almost actually in the Jetta as he finished that sentence.

"Alright," Paige responded, strolling slowly along in front of police headquarters as Norrington shuffled through the doors behind her. Both her partner and the young photographer had been unnerved by the confrontation with Nostromo in the station. She, however, wore a satisfied smile. Parsen had always been the nervous sort, and she knew he was never exactly the model of self-assurance, particularly around authority figures. She understood his nervousness. But Norrington, the young, handsome reporter with a strong build and stronger convictions, still puzzled her.

"Amie," he said sternly, only adding to her confusion. "A private meeting with Nostromo? Like a date?!...I mean, I don't know if that's really such a great idea..."

"Why the hell not?" Paige exclaimed, turning fully to face John. "I'm gonna get the story! I'm gonna get the exclusive! Hell, nothing's happening with this whole drainer case, I need something until we get a development. This is perfect! How is this not at all a great idea? Tell me, please."

John shied away, his lips tightening.

"What is it with you, John?" Paige persisted. "One minute, you're a rock. Really, most of the time you're a rock. Just one of the most confident and strong guys I've ever met. But then we bring up supers stuff, or now this Nostromo guy, and you get wierded out. Why do you do that?"

No response.

"Were your parents killed by a super or something?" Paige asked, her voice softening. "I mean, I like you John. You're a good guy...I just wanna know..."

"No, no, that's not it at all," John replied, suddenly perked up, but with more than just a hint of sadness in his voice. "Amie..."

"What is it?" Paige asked, stepping close. She touched his arm, and her hand slowly crossed the small of his back until she was close to being pressed up against him. Her chest squeezed against his arm and her soft, effeminate face came very close to his.

He breathed deeply and looked her in the eye, his own arm softly wrapping around her.

"I...I've never talked about this..." he struggled, clenching his teeth. "Remember when I said that I'd seen something like that before when we saw the first drainer pictures?"

"Yeah," she said, drawing tighter. "But you said it was just stuff like that...Not that you had actually seen a drainer body before. That is what you said, wasn't it?"

"Yeah..." Norrington murmured dismissively. "Well the thing of it is...I do know what's happening here. I...I am connected to...Connected to all of this. More...More than I can..."

His words were disjointed and his breaths grew more ragged. Whatever it was that he was struggling to tell her, Paige realized it had to weigh heavy upon him. Some type of burden that would provide so great a reaction from him. She began to understand what it was that he was trying to tell her. Purposefully, she pulled him close, her soft bosom squeezing between them. He bit his lower lip.

"I'm...I'm..."

"Yes, John?" she asked, oozing with anticipation like on the edge of an orgasm.

"I...I can't," John said with a heavy sigh, pushing away from her. "Not here, not now."

He stepped away, but she stayed on his heels.

"We can talk in private John. Someplace comfortable."

He considered this for a moment.

"Okay," Norrington conceded. "I think you know what I have to tell you. What I need to tell you. Could you...Could you come to my place? Tonight?"

"Absolutely," Paige smiled, grabbing his hand. "Tonight then."

She patted his hand and took one last long look in his eyes before letting his fingers slip through hers and making her way towards the car. John Norrington stood thoughtfully, studying her as she walked away. A moment passed. Deep inside, John smiled deviously, and, trying to stifle a sinister grin, turned on his heel to follow Paige to her Jetta.

* * *

"Alright, so he'll contact you tonight. Just stay calm, but don't be stupid. He won't hurt you as long as you cooperate and he thinks you're afraid of him...Yeah, I know, it probably won't be. Okay, well just reassure him that I got his package, tell him he's still on the top of our list of suspects, and just let me know if he says anything else to you. Alright? Cool, bro. Yeah, you'll get double for this. No sweat, man, you'll be fine. You will, I promise. Alright, all me later. Bye."

Middleton slapped the cell phone closed, hanging up on his even more jittery than usual informant. He sighed heavily, repeating his own reassurances over and over in his head. Middleton clung tightly to the belief that T's meeting with the Spyder would go smoothly; true, T was a criminal, but in all the years he had worked with Middleton, he had always been loyal and his tips were always rock solid. Middleton might go so far as to call T a friend. A friend out of necessity perhaps, but a friend nonetheless.

It was then that Middleton found himself more than a little disturbed that he once had known the Spyder himself as even closer a friend, though he had not been aware of "Daniel"'s double life at the time. All that time, the man he so desperately sought had been right under his nose. Middleton cursed his own stupidity.

Yet even now, even after they had both proclaimed their mutual hatred to each other as the Spyder fled from Middleton's apartment months earlier, Daniel was still trying to help him. Seeking out Middleton's informant, providing his side of the case, even giving Middleton a way to respond. True, the Spyder's file told them very little that they didn't already know...But the gesture itself spoke volumes. Was it just a ploy by the Spyder to somehow clear his name from the suspect list? Or was it more than that...An attempt to reconcile with some inner demons, with the law, or even, on a personal level, with Middleton himself? The detective could never be sure that what the Spyder told him was true. Already he had been deceived by the vigilante enough to break the resolve of even the most trustworthy man. Yet for some reason, something inside him, that thing that only the oldest detectives have, told him to trust the Spyder.

"Hey Ron?"

Middleton looked up slowly from the spot on his desk where his eyes had been transfixed since hanging up the phone. He realized how empty the large room was.

"What is it Donnie?" Middleton croaked wearily.

"You...You're not sticking around tonight, are you?" Donnie asked in as friendly a tone as he could muster, given his very palpable level of discomfort.

"No," Middleton said flatly. "Ross gave me the night off, though I'm still on call. Nostromo's already packed it in for night, but...But I'm still waiting for Maggie. You haven't seen her at all since this morning?"

"No..." Donnie said, gulping visibly. "Listen, Mid. We need to talk. Now. I haven't had the chance over the past day or two...I mean, you've been busy, but I really need to talk to you...About Maggie. And it doesn't concern your love life."

Middleton reared back slowly in his chair, eyeballing the young forensics man. He knew Donnie was never one to overreact, and judging from the look on his face, he had something rather important to say.

A long moment passed, with both men frozen in a casual tableau among the rows of empty desks.

"Alright..." Middleton said. "I'm listening."

* * *

"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.

"No," the Spyder choked, struggling under Nostromo's expensive leather shoes. Nostromo easily equaled, if not surpassed the Spyder in strength, and the older Italian had already dealt the vigilante a severe beating. Unconsciousness crept dangerously close, despite the Spyder's efforts against it.

"It's useless." Nostromo smiled as the Spyder's arms began to flail. "You'll pass out soon. I'll have my scapegoat. The case of the 'Drainer Murders' will be solved."

"Vam...p-p-p..." the Spyder stammered, his breath lost to him. His face was beginning to turn blue.

"Vampire," Nostromo said, his canine teeth gleaming in the harsh moonlight that shone through the singular window of the Spyder's claustrophobic apartment. The illumination danced in bizarre patterns upon the exposed drywall. "I'll infect you too, once you've passed out. You have that mercy to look forward to at least. There have been countless others who have not been so lucky. Oh, I'll sample a bit...Your blood, I imagine, would have to be deliciously thin...but you still have your part to play in this, and to do that, it would only make sense for you to have the disease."

The Spyder's brow furrowed as his spastic movements slowed. The darkness crept further into his vision.

"Yes, it's a disease," Nostromo said contemptuously. "No curses, no devils. No crosses or garlic or sunlight. It's simple, really. When transmitted by a large quantity of saliva directly into the bloodstream, it goes to work almost immediately. Shuts off certain genes, such as those that trigger cellular degeneration. Switches on others, such as those which facilitate rapid cellular regeneration. You'll be harder to kill than you already are, my boy. Of course, there's the whole dependency on others' blood factor that you'll have to worry about. They would probably keep you well nourished in the ECPO Vault, though."

"Th-...th' oooorg...org'n'sm..." the Spyder wheezed, his body now only managing to struggle in sudden twitches and bursts. Unconsciousness closed in on him as his chest grew heavy.

"The organism? You mean the mysterious cellular sample you found on one of the victims? The one you detailed in your papers to Middleton? The papers I removed from the file before he could ever read them?" Nostromo smiled viciously. "That organism, you say? Yes, that creature is rather adverse to sunlight, how very astute of you."

"Thhh...then...yyyou...you're n-" His voice trailed off.

"You've got it," Nostromo hissed. "Go ahead and say it."

"Not...the drrraaa...."

"Correct. I am not the drainer," Nostromo said. "Though neither are you, but that won't stop the police from arresting you for these murders."

The Spyder finally went limp. The fight left him and his eyes began to close. Yet his lips still moved. Nostromo cocked his head with a satisfied curiosity, listening to the Spyder's almost inaudible whisper.

"What's that?" Nostromo said mockingly. He stooped down, still pinning the Spyder with his foot.

"Thhh...thaaaan-..."

"Once more?" Nostromo cooed with no small amount of satisfaction in seeing his prey defeated. He beamed proudly, displaying his sharp canines as the last thing the Spyder would see before blacking out.

"For all...that information...and time..." the Spyder managed. "Thanks."

A soft click.

Nostromo's smile dropped.

"No."

A burst of automatic gunfire tore savagely through the tightly honed flesh of Nostromo's abdomen, and the vampire reared back, stumbling off of the Spyder and staining the wall and floor with a large amount of his own fresh red blood. The vigilante scampered backwards, wheezing desperately for air, and squeezed off a continuous stream of loud bullets with one hand while pulling with the other the duffel bag from which he had slipped the weapon.

Nostromo stumbled as the random hail of gunfire filleted his shin, throwing a spatter of blood and skin across the wall of the cramped apartment.

The Spyder gulped the air down greedily, furiously fishing through the bag with his free hand for his mask and a few extra clips. The room was still spinning to him and the gunfire continued to be desperately random. It didn't matter how on mark he was at the moment. It would attract attention. And even in a bad neighborhood, automatic weapons meant cops. Lots of cops. And quick. There would be no bloodsucking from the vampiric investigator with police officers nearby. It would be rather hard to explain a large bloodstain over his mouth, teeth, and tongue to his compatriots.

Over the din of his gun, the Spyder heard screams pass his door. The firearm's magazine neared its end, and the Spyder saw Nostromo had been clipped on the shoulder as well as the leg and the first point blank barrage had hit its mark just under his ribs. Yet the occult investigator was still struggling forward, his eyes on fire with a mixture of rage and pain. The Spyder righted himself and managed to send the last few bullets directly into Nostromo's stomach. The old man toppled backward, very much alive, and was screaming and struggling to his feet before the Spyder could react. It was then the vigilante realized he was outmatched; at least until he could buy time to recuperate some of his strength. As his senses finally began to return to him, the Spyder slipped on his mask, stuffed both guns and the few extra magazines into his jacket pockets, and bolted for the door to the hallway.

* * *

Her high-heeled footfalls sounded especially heavy upon the resonant tile. She focused on them to help her ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach. She slowed, her heart fluttering a bit. 419. Norrington's apartment.

In her heart, Amie Paige was conflicted.

She had an idea, but was still not entirely sure what to expect from John. She had become familiar with the man, and had seen his convictions and ideals. They were familiar to her, something she had experienced before, firsthand...The convictions of a better kind of vigilante than the bastard Spyder, one that might even be called a hero. That kind of confidence and personality...It was unmistakable. Was John actually some kind of super? It was not unfathomable for someone to hide powers or past exploits from public knowledge, especially after the Siege Engine persecutions in Pacific City. It would be quite a scoop to get the story of Harbour's newest vigilante, should that really be the case.

But what if it wasn't the case? John spoke with no small amount of anguish when confronted with the drainers and Nostromo...Could he be something more sinister? In retrospect, in all the time they spent together, he did always seem to be absent at the times when the known drainer murders were reported as having happened. Was he really involved? Somehow wrapped up in the murders, even if against his will? And if that was so, was she prepared to get that story?

For all the arrogant bravado she might have fed Thorpe at the Tribune offices, Amie Paige was not a brave woman. She often wished that she was not so timid; perhaps if she were more daring, she would not have to so often resort to sex to get things. But she was what she was, and she had made an outstanding career in investigative journalism based on her sexuality, possibly even more so than her writing skills. She often used that fact as reassurance in the times when regret set in. Self-respect was not a virtue that had ever really been espoused to her by a gambling father who floated from job to job and a mother who barely spoke more than three sentences in a day while working as a secretary, but success, and inherently money, were always top priorities. And above all, Amie Paige had made herself successful, all without having to run into battlefields for an interview, or breaking and entering to get at sensitive information. Besides, it was only sex, anyway.

Yet it was exactly that attitude that often led her into struggles with depression. She was almost thirty and had never truly known a man in an intimate way. She had, of course, been intimately physical with many men...Some even out of preference rather than to get a story. There had been a few flings, some boyfriends here and there. But she had never loved another, and known his love in return. She often considered that she had forgotten how to love, and as a result, she found herself becoming increasingly nervous when that lightness of soul grabbed her in John's presence.

She felt something for him. So was she at his apartment door in the hope of getting a story, or was there something more?

Beyond all else, John Norrington confused the hell out of her.

She hesitated, and the butterflies in her stomach only increased. Throwing caution to the wind, she rapped lightly underneath the peephole.

She heard the shuffle of feet and the lock unlatching, and she bit her lower lip nervously, a move which had melted many an unsuspecting man's heart when used more coyly. But this time it was genuine. The door swung open.

"John, hey..." Paige smiled, then trailed off. The butterflies turned into rapid rhinos.

John stood in nothing more than a loosely tied robe, his broad, well-defined chest exposed in the front and his strong jaw framing a polite smile.

"Amie, hi," John said, ushering her in. "Sorry, I was just changing when I heard you knock. I could just...if you could wait, I mean..."

She had embarrassed him a bit, it seemed. Her smile returned, realizing that he was just as nervous as she was. It was him with the secret after all, and he had promised to tell it to her. Suddenly, the butterflies fled, and she was all business. He really was gorgeous, she thought. And, she knew, so was she.

"No, hey, don't worry about it," she said shyly. She licked her rosy lips as if to moisten them, but she knew what she was doing. She slung her purse off her shoulder with one hand and set it down next to the door, her other hand snaking to her clavicles and then absently trailing down the ruffled v-neck of her black blouse, disengaging just before reaching the cleft of her cleavage. John froze, watching her. "You look just fine."

Her young partner beamed, suddenly not looking very worried about anything. She strolled into the spacious apartment.

"Can I get you something to drink or anything?" he asked, resisting the urge to stare at her tight khaki capri pants as she walked away from him.

"Mmm...Just a beer would be fine. Whatever you've got, I'll take." She sat down on the couch and sighed, finding herself very relaxed, though anxious to end the formalities.

John appeared in just a few moments, a bottle in hand. She reached up and wrapped her hand completely around his, pulling him closer to the couch as she slipped the cold beer from his hand. He collapsed next to her upon the sofa, his robe blossoming out a bit to expose more of his well-toned musculature. Paige leaned into him, and though he seemed reluctant, he did not shy away. His eyes darted nervously between her and the floor.

"So?"

"So..." John repeated softly. A moment passed.

"John, just say it. Whatever it is, I can tell it's eating at you. I know you need to talk or else you wouldn't have invited me over here."

John glanced at her with a stifled, nervous chuckle.

"I promise to understand," she purred.

"Amie, I..." John said, stopping as if to find the words. "I'm more than you think. I'm...I mean, I have..."

"John," she said very seriously, her beautiful green eyes locked with his. "Whatever you have to say, I want to listen."

He sighed.

"I'm a super, Amie. I came to Harbour tracking down this drainer. I'm a super."

He looked to her with pleading eyes, begging her to understand as he took in her surprise. But behind the surprise she was smiling. She had been right, and it satisfied her. Her confidence grew.

"I'm sorry, I just, never really told anyone before," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"John," she said again, setting her beer down on the nearby coffee table. She made absolutely sure he knew she was giving him her full attention, and she found that it was not very hard to command all of his. "John, it's okay. Jesus, it's nothing to be sorry about. I'm sure it's hard on you, and I just want to be here for you."

"Amie..."

"John, I want to be here for you," she said again, biting her lower lip in that coy way. She reached a hand toward him, letting it hang momentarily between them, before running her fingers softly against his bare chest, feeling the power in his hard muscles. "I want to be here with you."

She almost did not have time to complete the sentence. John's lips wrapped tightly around her own as his arms enveloped her. She pressured back, losing herself in the moment and squeezing their bodies together as the kiss grew deeper and wetter. His hand explored the small of her back, tracing the contour of her thigh, before reaching up for her breast. His grip was firm yet gentle, cupping her chest and massaging slowly. It felt wonderful. She pushed the robe back off of his strong shoulders and shifted up on top of him, vigorously rubbing down the well-hewn form of his torso.

Then her phone began ringing.

She was snapped back to reality. That feeling of regret, that one she often fought away when swiftly switching from passion to business, nipped at her mind. She was attracted to John, but had she already taken it too far, too quick?

"Wait..." John mumbled, his hands lingering on her as she rose. She hurried toward her purse.

"It might be work," she called back to him as she flipped open the cell. "Hello? This is Paige."

She listened intently for a moment, watching John's blank expression as he shrugged his robe a bit higher upon his shoulders.

"Alright, I'll be there in a few minutes."

She hung up, looking at Norrington to explain as his face soured. She was sure they could resume their activities later that night, but at the moment, there was something far more pressing. Something which gave her a sudden, puzzled pause.

"John...That was the city desk. We just got word there's an APB out...Shots fired in the ghetto, blood everywhere. Both the Spyder and Nostromo have been reported sighted. They think this might be it for the drainer case. John...If you were so intent on all this...I mean, with Nostromo and all..."

She tried to find the right words, finally just blurting out what she was thinking.

"John, why are you here?"

He faltered a bit.

"I...I wanted to be with you tonight," he said. "To talk to you, I mean." She had no response, but continued to look at him with a somewhat questioning expression on her face.

"I still want to be with you," he added softly, affecting a look of wounded pride.

"Jesus, John, did you just hear me or not?" she exclaimed impatiently. "The Spyder and Nostromo are fighting! I mean, I don't know how that old bastard can be fighting the Spyder, but wouldn't that only prove your suspicions about him, if he were a super or something? And the Spyder is the top suspect in the drainer case! Every cop in town will be there! I mean, Christ, don't you want to go down there?! Shouldn't you be out there already tonight?"

John sat silently. After a moment, Paige's face twisted in disgust.

"John, get dressed, I'll be in the hall waiting for you. And hurry up, damn it!"

* * *

It had been a long night, but she had gotten much accomplished. It was still far from over though. She had no doubt aroused suspicion by being away from the office all afternoon, but she could not help herself. The need was driving her, and appearances were becoming even harder to keep up.

For the moment, she was looking forward to a long, hot shower and a few hours of sleep. She would come up with an excuse for her absence from work in the morning. She sighed, and her car rolled around the corner of Franklin and Eighteenth, bringing her home into view.

There was a squad car parked in front of her apartment building.

Was the department that upset that she had missed work? Her mind raced frantically, realizing that her explanations could not wait until the morning after all. She saw her landlady Miss Thornsby standing on the front lawn in a floral print dressing gown, her old face looking rather horrible with the thick layers of make-up removed for the night. The old woman was deathly pale, and Maggie had seen enough pale faces to tell that Miss Thornsby's pallor was not just for lack of circulation. No, the old landlady was scared.

She quickly scanned the faces of the others on the lawn. Two officers she did not recognize. And Middleton. She pulled her car to a stop next to the squad car, leaving it in the middle of the street. Middleton was conversing with Miss Thornsby when he saw Maggie exit the car. He looked up slowly, staring at her with a grave, detached expression. Something had gone wrong.

"Ron?" she said as she slammed the door shut. She walked quickly over the lawn to Middleton's side and saw the landlady step backward a bit with wide eyes, before turning and walking away completely. "Miss Thornsby, what...?"

The old woman shuffled quickly back into the building, never once looking back. Maggie's eyes darted to Middleton, whose own eyes bore into her with a restrained anger like she had never seen in the aged detective. The man with whom she had shared such a passionate night of lovemaking stared at her with eyes devoid of tenderness. Without another word, Middleton drew his bottom lip in tight against his teeth and produced a pair of handcuffs.

Maggie's heart skipped a beat.

"Ron, I can explain," she blurted out, realizing instantly the reason for Middleton's visit. She had been discovered.

"Save it, Maggie," Middleton said coldly. "Turn around."

She looked up at him pleadingly.

"Turn around."

She obliged, tears welling in her eyes.

"I don't know how you got messed up with these maniacs, Maggie. I can't believe I let you take me to bed. What? Were you trying to throw me off the trail?"

Maggie stayed silent, but not for lack of rebuttal. Her expression changed quickly from one of despair to one of confusion.

"Wait," she said, whirling and knocking Middleton's hands away from her wrists. She looked into his unforgiving eyes, and realization suddenly dawned on her. "Waitaminute, you think..."

"I said save it, Maggie," Middleton growled. "Donnie saw you take that evidence from the lab. He told me how you've been acting. I know you're helping out this drainer bastard, one way or another. You're coming down to the station with me right now."

"No," Maggie said sternly, batting away the handcuffs as he reached for her once more. She gave him a cold, sideways glare as her breaths became shallow. "No no no. You get the hell away from me right now."

"Maggie, we can do this easy or we can-"

"You son of a bitch!" Maggie screamed. "Are you fucking kidding me, Ron? You...You honestly think I'm involved? You think I'm involved in this sick shit?!"

Middleton paused, studying her enraged features and realizing that something was most definitely amiss. Her anger was genuine; he could see the tears already welling in her eyes. He wondered if Donnie had lied to him about her removal of evidence from the station. She stormed in close.

"You took the-" he began sternly, now on the defensive.

"Yes! I took that evidence!" Maggie exclaimed. "I took it, okay? I admit that! But not because I was trying to hide anything or cover something up! Jesus Christ...I just...I found something in the samples...Possibly something big. And I just wanted it to myself! That's why I took your fucking evidence."

She paused for a moment to let it sink in, all the while glaring at Middleton with fiery eyes. No words would come to him.

"This was my chance, god dammit!" she spat at him. "You understand that? I spent fifteen years in Melbourne absolutely wasted in that department! Wasted! Hell, I barely even got a raise in those fifteen goddamn years. And I come here...I come here and all of a sudden get put on the biggest case of my career, and then actually find something that could blow the investigation wide open! Do you understand what that was like for me?"

"Then why did you hide it? Why act so secretive with Donnie?" Middleton asked softly, still trying to wrap his head around what she was telling him, and only beginning to feel the icy ball form in his stomach that told him he had made a terrible mistake.

"I just fucking told you! This was the chance of my career! Mine, mine alone! I've seen how offices work, Ron. I've had my superiors take credit for my fucking work, I've seen little shits like that Donnie get promoted on my hard work because he's the one making the goddamned presentation. I wasn't gonna let that shit happen again! I was gonna get the credit for this, me, alone, by myself!"

"But...how...?"

"My dad is a biology professor at HCU, Ron, just like I told you on one of the first days I met you! He let me work in the labs on off-hours! Jesus, Ron, I understand I shouldn't have taken anything out of the station...But all you had to do was ask. All you had to do was ask me, but instead you bring some guys with you to cart me to a holding cell like a fucking criminal? You scare my landlady and completely discredit me in the place where I live? You accuse me of being an accessory to those goddamn slaughters out there? You think I'm involved with these drainers? What the fuck are you thinking?"

Middleton was speechless.

"So that's it, huh Ron?" Maggie screamed, tears now flowing freely down her face. "Are you happy? Yes I took the damn evidence, but not because I'm a murderer! Jesus Christ...You...you actually thought I was involved. You thought I was involved in that shit, that horrible shit that's happening! And...and you thought I slept with you to 'throw you off the trail'?!?"

Maggie slapped him. Hard. Middleton cringed at the sting, both on his face and in his heart.

"Fuck you, Middleton. Fuck you. Are you gonna arrest me now? Huh? Are you gonna fuckin' arrest me now?"

"No," Middleton said softly, his eyes on the ground as something precious crumbled in his soul.

"Fine," Maggie spat, crying. "You know what, go over to the university, confiscate my shit, I don't care. I mean, Christ, 'throw you off the trail'? Fuck you. Fuck you! I never want to see you again. Never! I can't believe...You...Jesus, 'throw you off the trail'? Throw you off the fucking trail?! You must be completely incapable of trusting another human being!"

Middleton remembered that thing somewhere inside of him which reassured him that the Spyder always somehow spoke the truth. The icy ball in his stomach felt as though it was going to burst out of his throat. He hated himself.

"Good bye Ron. Have a nice fucking life."

He didn't even watch her go. His eyes stayed trained on the matted grass of the apartment building's front lawn for quite some time.

"Uh, detective..."

"What?" Middleton growled softly.

"We've got a report of shots fired at..."

* * *

Above the city, the night winds were at least fifteen degrees colder than on the narrow streets. It was a phenomenon the Spyder had grown quite accustomed to, and one of the most invigorating parts of returning to the night was feeling those ocean winds rip across his body as he careened over the rooftops. But after a few solid months of sweltering summer heat, the dark clouds which had so suddenly rolled in off the Pacific left even the Spyder with a biting chill.

Though the concussion he was sure he had suffered and the fact that he was fighting a vampire surely contributed to that.

The howl of the wind echoed loudly off the steaming smokestacks, only intensifying the pounding in the vigilante's head. He leapt, feeling the fatigue in his legs as Nostromo bounded past him. He had abandoned his guns, finding his bullets ineffective against Nostromo's truly staggering capacity for healing. The old Italian still moved with a spry quickness, while the strain of the past few days and his earlier beating weighed heavily on the Spyder. Nostromo was unrelenting to the point that the Spyder knew an attempt to escape would be ineffective. The investigator was hell-bent on framing the vigilante for the drainer murders, for a reason the Spyder could not quite figure out. Yet remaining on his own apartment's rooftop, fighting a police officer, as countless cops raced to the scene, was not exactly the best idea for the most wanted man in the city. The Spyder was desperately low on options.

Nostromo cursed in Italian as he halted his momentum, whirling back toward the evasive Spyder. The old man had lost a lot of blood despite his healing factor, but showed no signs of relenting. If and when the police did arrive, Nostromo would have a hell of a time explaining the tears and massive blood stains on his clothing, if nothing else.

"You're an idiot to fight me like this!" Nostromo growled. "I can see how tired you are. You're obviously a gifted fighter, but every man has his limit. You'll fall to me sooner or later."

The Spyder did not respond. He struggled to stand straight, slowed by the extra weight of his street clothes. He felt uncomfortable, like he was exposed, despite having his mask on. The nervousness, too, dulled his senses. A gust of wind drowned out anything else Nostromo may have said to him. The jackhammer in the vigilante's head simply would not stop.

Nostromo sprang forward and the Spyder spun, fighting to whip his leg around in a roundhouse. The vampire ducked, letting his momentum carry him, and rattled the Spyder's jaw with a vicious uppercut. The vigilante reeled, knowing Nostromo would press the advantage. He instinctively covered his face, blocking a quick jab, but exposing his ribs to a flurry of hooks. He tasted blood in his mouth. Nostromo hooked a foot around the Spyder's ankle, dropping him.

The Spyder landed hard on his back, cracking the back of his skull against the rooftop. Nostromo lunged with a wild smile. The Spyder gasped, just barely catching the older man's ribs on the soles of his feet. He mustered as much strength as he could with a half roll, flinging Nostromo backwards. The vampire skitted a ways across the roof, but rolled to his feet with little effort. The Spyder planted a knee firmly in the ground, struggling to breathe. He pushed himself to his feet as Nostromo leered at him.

Nostromo tensed, then charged. Gritting his teeth, the Spyder prepared his aching body for another futile dodge.

Suddenly, an ungodly sound which most definitely was not the wind tore through the night. It was a biting screech, like an amalgamation of a bat's shriek and a jungle cat's roar as filtered through a megaphone. The Spyder felt a breeze dance across the back of his scalp as something incredibly fast exploded upward from the alley below and behind him. Nostromo slowed his sprint, his eyes following something up over his adversary's head. A chilling presence passed over the Spyder, like a dark cloud birthed from Hell itself. He shuddered with that unwelcome chill once more.

It landed lightly on the rooftop directly between Nostromo and the Spyder, slowed by several extra inhuman appendages which retracted back into its body as quickly and as smoothly as they had been birthed. The Spyder knew what it was before he even laid eyes on it.

The Drainer.

The small figure of a human being, painted in a dark, swirling red with black spots and veins traversing its body, and waving snake-like appendages growing and shrinking from its shoulders. Talons tipped its fingers and toes. It had no face save for a pair of piercing red eyes. It commanded the shadows as if they were its own, the darkness all but following it from the alley to the rooftop. Its entire countenance...its skin, not its body...shuddered with a voracious life.

The sirens wailed in the distance, somewhere beyond the wind and the quiet overture of growls which seemed to complement the movements of the Drainer's skin.

"You..." Nostromo whispered, his eyes growing wide.

The organism. The greater organism from which the shuddering cell sample the Spyder found had come from.

A living demon.

It screeched again, an ear-splitting squeal. Both Nostromo and the Spyder doubled over, clutching their ears. The Drainer's additional appendages shot out, quadrupling in size and navigating the space between the three with frightening quickness. The tentacles swallowed both the Spyder and Nostromo in their expanding darkness, snapping around their bodies like the jaws of a starved crocodile.

The Spyder screamed.

The wounds he had seen on the drained bodies suddenly did not seem so inexplicable. He felt his skin being wrenched apart as something between teeth and knives began shredding him from the underside of the Drainer's paralyzing mass, opening him up like a sadistic surgeon. Then the punctures. Like plastic tubing of all different shapes being stuffed into the open wounds, stabbing through supple tissue and tense muscle, with a vacuum slowly being turned on at the opposite end. Warmth flowed from his veins and his brain caught fire with the blinding pain. He was dying.

Then he heard a voice speaking in a language he had never heard.

The siphons were wrenched out of his body as viciously as they had been inserted, and all of a sudden the rooftop smacked him in the face. He was completely numb...But thankfully alive.

The strange language continued and he heard the Drainer wailing its primordial shriek.

His eyes struggled downward to examine his body, slowed by both his state of shock and the fear of what he would see. He was sprawled out awkwardly across the hard roof, his clothes shredded. Barely any blood. Just as he had seen in the other drained bodies, his wounds were cauterized. Obviously a side effect of the devilish process. He looked out over the rooftop.

It was Nostromo who was speaking, though the language was most certainly not Italian. His own wounds were closing rapidly, and he stood menacingly over the cowering form of the Drainer, whose extra appendages were stretching madly in the complete opposite direction, as if they were trying to escape the words he spoke. The Spyder still could not recognize the language. It sounded vaguely like Arabic, but with harsh, almost Germanic sounds liberally interspersed. And there was something in the Italian man's hand...A golden cross. He was using it to paralyze the creature.

The Drainer really was a demon.

But just as that thought washed across the Spyder's mind, something even more odd began to happen.

The creature's skin shuddered, a greater shudder than the Spyder had seen previously. It repeated, then again in quicker succession, the shudder becoming a ripple of its flesh, and the ripple becoming a spasm. The skin suddenly erupted into a countless array of spikes, like hair standing on end, before begin to bubble, as if it was detaching itself from the body. The Drainer's shriek had dogs wailing throughout the city's entire north side. The scene was grotesquely beautiful.

"Release him," Nostromo said, finally speaking in his native Italian.

And the dark red skin began peeling away from the creature's head.

Matted hair became visible, the red skin pulling at it, clumping and stretching like gum. The dark red substance liquified a bit more, finally slipping through the sandy blonde follicles before bleeding away from the skinny neck. The Drainer's eyes closed, and when they opened again the red glow was gone, replaced by dry, brown, very human eyes. The skin peeled slowly off the creature's face, revealing the frightened expression frozen beneath. A young white man.

"I just wanted to help," he whispered, his voice soft and monotone as if he was in a trance, while the slow peel of the red skin continued down his naked body.

"It wouldn't let you," Nostromo said, in English now, with almost a hint of sadness in his voice. "It would never allow such things. I know this creature...I have spent years trying to locate it. It is an abomination, a mistake of black magic. It is a parasite...A parasite that is using you because you are weak. You do not understand what it is you have bonded with, my friend. You do not realize where this creature comes from."

"I thought I could use it...To help," he repeated.

"I know," Nostromo said softly, still holding the cross in front of the young man's face. "You are an innocent. I saw the fear in your eyes when we first met at the police station. None of this is your fault. But in order to escape it, you must reject the parasite. My spells and artifacts only weaken it. So long as you cling to it, it will cling to you. Let it go, my friend, let it die. You have to let it go."

"I have a better idea."

Nostromo's eyes snapped to the sound of the voice. He saw the Spyder, still lying upon the ground. He saw the vigilante's battered body. He saw his outstretched arms. He saw the gun held in the Spyder's hand, aimed squarely at the Drainer's head. Nostromo's eyes went wide in abject horror.

"N-!"

His protesting scream was drowned out by the crisp sound of a single shot.

Nostromo staggered back. The young man's head snapped forward as a small cloud of crimson exploded from his face. The Spyder smiled.

And the blood red vampire parasite let loose a sound which shattered windows up to a block away, and suddenly it exploded outward, its appendages raging unchecked in every direction. The Spyder did not expect such a severe reaction.

"You fool!" he heard Nostromo scream just before one of the Drainer's tendrils knocked him over the edge of the rooftop. The world swirled as the clouds and the skyline rotated around him, and his every sense was thrown out of whack. He felt the cold bite of the raging wind rip across his wounded body, but this time it did not invigorate him. For a moment, reality slowed and he hung in the air, staring at the refuse which buried the alley floor four stories beneath him. As he floated, he saw the first of what he knew would be many squad cars screech to a halt in front of the building. An open dumpster rushed up quickly to halt his freefall.

On the rooftop, the flailing tentacles began to morph and twist wildly into all manner of shapes. Nostromo staggered back in fear as the demonic parasite grew and contorted before him, screaming into the night its unholy song of pain. The golden cross slipped from his fingers, slick with blood. He stared at the horrific shape with frightened eyes, trying to muster the spells of the dead language which might calm the beast. He wasn't even given a chance. One of the tendrils lopped off his head in one quick strike.

* * *

"God damn it, why? Why did it have to be him?"

Paige sobbed uncontrollably, hugging her knees to her chest as she leaned up against the ambulance's tire.

Behind her, medics loaded the dead body of Perry Parsen into the back of the wagon, his face mangled by the bullet which had entered through the back of his head. His sandy blonde hair was matted with fresh blood.

All around her, policemen and media personalities bustled about, trying to make sense of the insanity which greeted them upon arrival to the apartment complex. Paige had not moved since receiving the news that Parsen was found dead at the scene. She remembered his uneasiness at the police station earlier that day. She remembered how she had dismissed it. She could not help but think of Perry's mother, a woman she had never even met. And she cried harder than even she would have believed had someone told her what her reaction would be.

All the memories of her relationship with Raven, her encounter with the Spyder, and the uncertainty she had suffered since that fateful night flooded her mind, overwhelming her. She was alive, and Perry Parsen, a nervous, shy boy with his entire life ahead of him, was dead. Killed by the Spyder.

"Why?" she pleaded futilely to the cold Harbour night.

"Amie..." a soft voice replied.

She looked up from her position on the ground, wiping the mascara off her cheeks, only to have it immediately replaced by even more tears. She saw John looking down at her, his expression sympathetic, yet still emotionally blank.

"He's dead, John," she sobbed. "God, he's fffffucking dead..."

"I know..." John said. "It's okay..."

"Okay?" she said with spite. "It's okay?" Her grief turned to anger as her mind turned things over. "Where the fuck were you, John?"

"I was with you..." John replied nervously. "I mean, you know that."

"Yeah, I know you were fucking with me," she said, balling. "You were kissing me, feeling up my tits...And this kid was out here dying! You say you're a super, John? Where the fuck were you when Perry needed saving? When any of the people killed by the Drainer needed saving? What are your fucking powers, huh?"

"Amie..." John protested softly, his eyes shifting back and forth to check if anyone had heard her.

"No, John, what are your goddamn powers?! Why weren't you out here being heroic, 'tracking down the drainer', just like you said you were here for? Why weren't you out here saving Perry's life?"

"Well...I mean, Amie, I couldn't possibly..."

"What are your powers?" she repeated. "Tell me what your powers are right now."

No reply. An uneasy silence settled on them. The slam of the ambulance doors broke it, and Amie Paige sprang to her feet, still sobbing.

"What are your powers, John?" Still no reply. She came within inches of his troubled face. "What are your powers?!"

"I don't have any, alright?!" he exploded, shoving her away from him. "Are you fucking happy now? You wanna know the truth? It was a lie, alright? I'm not a super. All that shit, it was just a lie."

Paige went numb. She stared at him dumbly, and he just kept glancing frantically to her and then away again with a pissed off look.

"Why...?" she choked out.

"I think you can probably figure it out..." he scoffed, indignant and not the least bit worried about her sadness.

"You...all that about punishing criminals...? Your...your weirdness about supers...And how you've seen drainers before...It was just an act?" Paige whimpered. John placed his hands upon his hips and nodded vigorously at her, a defensive expression on his face. The ambulance pulled away, its sirens blaring. Paige was suddenly exposed to what felt like all the world. "So tonight...When I came over...You wanted me to come over just so...?"

"You've got a reputation from here to fuckin' China, Amie, and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Everyone knows how you work," John spat. "I figured out what the quickest way to get into bed with you would be. Why do you think I got a job at the Trib? Hell, people were sayin' it back when I was a goddamn intern...'Y'know that hot Paige chick from the Harbour City Trib? If you've got a super story for her, she'll fuck your brains out.' Just like Joseph fuckin' Liebowitz. And how about that, it almost worked. 'Til you started getting so damned interested in that Nostromo guy, I had to kind of rush my plan along so you wouldn't lose interest in me. The truth is, I've never even heard of the guy, but I knew you'd be paying him a lot of attention, so I had to try to turn you off to that somehow. Now all this shit happens and it's all fucked up."

"You son of a bitch..." Paige whispered, entirely new tears welling in her eyes. "All this shit happens...? You son of a bitch."

"Oh come on, don't pretend like you didn't want it, either, you slut," John snorted.

"You mother f-" Paige gasped. She broke into tears before the insult was even finished, and ran off, bile rising quickly in her throat.

From across the street, Middleton took note of the hysterical Paige, but had no emotion, not even sympathy, left to waste on her.

"Sir?"

Middleton turned around. Turner, one of the officers at the scene of his first drainer murder, where he has first met Maggie, regarded him nervously. Word of Middleton's blunder had been spread quietly through the lower ranks, in order to prevent anyone from pissing their superior off. Which is why Turner really wished it wasn't him to bring Middleton the news.

"What?"

"Just got radio from the unit at HCU. Miss Pierce..." Turner paused as Middleton's lips tensed. "Miss Pierce was apparently telling the truth. We found all her research there in one of their bio labs. Our boys say she had almost a full report ready on her computer, with a write-up for a couple of science journals already ready to be sent off. We're gonna send her research back to the station for Donnie to have a look at. She's clean unless...Unless you want to nail her for removing evidence from the station."

Turner cringed as he finished his sentence, half-expecting a punch in the teeth.

"That won't be necessary," Middleton said with maddening restraint. He cracked his neck. "What have we found so far in this building?"

"Well, um...Besides the bodies of the young photographer and...and Dr. del Nostromo," said Turner. "There was a gold cross with some...some bloody fingerprints. Also...two guns and a duffel bag."

"What was in the bag?"

"The Spyder's costume, sir. And several weapons, including low-power explosive charges, tear gas, and other...things."

"But not the Spyder himself?"

Turner paused. "No."

Middleton smiled the kind of tight-lipped, nauseous grin one makes when trying not to break down into tears. He laughed an unsettling, self-deprecating chuckle.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Middleton snickered, trying so hard to suppress the overwhelming rage which boiled up within him. Turner stood completely erect and silent, praying that his superior would dismiss him soon. Instead, Middleton simply turned away, chuckling uneasily to himself.

"Sir?" said Turner.

Middleton's chuckle turned into a sound like muffled coughing and his eyes glazed over. He breathed in very slowly and very deeply, then turned his eyes upward at the dark, rolling clouds.

"Fuck you!" He screamed so loud that he nearly froze every person at the crime scene.

And as the detective's voice echoed off the ancient stone monoliths of Harbour City, the ghost he so passionately cursed stumbled unseen out of an alley dumpster, struggling just to walk, and very much aware that he had no where left to go for sanctuary.

The life he had created for himself, however unstable it might have been, had just been utterly destroyed in one godforsaken night. In his heart, the Spyder knew his days were numbered.