*DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters. They belong to David Bowie. Spider belongs to Alice Cooper.*

The Characters

They call me the 'Artist'. That is my name. I do not recall going by any others. Even if I did, they must not have been significant enough to fit among my memories. How many artists are actually called 'Artist'? None. I am an original work of art... In more ways than one. - The Artist.

My Black Widow is almost complete. I need just two more...sacrifices? Yes. Sacrifices. Then she will be complete. Yes. Oh, my, what's this? A young brunette walking right into my web. How lovely. She will do just fine. But, wait! Two males from different directions following her? This may be a challenge. Good. - Spider

Life has never been good to me. I'm a waitress at the See Food, Eat It Restaurant during the night, and a single, struggling writer in the daytime. Books are a great interest to me; art is not. Art, not as in pretty paintings of flowers or seasides, but Art as in human mutilation. Blood flowing freely through canvases and brains on display is Art these days. I hate Art. - Miranda

I've been in some deep shit before in my line of work, but this takes the cake. One murder, three suspects, and one young lady that could be the next victim. The Y.L knew the Victim when they were younger. She's seen the murderer and another artist who also chose her for his prey. If I keep her alive long enough, I might have a chance to come face to face with both artists' form of art. Then I will judge. - Detective Nathan Adler

I have not been to Oxford Town. No, never...Until now. The detective recently had me on his suspect list for the murder of Baby Grace Blue. I knew her. Her and Romona. I never helped Romona. I knew her - that was all. I am nothing but a petty thief and am disliked by all in Oxford Town, except by one. That waitress at the seafood restaurant. She was kind to me. She even gave me directions to the train station. Wait, that screaming. Could it be her? - Leon Blank

Chapter 1: We've Been Waiting For You

It was around three A.M when Miranda Thompson left the Sea, It's Good! Seafood Restaurant. Her night shift usually ended at about five A.M, but her boss decided that she needed a break. That they all needed a break. Business was slow. Even the bar was slowly dying. The bartender was sucking down more booze than the customers were. Less and less people went out to eat at night. They were either locked up safely in their homes, or scavenging the city for Art shows. They would receive both a good show and refreshments there. Why go to a restaurant where you would just sit and eat when there were much more interesting things to do? Partially why the boss closed the restaurant for the night was because he was running late for an Art show downtown. Miranda hated Art. She never attended an Art show, nor would she ever attend one willingly. They were such gruesome events. If people wanted to see the result of a body chopped to bits or mortally wounded, why not stop by the morgue? Wouldn't that be cheaper? Yes, it would be. And of course, when alive, those bodies were most likely abducted by these artists late at night while walking along the dark, abandoned streets of Oxford Town, New Jersey on their way home. Just like Miranda. She knew she was stupid for leaving the restaurant for home. She had the key to the place, after all. Her books and some writings were stored in her locker/cubby. They could of kept her busy while she waited for the sun to come up and frighten the shadows away. She knew it was too late to turn back when she saw the straggly looking man dressed in black heading her way. His strides were long, allowing him to meet Miranda in no time. He stood right in front of her. She moved left, out of his way. He moved left, in her way.

"Got a light, Ma'am?" he asked in a scratchy, yet calm voice.

"No, sorry. I-I don't smoke," Miranda stammered. He was close enough to her that she felt his heavy breath on her cheek.

"Hmm. Neither do I." Miranda felt her neck skim his shoulder as he swiftly, forcibly picked her up. He held her legs tightly with both arms so she unable to kick, but she was able to pound his back with her fists and scream. The actions did not have any affect on the man, who continued his walk, turning a corner into a dead end.

"The city is deaf to the cries of a fellow human," he commented on her screaming, releasing her legs. She dropped backwards onto the cement, landing in an awkward sitting position. The man bent down. She saw him flash his pearly white teeth. A smile. A mischievous one? Yes. "My sweet, how would you like to give something to me?" He pulled out a cloth and a bottle from the pocket of his pants. Leather? It was too dark to make out any true details. He tilted the bottle so that it's contents - a liquid - dribbled onto the cloth.

"I don't have any money on me," she said.

"I don't need money. I need something more… precious." He launched at her, covering her mouth with the cloth. The fumes of the liquid surged through Miranda's nostrils. Her vision darkened, as did the rest of her senses, but she could still hear sounds of feet pounding on the cement. The police? Had they heard her struggle? Maybe. Yes, someone was grabbing her. Yanking her up from the ground. Was it the man? No. The man's hands were gloved, these hands were bare and soft. They held her against a chest of thin frame. The cloth was gone, and she was becoming more and more alert. The liquid had been Chloraphome and it was wearing off quickly.

"Where do you live?" A native male accent asked her. Wind swept through her hair. She was slumped in a passenger seat of a car. The windows were open and it was traveling at a speed of at least 60 mph.

"34 Halo Avenue," she answered warily, gazing upon the driver. He was in his early fifties. He wore an open, black jacket, a plaid dress shirt of red and faded green under it, a brown tie, and a black 1940's Stetson hat. He had long, short reddish-brown sideburns. A cigarette poked out from his lips.

"You was in some real danger back there," he said, throwing the cigarette out the window.

"Yes," Miranda said, trying to spark her missing memories. When did he put her in the car? "That man with the long black hair tried to knock me out with chemicals. He said he said he wanted something…something precious."

The man nodded. "That one wanted one of your legs. The other son of a bitch wanted your whole body to butcher."

Miranda sat erect in the seat. "Other? I only saw one." The man glanced at her, his face suspicious. "Only one? I had to practically play tug-of-war with the other. Your black haired man ran off." "I don't remember any fighting. Just yelling."

"The Chloraphome knocked you out. You just didn't realize it, that's what it does y'know. You were only half conscious most of the time."

"Oh…" She felt like an idiot. "Who was the other one then?" "The Artist. Is this you place?" He parked in the driveway of a lonely little home. It was dirty-white on the outside and even worse on the inside, but it was all she could afford.

"Yes, that's it."

"Well, you can't stay here." He stuck another cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and before Miranda could escape, drove out of the driveway so fast that the tires squealed.

"What are you doing?" She demanded, her heart pounding.

"Driving."

"That was my house."

"I know. It's not safe there. I'm taking you to my hotel downtown."

"It's not safe downtown," she protested. "You'll be with me and surrounded by people. You'll be safer than in this dark, quiet neighborhood. Trust me."

"And who am I trusting?" He grinned uneasily, picking up a small wallet from the dashboard and tossing it to her. She opened it and read aloud an I.D card tucked in a clear plastic pocket: "Detective Professor Nathan Adler of Art Crime Inc. The Arts Protectorate of London." She looked up. "Art crimes in London, England?"

"Art crimes in London, Canada," Nathan corrected her. "Do I sound British to you? I was born here and stationed at the bureau in So Ho, but I can wander anywhere I want."

"And solve Art crimes?" Miranda asked. Finally, someone to stop these horrible murders caused by artists.

"Yes."

"How did you find me?"

"Partly your screams, partly by accident. The Artist was stalking you, the black haired man was stalking you, and I was stalking another completely different suspect that I lost when I saw the Artist creeping in the shadows. Shadows don't work for him well; he's too white and blonde."

"What do you mean 'suspect'?"

"I'll tell you later, Miss..."

"Miranda. Thompson."

"Right."