Chapter 10: Strangers When We Meet

He did it. Spider had forced her to do something she never ever wanted to do: enter an Art Café. He had dragged her into some sort of bar room. She kept her eyes shut the entire way in, grasping Spider's wrist. She had dug her nails deep into that wrist. It wasn't sufficient payback, but it would do for now.

Normally, Miranda would not of allowed anyone to do such a thing, but Spider was persistent and began to threaten her after she refused the first several times. She didn't feel like having a knife embedded in her throat, so in together they went.

"Spider, where are you going?" Miranda screeched when she saw that he was leaving her.

"I'm on the hunt," he growled, and believing that she was satisfied, he exited the bar to the main room. But she wasn't. She was scared out of her wits.

The bar looked like the sort of bar you would find in an exclusive celebrity club: spotless table, bowls of peanuts placed about six feet apart, a large mirror hanging up behind the table, and below that on a long shelf, many, many assortments of alcohol…and jars of human organs. It was revolting, but not as bad as what waited for her if she dared to go after Spider.

"What would you like Miss?" a punk-looking guy covered with facial piercings wearing orange contacts asked.

"Just a soda if you have any," she told the bartender.

He rolled his eyes. "Diet or regular?"

"Regular, please."

"Ooh, you like the hard stuff, eh?"

Miranda gasped. A man was sitting in the stool next to her. She must have been so engrossed in the bartender's appearance that she hadn't noticed him settle there.

"I don't like booze," she said.

"Ah, you're one of the few smart ones in the world then." He was British, there was no mistaking that accent. He was a Brit with short, gelled blonde hair, almost spiked, a thin nose, charming smile, and beautiful moonlight-blue eyes. His appearance was more intriguing than the bartender's - except in a good way. "I do not drink either," he continued. "I am not saying that I am one of the smart ones, though."

"Oh," was all Miranda could say. She felt that if she talked anymore, this dashing stranger would go away.

"Why are you in here? Would not you rather have gander of what is in the Showroom?"

Great. Another Art fiend. "No thank you. I'm not big on Art."

"Too gross for you?"

The bartender slid a glass of soda towards her. She grabbed it, placing it to the side. "Yes."

"Then why, may I ask, are you here?"

"A friend brought me here. He's quite interested in Art." Did she just call a serial killer her friend?

He cocked her head to one side. "Friend as in…?"

"Just a friend. He's an acquaintance, actually."

"One of those…" the man nodded.

"Why aren't you in there?"

The man flashed a wolf-smile. It made Miranda's skin crawl. She didn't know why.

"I saw you here, alone and afraid. I thought you would like some company."

Miranda scoffed. "I'm not afraid or alone. The bartender is here." She tipped her head towards the bottles and jars. No one was there.

"Looks like he realized that business was slow," the man chuckled. "He left the radio on." The bar was completely blocked off from the showroom by sound-proof walls and a door. The music playing from behind the bar was loud and in perfect clarity, undisturbed by whatever ruckus was happening in the next room.

'Rock Me Gently', an early seventies' song, captured Miranda's ears. She remembered hearing it once a while back. She loved it then. She loved it now.

"Would care to dance?" the man asked her, getting up.

"I don't even know your name and you want me to dance with you?"

"Names are not important. Come on." That smile again.

"My friend could be back at any moment."

"You mean your acquaintance?" He chuckled again.

Miranda took a deep breath as she stood up, defeated. She offered him her arms, which he placed lightly on his shoulders. His own made their way to her torso. They were eye to eye. He made her feel fantastic, this stranger. Out of all the people that she had met in the past two days, he was the only one who made her feel this way. She didn't even know his name. She didn't have a need to find out anyway.

"Not bad," he complimented her in a sing-song voice.

"Thanks. You're not bad yourself."

"Thank you."

Miranda took this as a chance to wrap her arms fully around his neck. She laid her head on his shoulder. He smelled of expensive cologne and something else. Paint? …Blood? She drew her head back in shock, causing the man to tighten his grip on her torso in surprise.

"What's wrong?" he croaked.

"You're an artist?"

"Yeah. How did you guess?" He still held her close.

"I smelled paint on you and b-blood."

"It is hard to get those smells off sometimes. Does it bother you?"

Miranda nodded fearfully.

"Of course it does. I understand completely." He released her. "You are different. I like that. Most women would love to be with an artist. You would rather burn it seems. Something occurred in your past to hate us so. What was it, I wonder? Never mind. It was nice meeting you." He brought his hand to her cheek as if to brush it with his fingertips. He hesitated. Miranda closed her eyes in disappointment. She had ruined this. When she opened them, he was gone.

Not even few minutes passed before she was bombarded with the shouts of three familiar men: Nathan, Spider, and Leon. She was astonished to see them together, knowing that Spider was one of the villains Nathan had promised to protect her from.

"Miranda, who was that man you were with?" Nathan demanded, not asked.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "A guy. An artist."

Spider shook his head. "That wasn't just an artist, that was the Artist.