Chapter 2

The Tigress and the Lady of the Web

Darkmount, USA, 2004

The land spread into the darkness, so thick that even vampiric sight couldn't penetrate it. The moonlight seemed tarnished somewhat, still burning and radiant, yet somehow more primal, more ancient. The kind of moon that Jozelyn imagined drained the sanity from men, leaving even the strongest gibbering in the shadows, never to be the same again. It was eerie. Farther into the horizon, the darkness bucked against the oily sky, and reached to touch the stars. A mountain, she realized.

She saw that Risika was admiring the view as well, her expression bemused again. She was a melancholy creature (and Jozelyn found her terminology even more appropriate in this case) despite her mischievous demeanor. Something about her spoke of eternal sorrow, and damnation where salvation had once been due. It was a depressing atmosphere, though Jozelyn did her best to ignore it. Vampires, while often melancholy and sorrow-laden, were unworthy of pity. That was what she'd been taught.

"Welcome to Darkmount, Jozelyn." Risika stated suddenly. Her voice rang, the thick black air sucking the tones into its depths. The name of the city seemed to echo down the streets, snaking around the ornate, clean little homes like the dark gray mist. It was a dramatic effect.

"I've never heard of it." Jozelyn said in an unusually quite voice…for her at least. Very few of the hidden vampiric cities were left that some Hunting family didn't know about, and hadn't raided. Jozelyn had had even memorized the names of all the still populated cities in both Europe and North America. It was a sadly small list.

"Of course you haven't. It's one of the last still hidden, unknown to anyone." She turned and gave Jozelyn a feral smile. "Save vampires." She added.

Outrage bubbled inside her, and she opened her mouth to form a protest, to say that she shouldn't be so sure that she wasn't going to tell any of her sisters in arms, when she realized that Risika was quite right in her assumption. As she thought of all her sisters and brethren that she had once hunted with, she realized with a pang that each would kill her now, without even glancing backward. Because she was a vampire…A sickly guilt rose in her gut. They would also have already ended their damned immortality by now, driving their own dagger, tainted with the blood of hundreds of leeches, into the heart of one last. How selfish was she being, with this will of hers to survive?

Wordlessly, as if Risika saw the thoughts in Jozelyn's eyes (which, Jozelyn reminded herself, she probably could) the Tigress turned and began walking down the mist-covered streets. Following the gold-and-shadow beacon of Risika's hair, Jozelyn followed, decidedly more subdued.

They walked in such utter silence, that it made Jozelyn a little uncomfortable. It seemed…unnatural that the night was this quiet. Usually something moved, made some sort of noise. There was always the wind, insects, something. The world grew and moved at all hours of the day, in all places of the world…at least she thought. Even the other vampire cities Jozelyn had visited weren't this quiet. It was as if this portion of reality, was as dead as its inhabitants. Even with eighteen years experience in the world of strange and horrifying occurrences…this sent a cold shiver down Jozelyn's spine.

"We're here," Risika said. Jozelyn noted with some satisfaction that the scent of fear in the air was not completely her own. New Mayhem vampires were as unused to this type of deadness as she was.

They stood in front of an oak door, its dark wooden color muffled and dull in the light of the ancient moon and mist that engulfed everything. An old bronze plate adorned the center of the door, decorated with an intricate web with a small spider in its center. Very strange.

Risika noted the plate and took a deep breath. She knocked three times, and stepped back. Jozelyn was curious about what could be behind that door that would make the Tigress nervous. As the door opened, she found out what.

A tall man stood in the entryway, dark, rusty-brown-red hair sticking up in random spikes on his head from what was obviously a very haphazard haircut. His eyes were a dead, yet expressive black. He looked at Risika in astonishment, his features soft, yet angled. Jozelyn figured that he would be good-looking if one liked his type…and if he hadn't been undead.

"Risika…" he said, in what was probably a greeting.

Risika shifted as slightly as she dared, then flashed him a smile, to which he returned happily. "Hale." She said.

Jozelyn looked from one to the other, chewing on the inside of her lip in growing annoyance. Risika had quite obviously forgotten her existence. "Ahem." She said superiorly. Not that this display of attraction from beyond the grave wasn't terribly interesting, but there was mortality to regain and sires to reap her revenge upon…didn't Risika know that?

Risika looked at her as the huntress raised an auburn eyebrow. She then returned to Hale, nodding pointedly to the room behind him. He jumped, having been occupied with staring fondly at her, and stepped aside for them to enter. Either he ignored Risika's companion, or just plain didn't notice her wasn't possible to tell. He walked behind a long, equally oak bar and motioned for Risika to take a seat on the old, apparently hand-carved stools in front of it. She smiled at him politely and perched on top of the bar. Hale smiled back, looking up at her hungrily.

"It's been a long time, Hale. Darkmount hasn't changed, but your haircut certainly has." Risika commented casually, plucking a small ornate bottle from behind the counter. Her hand was very close to Hale, and he didn't move. Nor did she seem to notice as her hand and the bottle brushed high against his thigh.

"Speak for yourself, Risika." Hale said smiling. "Last time I saw you, you still sat in chairs. And," He fingered her tiger stripes. "You were still a blonde." His fingers brushed her cheek and she discreetly leaned into his touch. As he dropped his hand, his black eyes danced.

"Things happen in twenty years." She said, very quietly.

"Things happen in thirty…" he muttered, and before she could comment, he went on. "What brings you back, Risika?"

The Tigress tilted her head in Jozelyn's direction, of whom was leaning against the far wall, displaying her boredom with vigor. Hale narrowed his eyes, studying her. Suddenly, he gasped.

Risika laughed. "Recognize her do you?"

"She looks just like Symia, and you knew I would." He frowned at her. "Do I really want to know why she smells like Jager?"

"I think you could guess." She said, golden eyes glittering with humor.

"Certainly he wouldn't be that stupid…" Hale said. Considering Jager's reputation, Hale was obviously a friend of his to speak of him so bluntly.

"It's Jager, Hale." Risika said, which apparently explained the entire situation, for Hale nodded, looking resolved.

"I knew he was going to get himself into trouble one of these days…"

Jozelyn fumed. She was thoroughly tired of people seeming to know so much about her…some of them, even more than she knew about herself.

Hale turned back to Risika. "Is that why she's with you? Jager off trying to take care of the mob of blood lusting revenge-seeking undead, that are probably tracking her down at this very minute?"

Risika chuckled, seeing it as a very possible scenario, if not an amusing one. "Something like that. I'm supposed to take her to Acara."

Hale stared, and once again, Jozelyn wondered fiercely where all these unknown, yet apparently popular vampires were coming from, and what this inside joke was with Acara.

"I knew it." Hale said at last.

Risika looked curious. "Knew what?" she asked.

"That Jager is stark mad. Almost as mad that Irish witch herself!"

"Hale." The Tigress gave him a disapproving frown, as well as raising a honey-colored eyebrow. "Just because you've had some unpleasant experiences…"

"She straddled me Risika! She put that damn leather collar on me with the metal spikes, and I had to walk around with it on, because I couldn't figure out how to take it off! Who does that, Risika? And she's a vampire. What purpose could she have by pouncing on people and putting collars on them? People have fetishes but that's ridiculous."

Risika laughed. "As I recall, she did that because you insulted her. And she was wearing the collar in first place."

"That's why I insulted her." He smiled. "I called her a crazy Irish bitch."

"Racist."

"She really is crazy."

"Because she called you a bitch once the collar was on you?"

"Because she licked me, once the collar was on me."

Risika burst into laughter. "And that's precisely why I'm so fond of her." She looked at Hale wistfully. "She's knows how to treat men."

The smile faded and Hale's expression became serious.

Jozelyn restrained a gag. "Ahem, excuse me." She said, speaking for the first time. "Sorry to interrupt the Kodak moment, but," she tapped her wrist, which clearly bore no watch. "Death is fleeting."

Risika frowned at her, rapping sharp nails beside her on the bar. With a flip of her hair, she looked at Hale, completely ignoring his expression. She didn't have Kodak moments. Whatever existed between her and Hale thirty years ago, was apparently not on her agenda anymore. "So," she said, pretending momentarily that Jozelyn wasn't in the room. Despite refusing to rekindle whatever happened between the two vampires, Risika still preferred her privacy. "The whereabouts of Acara…?"

Hale smiled up at her, trying to hide the hurt in his eyes. "Eager to get rid of Buffy, huh?" he said, in forced good humor. "Well, I know she's still in Darkmount…but this is a big city, relatively. Rata and Tarule would know, but they're usually…disagreeable with anyone but Acara herself. Your best bet would be…" he nodded toward the back of the room, past an assortment of small round tables, at a door, outlined against the wall by amber light.

"Ah." Said Risika, sighing. She shook herself out of it and gave Jozelyn a look with randomly glittering eyes. Another inside joke. "Good luck Jozelyn." She leapt from her perch, fingers brushing Hale's hunter-green shirt, as if that was her goodbye to him.

"What?" Jozelyn asked mutely.

"You can ask Arachne where Acara is living these days, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm done with the entire deal." She smiled at her. "Tell Jager when you see him that I said 'good luck'." She walked past Jozelyn and disappeared through the door. Boiling with rage, Jozelyn pushed herself away from the wall she was leaning against and followed her, expression savage. She was in time to see Risika walk a few more feet away from the bar and vanish into thin air.

Sulking, Jozelyn returned to the incense filled room, looking at Hale apprehensively. He returned the look, then shrugged.

"Arachne owns this bar," he said, nodding toward the amber-lined door. "She's a friend of Acara's from a long time ago. Um…if you need to find where she is…Arachne would know." He wasn't quite sure what to say to Jozelyn, and she felt an impulsive urge to backhand him. She discarded the idea quickly though. His hair was messy enough as it was.

"Do I knock or just go in?" she asked harshly, trying to leak a little cockiness into her speech.

He raised his eyebrows, unperturbed. "Knock, of course. I imagine she'd kill you if you went in unannounced. She's a painter…she doesn't like interruptions." He spoke as if Jozelyn should have known these things without asking, and she bit down hard on the inside of her mouth to keep from saying anything. Death is fleeting, she reminded herself, and turned, marching purposefully toward the door. She slowed as she neared it and, aware of Hale's vampiric gaze on her back, raised her hand and rapped sharply on the door. Three times.

"Enter," said a faint, distracted voice from inside. Refusing to look behind her at Hale, Jozelyn went in quietly, closing the door firmly behind her.

It looked as if an entire home was connected to the little oak bar behind her, for the room she was in flayed out before her, warm, golden light bathing every corner, a strike contrast to the eerie darkness outside. Old fashioned and comfortable-looking loveseats and armchairs were scattered around a fireplace that put out the amber light (in a rather unusual quantity) and the other side of the room, which was apparently some sort of den, was cluttered with an assortment of art supplies. Oils, watercolors, brushes, canvas, and easels were scattered all over the space, and in the midst of it, and beautiful woman with a sort of Victorian beauty stood before an almost-finished painting, her black eyes narrowed in concentration, and her golden curls piled messily on top of her head in something like a bun with hair sticks protruding defiantly from it. A smudge of cerulean paint stained her ivory skin, from her nose across her cheek, which only managed to make her look more stunning. She wore a loose white robe covered in paint stains that bore a good deal of her chest, shoulders, and back. At the base of her neck, she had an enormous black and red tribal spider tattoo. She made a final adjustment to the painting with the brush in her hand, and set her supplies down. Only then did she turn to a slightly slack-jawed Jozelyn.

"Well?" she asked. "Who are you?"

Jozelyn shook herself. "My name is Jozelyn." She left out her last name, considering it was never wise for one of her kind to reveal it to a vampire, and she'd witnessed enough fuss over it already.

"Ah. I notice you have Jager's scent about you." She had a slight accent, though Jozelyn had never heard it before.

She scowled. "He's my…ah," she trailed off, distracted by the painting that Arachne had been occupied with.

It was a gorgeous white wolf, its plumed tail poised high in the air it as it pounced upon mice in emerald green grass. The sun shown eerily reddish-amber high in the sky, as if Arachne couldn't quite recall the look of the sun well enough to paint it. The sky was so vividly blue that Jozelyn found herself liking the world of the painting better than the sun and sky of her own homeland.

"I believe the word 'sire' is what you're looking for dear." Arachne said, her tone slightly amused. She took a piece of black cloth and draped it over the canvas. "It's for a friend of mine."

"Ah." Jozelyn said again.

Arachne took the sticks from her hair and it tumbled down over her shoulders in stunning waves. "Don't just stand there like a fool. Hale wouldn't have allowed you to disturb me, had you not had some point." She gave Jozelyn a meaningful look. She was the only one so far that hadn't had a peculiar reaction to her, but somehow, she seemed beyond surprise or undignified behavior. Jozelyn thought she would have liked her, had she not been a vampire.

"Jager sent me to meet with a vampiress named Acara." She wrinkled her nose. "I seem to be having more luck finding other vampires, than I am with finding her."

Arachne's amused look intensified. "She's lived here half a century; I can't see why someone had to send you to me in order to locate her."

"I couldn't see it either," Jozelyn muttered.

Arachne ignored her. "There's a street at the end of this block that goes west. Follow it to the graveyard; Acara lives strait across from it. You should be able to see the church from a long way off."

"Church?" asked Jozelyn, taken aback. Vampires had churches?

Arachne smiled. "This town didn't always belong to vampires. We only expanded and spelled it. Some of the old buildings are still around…although," the smile grew sinister. "they are appropriate décor, for a town of the undead."

Puzzled, Jozelyn nodded. She hesitated. Arachne was just as much a vampire as any of the others she'd met and/or killed…should she display the same attitude toward her?

"Um…thank you." She said, the situation feeling completely foreign.

Arachne tilted her head in acknowledgment. "Tell Acara I've finished her painting. Good-bye." She smirked. "And good luck."

Feeling ruffled Jozelyn stared at her. Arachne looked back expectantly. Frowning deeply, she turned and exited, ignoring Hale's curious look. The bar had acquired a few vampires randomly seated about the place, sipping their drinks in comfortable silence. The bar looked more like a café, for it was exceedingly mellow, as if one could plainly relax, despite the murder and mayhem they managed to cause on a nightly basis. Jozelyn scowled, and exited quickly, figuring the feeling was only because of the heavy incense. She hated the stuff.

It was even more uncomfortable walking the streets without Risika, which was annoying to say the least. She walked with her hand shoved deep into her pockets, acutely aware of how her sweater didn't smell quite so good as it had when she'd left her house three days ago to do research on her family's arch nemesis, at the risk of sounding like a bad comic book.

The air was cold, even to already icy skin, and she shivered, knowing that this city wasn't built by human hands…nor wholly by vampiric ones. She stopped, looking up at a brass sign that adorned the cross-section she stood at..

"Amentes Essentia."

"The Essence of Lunatics."

"What kind of a name is that for a street?" Jozelyn asked the city in general. Nothing answered, but she almost got a distinct feeling of amusement from the very atmosphere. Chilled, she turned onto the street and began to walk, albeit at a far more hurried pace then before.

In the distance, a large monument loomed darker then the thick nothing that made up the air of Darkmount. Jozelyn was relieved, because she knew this had to be the church for what appeared to be a cross was perched atop the building. It was only when she got closer that she realized that, though it was indeed a cross, it was inverted, and it looked like it had been made that way.

The church was painted not black, but red, and when she neared it, Jozelyn almost cried out in surprise, because the reddish-brown paint was blood, gallons and gallons of sacrificed blood, coating a Church of Satan. It was so old the smell was ancient, and no longer rotten, or fresh enough to inspire bloodlust, but still so blatantly reminiscent of death, that this part of the city crawled with it, living, and dead, at the same time. Jozelyn felt true fear of Necromancy for the first time in her life, because she knew now that necromancers were the first owners of this town, and it was them that had sucked the life and light from the city. If ever there was an evil greater then that of vampires and werewolves, and other spawn of darkness, it was the evil that had created this church.

She stopped, and dry-retched, knowing that the blood of her meal so long ago would not come up, and that even this simple, fruitless action would only make her even weaker, hungrier, more ravenous, like the aura of the church that reached out to her, demanding the evil to show itself as it had in the London jail, preparing to feed off the impurity of her soul.

After the spell of revulsion passed, Jozelyn approached cautiously, taking such tentative steps that she herself couldn't hear them. At this angle, she saw a huge necropolis on the other side of the church, massive headstones and monuments rising into the misty abyss, tiers and weeping angels reaching toward the distant stars with agonized, stony fingers. Directly across from it, a massive, dark-colored house stared out with blank reflective windows for eyes, and broken ancient teeth as steps leading to the even darker door. The colors were indistinguishable at this particular hour, but Jozelyn was relieved to know that they weren't black nor red, though she'd never felt such disgust toward her favorite color.

She walked the silver stepping stones to the front door (which was a navy color this close up) and grasped the wolf's head knocker, and let it fall back onto the door, the sound echoing through the street. Almost immediately, a young man answered the door, his hair white-blonde with blue tips. He was ashen, but Jozelyn could tell he was merely blood-bonded and that he was not a vampire. He glared at Jozelyn with equally blue eyes. He wore what was relatively normal clothes, a black long-sleeved shirt with what might have been Slipknot written in red across the front, and some worn and baggy jeans. He also wore a black studded collar around his neck.

"What?" he snapped.

Jozelyn became indignant. "Do you always answer the door like that? This is a vampire city buddy, its not that wise…" she said sourly.

"Hmph." He replied. "I'm answering the door for Acara. If they expect anything different, they can go to another house. As you can." And he made as if to slam the door in her face, but her shoe stopped it as well as an iron bar would have.

"That's rude." She said.

He let go of the door and stood back, crossing his arms sulkily. "Ok, fine, what the hell do you want?"

"Acara."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "Well, I knew she was into some pretty kinky stuff…" he adjusted his collar unconsciously, "But that was beyond my knowledge."

Jozelyn was puzzled for a moment before she grasped what he was insinuating. "Ew." She said, giving him a revolted look. "I meant I want to talk to her, you sick little ingrate."

The butler, or whatever the hell he was (Jozelyn thought subconsciously) merely laughed and shrugged. "She went out to the graveyard last I saw. She makes rubbings from the headstones."

Jozelyn looked over her shoulder at the vast ancient cemetery and thought that "graveyard" was the simplest term to be used for it. "Ok…" she answered, sighing. What a night…

"Good, now if you'd be so kind…" the young man slammed the door, and Jozelyn sneered at it, trying to decide whether to go inside and injure him severely (she couldn't rightly kill him, what with his being relatively human) or knocking down the door (or something else scarily vampiric to strike fear in the heart of this insolent mortal…which, she decided, sounded too Bram Stoker) but she opted for finding Acara at long last, just to get this over with.

Averting her eyes deliberately from the macabre house of worship, Jozelyn approached the massive wrought iron gates with no shortage of misgiving. She should just up and leave this place, teach herself how to use vampiric power, screw Jager's advice, command, whatever this goose chase was started by but something seemed just wrong about that, some natural, primal thing that she feared to disobey, just as she feared letting a vampire escape her when she had a blade in her hand, and that turned her thoughts away from giving up; she begrudgingly opened the gates and stepped into the mist coated,hallowed land.

She had to admit, if one was on a history trip, or just a natural tourist, this place was definitely one to spark some interest. The great tombs and graves dated as far back as the 16th century, and she was sure if she explored more, she would find some even older then that. It was a virtual labyrinth of landmarks for the dead, and this was one of the very few places Jozelyn had ever been that intimidated her this much (the other actually, and conveniently, being a hedge maze that her Aunt had on her property, to which she had become utterly and terrifyingly lost in when she was very young).

Ferdinand of the Moonstone Order read one vast tombstone, which might have been made of the very material of his 'order'; it was followed by what looked like a Latin verse. Her eyes flicked toward the shadow that was the church for a moment before moving deeper into the necropolis, forming an unpleasant theory about the occupant of the grave. One problem with those pesky raisers-of-the-dead…they tended to raise themselves. The idea that if he hadn't by now, he probably wasn't going to never passed through her mind, though not for a moment did she believe she was being irrational. Because she wasn't.

It was odd, for monuments of angels adorned this place as frequently as the stones baring the material of the necromantic orders, and they were much newer looking then these. It was odd, in the fact that the names the angels bore, were sometimes singular, with no surname. And that she recognized some of them. She suddenly wished Jager hadn't made her drop her book of names and biographies.

But a vampire graveyard? She'd never heard of such a thing…

A sound behind her made her whirl, fingers reaching for weapons that were, once again, nowhere to be found. The sound of sensuous laughter drifted from all directions at once, and Jozelyn found herself thoroughly annoyed with the persistent mist that seemed to be everywhere. She fought off dizziness as she turned in circles a few times, before she realized that the origin of the sound wasn't going to be located by that means. She stopped; maddeningly weary of the general unpleasantness of the night.

"Jager's new pet. How fun." The voice said, silky and accented, yet almost distant. Though Jozelyn disliked it immediately, she sensed something deeper to the mischievous and half-delirious air of it…something like loneliness, and need.

"Acara?" Jozelyn asked, too tired to be annoyed, or angry.

"Of course." She said, materializing from the darkness, trailing black painted fingernails across the pallid robes of a praying saint. Jozelyn didn't really know what she was expecting, but the image Acara made was definitely not it.

Maybe from Hale's brief ranting of a "crazy Irish witch" she had pictured a woman with wide mad black eyes, and wild knotted red hair, stereotypical for one originating from Ireland. Maybe even with a weird fetish for dog-collars, considering the door-man attire and Hale's account. But the woman (or girl, since she appeared as old as Jozelyn, though with vampires, did titles really count that way?) was tall, and poised, with ivory skin and lidded, wise eyes, with something akin to innocence deep within them. Her hair fell to her waist, razor-strait and jet-black. The Irish lilt only made the vision over, and Jozelyn guessed that the only thing she had imagined right was her fetish for dog-collars. She wore one, above her black tank which dipped hazardously down her chest, and regular black cargoes. A number of bracelets decorated her arms.

"What of it?" she asked, dropped the silky air for a conversational one, which was still mysterious, if just because of her accent.

"Jager sent me to find you." She ignored the monotony in her voice, considering she'd told too many people that tonight (contrary to the fact it was only two or three, but that really wasn't the point).

"He did." Acara replied flatly, it obviously not being a question. Awkward silence followed, and Jozelyn saw in the vampiress's expression that she wanted her to go on.

Exasperated, she did. "Somebody rattled him tonight. A random stranger that seemed to know me. He went 'hunting' whatever that means, and I've spent this entire night running over two vampire cities trying to find either him, or you, and it'd be really nice if I got some answers sometime soon, cause my patience only goes so far—"

She stopped and panted.

Acara was smiling now, her lips curling up at the corners. "Well…I'd hate to disappoint you, but you'll have to wait," her smile widened. "and be patient. I'm not your sire after all. Just your baby-sitter."

She swept past the fuming and spluttering Jozelyn and made her way out of the cemetery, leather boots moving silently over the misty ground. It seemed to part for her, which only succeeded in making the red-haired Scar even angrier.

"You haven't fed, have you?" Acara asked distractedly, as if it didn't really matter, but she could carry on a conversation and observe that terribly interesting old tomb at the same time.

"What?" she asked blankly.

"Very silly. No wonder you're tired. I hope Talon wasn't too rude to you, he doesn't like my company all that well. They always try to bite him." She laughed, and Jozelyn marveled had how she seemed to be talking to herself, and not to her at all, and even preferring it. No one had ever spoken to her like that. "He's a one-vampire man, that one."

They were at the door, and she opened it without knocking, walking in briskly, this time making noise. But it seemed that she could have been silent, had she chosen to. Talon rushed toward her from somewhere, blue eyes wide with puppy-dog admiration, delivering some news of a sort.

"Listen, this is all interesting, but I think I've got a better shot finding Jager…" Jozelyn said, eyeing the pair with misgiving. Finding Jager and beating him into a blood pulp for sending me to this mad house, sire or not, she added to herself. But when she turned, the door slammed shut quite firmly in her face. Her ears rang, and she paused in shock for a moment, noting how her hair had flown back with the force of it, and how she could almost feel the wood against the tip of her nose.

"I'm afraid not, my little Scar." Acara's voice said, and in her mind's eye, she saw her still facing Talon, having closed the door while he was still talking to her. Her voice was even still distracted, her mind somewhere else. "Your room will be on the second floor, two rooms down the hall on the right. Run along now. The sun will be up soon. You'd want at least a little rest if we're to go hunting tomorrow night."

"Wha—," she started, spinning around to protest.

"Suicidal little minx isn't she?" Acara was asking Talon, who seemed to be used to his Mistress. He smirked in her direction, before pitting his attention raptly on Acara. "Now, go on…"

"Yeah, Jager dropped by, while you were gone, you'd love what he had to say…"