A/N: my partner and I thank you for the kind reviews and hope this chapter grabs your attention.

Chapter 2

"What do we have, Flack?" Mac asked as he slipped under the yellow tape. It was late at night and he had been called to a darkened alleyway in one of the poorer sections of New York.

"A white working girl known as Sugar. One of the cops who answered the call recognized the vic, having busted her a few times. Real name is Jessica Mandolin, twenty-two. Couple of kids on their way home were using the alleyway as a short-cut and saw the vic, thought she was in trouble and went over to help her only to realize she was beyond any help," Flack said. "And Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Recognize something?" Flack pointed towards the wall above the victim.

Mac sighed heavily. "I do indeed."

Spray-painted on the wall was what looked like a crude figure with the arms curling down towards the ground, towards the victim, so to speak. It was the same image that had shown up near the two previous victims, all working girls, all dead of a slashed throat and a single stab to the heart. The slashed throat was initially discovered to be the killing blow, with the stab done post-mortem, after the victim was dead.

So far any available evidence was few and far between. The attacker was going after his victims from behind, eliminating the risk of being covered by arterial blood spray. Then they were laid out like a cross; arms out, ankles crossed.

"I don't know about you, Mac, but this whole thing is seriously starting to creep me out. Could we have a serial?" Flack asked.

"After this, I'm willing to say yes, we do," Mac admitted reluctantly.

Suddenly, just like something right out of a horror movie, a hand emerged from the shadows and settled itself on Flack's shoulder. Mac watched as the veteran homicide detective jumped a good foot or so and came down swearing.

"God-damnit, Artie!" Flack swore as the owner of the hand came out of the shadows. The owner's face was still in shadow thanks to a large black Marine Corps cap. Black leather jacket, olive-drab shirt that peaked out from under the mostly-done-up jacket, tiger-striped woodland camo fatigue pants, and runners were the owner's choice of clothing. Mac took 'Artie' to be a young man, based on the clothing, height, and general body shape. "What are you trying to do, scare the hell out of me?" Flack demanded.

As Artie moved more in to the light, Mac realized his assessment was wrong; Artie was, in fact, a young woman with short black hair. She grinned at Flack and looked up towards where the building's fire escape was.

"You didn't hit the fire escape on the way up so you'll live," she quipped.

Flack glared at her. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You say that every time I do that to you," she shot back, still grinning.

"Everything okay?" Mac asked, joining them.

"Yeah, sure. Just going to kill Artie here for scaring the crap out of me, again," Flack said. Both Artie and Mac chuckled. "Artie, this is Detective Mac Taylor, CSI. Mac, this is Artie. She's a regular at the center where I volunteer with my kids."

The pair shook hands and Mac used this chance to study the newcomer. Fair skin, short black hair, small stature, facial structure and eye-shape suggesting a possible Asian ancestry, and the hardest, coldest eyes Mac had ever seen in a young woman Artie's age. They were the eyes that spoke of having seen too much, done too much, at a young age. The eyes of innocence lost long ago. He wondered what had caused such hardness in such pretty eyes.

"I've heard of you," Artie said. "Word is you're like a damn Pit Bull on the job and a lousy ball player."

"Hey!" Mac protested indignantly. She grinned at him.

"What brings you here, Artie?" Flack asked.

She shrugged. "This is my haunt; I know the area." She nodded towards where the paramedics were preparing to transport the victim to the morgue. "That's the third such murder like that in the last two weeks."

"You hear anything?" Flack asked.

"Enough. That symbol over there," she said, pointing towards the spray-painted image on the wall. "Someone's either mocking Nathor or got their symbolism wrong."

"What do you mean?" Mac asked.

"The arms are in the wrong position. They should be with the hands up towards the sky, embracing the sky, so to speak. She 'brings down' the power of the heavens and embodies within herself all of the grace, beauty, power, and mystery that is woman."

"Who is Nathor?" Flack asked, making a note of Artie's comment in his notebook.

"An ancient Egyptian goddess who's been around for a long, long time. She's said to be the Nile River Goddess of the Moist Heavens, for one. Nowadays she's a symbol for women's spirituality. A more common name for her is simply the Moon Goddess, as she is thought to bring down the power of the moon, women's power," Artie explained.

"Do you know what that symbol means?" Mac asked.

"I'm not one to say," Artie replied. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out what looked like a business card. "This fellow will no doubt have your answers; he's pretty good. Just tell him Artie sent you." Flack accepted the card and Mac read over his shoulder.

"Emanuel's Old World Antiques? What kind of place is that?" Mac asked, looking up. Then he looked around in confusion. "What the hell?" Artie had vanished as quietly as she had come.

Flack looked up. "Hmmm? Oh, don't worry; she does that all the time. Comes and goes as she pleases."

"What do you know about her?" Mac asked, curious.

"Not much," Flack admitted. "The kids call her Artie, which is short for Artemis. She teaches archery over at the center, hence the nickname, but nobody really knows what her real name is or where she lives or anything else like that. With some kids, though, I've learned not to ask. Artie is one of 'em. She may not say much about her private life, but her street info is pretty solid so I've learned to listen to what she says."

"Huh."