It was like entering a stoner’s wet dream. No, more like a crack addict's worse nightmare. And Jerika should know.

At first, there was music, normal music. Well, depending on your definition of ‘normal’. Gothic, at least, which was fitting, if amazingly corny. And ear painful.

There was a writhing dance floor, flashing lights, and a crowded bar. And her first impression was - this is different to other clubs, how?

“Stop looking at it through a human’s eyes,” Clara hissed in her ear. “This place is designed to trap humans. See through the illusion, retard.”

What illusion? God, Clara was a bitch. Setting her expectations high, making her shit scared, when it was no different than…was that blood? And that sphere thing looked suspiciously like an eyeball.

One blink was all it took to turn dream into reality. Jerika almost snickered. Dream to reality to nightmare.

Those people weren't the average club goers - they were predators watching her with eyes that reflected the multicolour light. There was bottles of a thick, deep red at the bar that she knew wasn’t tomato juice. There was a fog in the air that didn't come from any smoke machine she knew of.. And these people... they weren’t human dammit! Humans didn’t feel this way. Jerika’s skin itched and stung and her mind burned and her stomach turned and oh god her body was rhyming. Without permission, the fucker. Hey, was everything spinning?

“Clara.” Okay, that wasn’t actually audible. One more time, voice box. “Clara!”

Her friend, remarkably at home in this Grimm fairytale, looked at her with faint exasperation. “If you faint, I'm leaving you. Stop acting so…human.”

“I am a human!”

Her friend shot her a sideways look. “Fine time to remember that little fact.”

The air was heavier here. And her ears buzzed, as if there were conversations that they were picking up on but were just too weak to make out. Actually, come to think on it…

Jerika felt like a rich, creamy chocolate pudding, with a liquid caramel inside. One of those Marks and Spencer’s to-die-for deserts.

Her friend’s face was positively mischievous. “You still bored?”

“I smell human,” came a low masculine growl, before some random bloke sniffed her and licked her neck. Suddenly Jerika wasn’t a donut in a police station. She was in a woman whose privacy bubble had just been breached. Molestation was not on her top ten things to do tonight.

She whirled, and shoved two fingers in the guy’s mouth. Without looking she knew he was a vamp, and dug her fingernails in the space behind his two fangs. As predicted, the big scavenger yelped. She leaned in. “Sweetie, you want a meal, you gotta earn it. And trust me, my standards are high.” She twisted her fingers, then pulled out. The pervert moaned, rubbing his mouth and wandering off in a not-so-straight line. Jerika looked at her bloody fingers and grimaced. Vampire blood was always second hand. Ew.

“Oh yeah,” was Clara’s amused comment. “You’re the helpless human in need of protection against the big bad monsters. How’s your spider sense?”

“Buzzing nicely.”

“Fancy a drink?”

“Blood free?”

Clara jutted a hip out, her hand firmly placed on it. “Do I look like I drink excess bodily fluids?”

Jerika ran her eyes slowly over the exposed thighs, proud midriff and shaped breasts, before landing on the painted face. “Yes.”

“Bitch.”

She wandered off, presumably to the bar although it was best not to assume with Clara. She was the ass in it.

Jerika took another look round the room. What had been hazy was now in clear focus. Oh, the People may be in almost every way superior to humans, but they couldn’t hide anything from Jerika. Not when she remembered that, like them, she was no simple human. She had a mental Excalibur. Well, it was more like a mental magnifying glass, but whatever.

Still, there were more under-the-bed creatures than she could remember seeing before, a lot she didn’t recognise, and it was slightly overwhelming. She’d save the reeling for later. Jerika liked her life where it was, despite the general shitiness of it. It was too late in the season to get another one for such good value.

She sauntered over to an unoccupied section on the bar. Well, moved. Okay, fine, bitches, crept. Unnecessary attention – which would be all attention – would be shunned like a homosexual in a Catholic convention.

There was a girl next to the wall with a cat tail having what looked like vertical anal sex with a guy who had horns. Except she was on top. Jerika really wasn’t curious enough to watch to find out the anatomically possibility of that.

Clara appeared, dropped a bottle of Budweiser in front of her, and disappeared, trilling something about a leprechaun. Or unicorn. Or possibly popcorn, Jerika really wasn’t paying attention.

Her eyes were on the stained – with what she was also not curious enough to find out – bar, but her mind…that was in every corner of the room. There was magic here. Not the spellcast and tricks of people, although there was plenty of that as well. It was the magic of scores of mythical and mysterious beings. The magic you’d never find around humans.

Humans always felt the same. It was why she couldn’t fit it, couldn’t tolerate them. No matter who they were, what there personality, character or past was like, they all felt the same. So repetitive and dull. But the People…each had a different feel, different noise, different smell. It was like a rainbow for each one.

The rainbow you see when light hits spilt oil.

Jerika didn’t forget that most would happily bleed her to death to see how long it would take her to die.

Inside these joyful, Nirvana-filled musings, a piece of shadow parted from the others and floated in front of her. Clumsy thing. Should know better.

Except darkness was the absence of light, and absences didn’t have separate parts.

Crow feathers, on the other hand, did. Whoopee. It lay all balanced like on her drink, making it undrinkable.

Just like that, Jerika remembered why they were even at the Crypt. And suddenly realise how goddamn, utterly, completely stupid she was. She’d tracked down a being even the People were wary off.

Is there anyone as clever as Jerika? Has anyone ever lived who had ever been smarter than bright Jerika? Maybe someone who didn’t do a fantastic impression of a lamb with a magnetic attraction to its slaughter. Maybe that person was smarter than Jerika?

“Come into my parlour…” The whisper was light, mocking, and gone before she even thought about turning her head.

“If you’re a spider, does that make me Little Miss Muffet?”

A soft chuckle, like a zephyr, and did the bastard even exist? “You’re my waterspout. I keep climbing, and even when the rain comes to wash me away, I’ll just climb again another day. Climbing right. Up. You.” With each word fingers danced over her spine, before disappearing.

Jerika snorted, eyes narrowing. “You’re doing a damned good job at playing the rabbit in the wizard’s hat.”

“If I’m the rabbit, and you’re the flea, are you hiding in the fur, or climbing up the hair to see what lies beyond?

She glared at the boy sitting next to her. “I am not a flea!”

He was smirking. His eyes, a golden colour, were watching her avidly, an intense look shining in them. Improvement over insane looks. He was wearing simple black jeans and a black top, but she’d already noticed that there didn’t seem to be a dress code for the club, other than not coming in the skin of a human. Unless it was second-hand.

“Metaphor, my humanoid sensor. I prefer the fox to the rabbit.”

“I bet you do.”

He chuckled, and the intense look faded. Jerika got the odd feeling she’d just narrowly avoided death, then shrugged it off. Every second in this place was a duck of the scythe, which was exactly why she’d come. The People lived in danger and blood and death. Maybe, if Jerika couldn’t find life interesting with the humans, she’d die finding in here, and have an adventure with death.

“You’re thinking about my occupation.” His voice was dark again, and she wondered if he ever didn’t sound like he was about to go on a mass murder spree.

“Huh?” Oh, eloquent. Beautiful, Jerika, you excel yourself. Cicero would be envious.

He leaned forward, and his breath was magma on her ear. Funny, she’d expected it to be cold. “Death, my Seer. It is on your mind.”

She cocked her head. “I’m in a place named after the resting place of the dead, and the fact that I’m thinking of death surprises you.” She paused, then stared at him in surprise. “You could hear me thinking about death?”

He laughed, and the sound was so tightly controlled that shivers ran down her spine. What was he like when he let go? How many people survived it?

“In the far right corner.” Jerika had to turn her back to look there. Yeah, not that stupid. She gave him a look, and the gold bled out, replaced by a turbulent blue that steadily grew darker. Okay, pissing him off may be slightly more stupider. She looked.

“Yeah?” It was a guy that looked anorexic and was naked above the waist. His hair was the colour of water in a murky lake, and didn’t seem corporal. She realised it probably was water, and she had to stop thinking like a human. He was talking to another guy, this one studier and painful to look at. It was the fear. Everything in Jerika quelled at the thought of him seeing her watch him. She quickly turned away.

Reaperboy was watching her with that amused look. The type you give a toddler who’s just leant a new trick. “All I see is two blurred figures.”

Jerika blinked. “But…I thought Reaper’s saw all…”

“To do with death, of course. But everything up to? That’s your province, my dear. I hear you think of death. You see what no others can. Fair trade off in a world where fair is often a kick instead of a gunshot.”

She looked away. There was knowledge in his eyes. Oh, she knew all they told her, but she didn’t want to acknowledge it. She didn’t want to help make it real. Then she mentally kicked herself. You don’t turn away from the oncoming bus. You don’t turn away from the pouncing lion. Why’d you turn away from him?

A hand on her thigh, warm and almost melting into the flesh. Another on her shoulder, sweeping away her hair to place lips on her pulse point. It leapt to meet them and she felt lips curl, breath moisten, the faintest hint of teeth. Then they moved, and she felt the words as she heard them.

“What brings you to my parlour, dear Seer? I didn’t even have to call you.”

She kept very still. Despite sky-high piles of evidence to the contrary, Jerika was not an idiot. This manboy – she was heading towards man at the moment – was much more dangerous than a simple parasite. Fingers to his fangs would probably just encourage him.

Still, she wouldn’t be Jerika without having a body that fiercely loathed her existence, which it proved by conspiring with her voice box, throat and mouth to get her brutally murdered. “I am not a dog.”

…Okay, Clara’s right, she asks for it. Just that the ‘it’ is different. In this case it didn’t include hot chocolate spread, fluffy handcuffs and a curved, vibrating piece of rubber. Thank god.

She felt a faint scrap, then his teeth pressed into her neck. Not enough to bite, but she was duly chastened. They were flat, ordinary, but her spider sense was tingling. Those teeth weren’t simple hardened calcium, and she remembered how they’d looked in the hospital when he’d snarled.

She’s just slipped, and the scythe had almost nicked her. No time to recover, it was swinging again.

Wait, they’d been a question there, hadn’t there? Oops. Okay, pause, rewind, play. Must remember to buy new memory, this one is outdated.

…Must remember to ask Clara if it’s possible to really get a new memory. She wouldn’t be surprised.

Question! Answer! Retard! “Why else would I enter the dungeon? I want to meet the dragon.”

“To slay him?” His hand on her leg slipped up, moving slowly around, and she placed her hand on top firmly. Bite me, maim me, kill me. Your hand moves any closer and I claw it, bitch.

She tipped her head back. “To ask him what it feels like to fly.”

He laughed, and his control had slipped. No longer a chuckle, it was rich, sharp and alive. The laugh of a bird at the first ray of light at dawn. Or the laugh of a sadist at the first spray of blood.

“Cold. The sky doesn’t have central hitting.”

He let go and stepped away, leaving Jerika to ponder than answer. They’d been speaking in metaphors, right? Who the hell had started that! Jerika failed at metaphors! What the fuck had he meant?

He wasn’t sitting next to her. She swung around, confirming what she already knew. Reaperboy was gone. Whether from the bar, the club or her life, that remained to be discovered.

Shit! Why did life never follow her script, dammit?

IoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoIoI

To distract herself from her complete and utter failure, Jerika was dancing with what she was sure was a vampire. No, she knew was a vampire, she just liked lying to herself. After all, she had the Sight. Of course she knew what he was.

She was dancing with him until he faded into the crowd, her only warning a slight widening of those animalistic, pupil-filled eyes. She felt rejected, abandoned, for a second, wondering what she’d done wrong. Oh how her heart breaks. Or something. That is, until someone answered for her.

A soft yet knowing caress down her upraised arms, stroking her shoulders and neck delicately, trailing until they reached her hips, gripping so lightly it was like being touched by air. The answer was easy, then. She’d done nothing wrong except attract the attention of something more powerful than a vampire. Lamb, meet the slaughterhouse.

She kept dancing as before, pretending not to notice the touch. It was so light that the pretence was easy. Only when she moved her hips to the beat did she feel it. And know that someone was holding her. Someone was close to her. Someone who could easily kill her if they wanted to.

Of course, that was the question. Did they want to? A vampire was strong, but purely in physical means. Was the being strong enough to beat a Clansman? Ahem. Clansperson. Only if Clara was outmatched was Jerika truly in trouble. She could find out, if she wanted, but she didn’t. It would be like admitting her fear, and that would be worse than death.

Truly, pride was the worst disease of all.

Besides, she didn’t really believe they wanted to kill her. Just…play. Then again, for those who dwelled in the night, there wasn’t much difference.

Just as she was getting used to it, the touch changed. The air materialised into hands that gripped, and a hard chest rested against her back, so close she could feel the muscles. Thighs pressed against the back of her legs, and her bum, and she realised he was taller than her. He was definitely a he. No mistaking that grip, that movement. That scent.

A hot gust of air across her neck, burning and branding. She felt soft hair trail against her skin as the body moved slowly, skilfully. Her own body followed. She knew she was being played like a flute, an instrument of his making, but she couldn’t stop herself. The music was too beautiful to disturb.

It was a trance for her, as if she was drugged. An out of body experience. Not so for him. She knew he was firmly tied to the ground; that he knew exactly what he was doing. But she didn’t mind. It just added to the dance. As they swayed and weaved and dipped, they sculptured masterpieces, and she encouraged him. She couldn’t not.

Of course, logically, she knew why. This club was designed for Them. Humans were instantly enchanted, captivated. The music was meant to create a spell that would dazzle and bewitch any mortal who dared to enter. Each substance, liquid, solid or in between, was targeted at dulling the danger of life. On humans, it was twice as powerful. It was Fairyland for the unsuspecting, except these fairies had teeth. Truthfully, Jerika was obeying the hidden rhythms of the club. And it was fucking stupid. But nothing she thought would make her stop.

One of the hands moved over her stomach, the thumb exacting slightly more pressure than the fingers. It rested in the middle of her stomach, the palm firm, the thumb caressing. The other hand wandered like an explorer, over her back, round her sides, up her chest, moving between her breasts until she was breathing hard, finally coming to rest on the junction of her neck. There was hidden strength there as it rested. The slightest pressure could crack it like a nut at Christmas.

The most dangerous is always the most exciting. Extreme sports. Her life was in his hands. And she adored it. In that moment, Jerika felt she could offer her life to this faceless stranger, and be pleased if he chose to take it. Everything she was he owned.

The hot breath moved from her neck to her ear, the slight hint of moisture showing her how close his mouth was. His tongue, so close, that warm, wet muscle resting millimetres away from her. Heat curled inside her. When words finally came, they were expected. The heated, lazy tone was also expected.

The jolt of familiarity wasn’t.

“Did you know there’s a type of flower called Hawthorn that has a unique scent, caused by the chemical Triethylamine? This is one of the first chemicals produced by a corpse when it starts to decay. It is also the smell of sex. Specifically, semen. Corpse and sex. Death and life. So closely connected. Want me to show you?”

She knew that voice. She did. She just couldn’t think of it. Damn this haze, this fog that had descended inside her. Damn her for being human. Damn him for exploiting a weakness her whole kind was born with. Damn her kind, the humans, for being so goddamn weak.

…But she wasn’t human. Not completely. She was Jerika, a Seer. She who saw what others did not. She who saw the truth. She who sounded like a sixties horror movie. How dare they treat her like any human who walked off the street? She was different. She was better. And she’d make them recognise that.

The burst of anger dispersed some of the fog, and her belief did the rest. And then she knew who danced with her. But, though she didn’t want to admit it, she realised something else. It was not the trance that made her dance with him. It was her own personal feelings.

“Sorry. I’m not into necrophilia.”

A chuckle amused, surprised. So, he’d thought she was just another human? Was this yet another test? God, would he never learn?

The hand on her stomach dropped, but she kept dancing without the encouragement. She didn’t need it. It found her hand, hanging above her, and grasped it tight. To her illogical surprise, it was warm. Slowly, it dragged the hand down, piercing the limited space between their bodies. There, it rested, on his chest. On his heart.

His heart, which she could feel beating. And his voice came again, in the same place, hot, slow, amused. “Does this feel like the heart of a dead person?”

No. Oh God, no. Bad move, abort, abort...

Jerika could feel his life, and it was beautiful. With every beat he lived, and she felt it. Felt the arteries contract; the blood flow; the muscles drink; the lungs exchange. Her breath came out silently, unnoticed, as her body went almost limp, yet still swayed to the music. His free arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up. Not that she could feel it.

She was lost in that world of everflowing, everlasting life. An illusion, she knew, but an effective one. A thousand tiny processes to make one person live, all centred around this one, regular rhythm. Beat. Beat. Beat. She could see his life. She could almost See…

Her hand was removed, still held tight within his as it was moved back to her stomach. With a jerk, she came back, gasping in shock. She didn’t...that couldn’t…that had never happened before!

“My little Seer, you see all together too much. And all together too little. We do not live in a world of black and white. So why are you separating life and death? Think of me as grey.”

She drew in a shallow breath, feeling weak and stupid. Still, at least her voice had a bite, when she could conjure up the energy to speak. “Why do you care?”

He laughed again and, to her foolish shock, bit her ear. “You have a lot of potential. Shame you’re ignorant. Maybe I could help. God knows you need it.”

With a growl, Jerika pulled herself free from his grip, and swung round to face him. He looked so cool, so mocking. So in place, as if this was where he truly belonged. But did a Reaper belong anywhere that had life? This Reaper wasn’t dead. Did he ever belong?

He was looking straight into her eyes. “Don’t bother pondering the universe. There is no ultimate answer.” His eyes were draining colour, becoming an eerie, pale yellow that looked sickly and ghostly. And there was that manic gleam that sent jolts down her spine.

“If you say so. I’m going.” Jerika decided to ignore the fact that she’d come here purely to meet him, and she had. And now she was going, because it was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. He wasn’t just fire, he was a fucking uncontrollable bushfire and she didn’t want to get burnt, let alone incinerated.

She turned, and he spoke again. “I know where you live.” A laugh. “And I’m not the only one.”

Jerika swung round so fast her heels almost gave out on her. Clenching her teeth, so fought to regain her balance before glaring at him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

The look he gave her wasn’t sympathetic, or pitying. It held amused contempt. “People don’t mind a human Seer if that’s how she stays. Human. You entered a different realm when you walked in the club, and you’re playing with new rules now. A human Seer is tolerable. But if she tries to become more than human? You’re wearing a red cape, Sensor, and the bulls are watching.”

“Bulls don’t give a shit about red,” she snapped. “It’s the movement that attracts them!” Keep the anger, nurture the anger, and use it to fight the terror…

He chuckled. “The movement is you running. The red is your blood, which half the denizens here can sense, and hunger for. Time to grow up, because you’ve entered Wonderland, and it ain’t pretty. Call me if you feel like not meeting me for professional reasons.” He grinned, and his teeth were sharp.

Time to be smart. Keep all options open, and that meant not pulling off these bastard heels and using them to gauge his eyes out. Then something occurred to her. “Who the hell do I call?”

Something changed in his face. The amusement was still there, but the contempt was lessening. In its place was…approval? And a glimpse of excited anticipation. “Call for Reth.”

Then he was gone, and Jerika felt incredibly alone.

“Jerry?” Clara was there, holding her arm and tugging her off the dance floor. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve made contact, and I don’t like the attention you’re getting. And I don't think it's for those killer heels. Not that you don't look eatable and all, but I think that's the problem...”

Jerika didn’t bother arguing, or listening, she just let her friend pull her away. All she could feel was the heavy, churning feeling in her stomach. All she could think of was the words I know where you live and I’m not the only one and her little brother waiting at home, no idea what was out there.

But, worse of all, all she knew was hot breath against her ear and soft hand trailing across her skin. Reapers didn’t have any seductive powers, right?

Reth. The space between life and death. Which one would he direct her to?

---

A/N: Warning - please inform me if you think the rating should be changed at any point, as my judgement is very poor in those areas.

Thanks Noelle - I'm afraid the confusion is intentional, but answers are a-coming.

Thanks ammi - I like hooking people.