Prologue

The young woman turned her head, watching all the passerby in the gallery. She flashed a comely smile at the security guard, nodding her head. The little place had just opened on Rickerby street; called 'La petite mort', the gallery centered on a Gothic theme. They boasted a new selection of art every week, by undiscovered and often anonymous artists. The people with their green hair, ear spikes, and rose tattoos were looking at the Victorian scenes before them, enjoying the deft strokes of the canvas. She was there for an altogether more sinister reason. The young woman herself was an artist, of a varying kind, looking for inspiration. So far, the bright light of genius had evaded her.

Her heels clicked against the white tile floor of the gallery as her long legs carried her further through the macabre world of the imitation Victorian art. No one paid her a second glance as she eased through the decent sized crowd. A once over was enough for those who saw her in the simplicity of her black romper. Nevertheless, clothes were always the best disguises for women. Like in the famous footsteps of the Dutch spy Mata Hari, she too would hide herself from the world; she too would wear her clothes as an emblem of deception.

As she stepped through the portals the art created, vastly disappointed with the worlds she was taken to, the repetition of death, every artist doing it the same – the dull color schemes making her heart ache for the potential these anonymous donors had – the talent they were wasting. The lack of true human feeling was evident, and it disgusted her core.

But there she stood, somehow managing to fly through the paintings as if they were not worthy of a second glance, much as the crowd around her ignored her outward simplicity, her choice of a neutral color in this neutral world. She grew tired of the talentless swine that this gallery had allowed to inhabit its soul, and turned to leave.

She paused momentarily, hesitating, wondering if she judged far too quickly; and it would be a shame to walk out before she had seen the 'special donation' she had heard the crowd whisper amongst themselves about. She set herself straight and turned around again, walking back down the hallway, past the imitators, past the artists who sold themselves short, the people who were nothing like her. They had not had what it took to discover what true art could be, and would not be invited into the fold of her transcendental art movement.

She reached the end of the hallway; hanging before her was a large framed canvas. It was not the size of the piece that had entrapped her, but the subject within. She felt it as soon as she lay her almond eyes upon it that it was something worth re-doing, worth making better. She looked at the plaque on the wall, wondered whom she should acknowledge for bringing her her light in the darkness, but it had been donated anonymously. She had wanted to pay thanks in a more personal way, but a silent thank-you sent heavenward was all she would be able to manage this time.

Her fingers itched at her sides, ready for work, as her eyes brushed across the detail, memorizing every brush stroke, every change in color, so she could re-create it in exact dimensions; a work this inspiring, it needed to be done right. A smile painted her red lips as she turned on her heel and stalked past the crowd, standing tall above them, already making lists in her mind. There was so much she needed to do, and so much, she needed to find.

A/N: Hey there, hope you enjoyed the little teaser for what is to come! Just a note, this will be co-written with my favorite person Vanyiah, who also a fanfiction account that you need to check out because she is awesome; she has a Sherlolly fic that I'm addicted to so if that's your thing go read it!

Vanyiah: Hello friends! Can't wait to show you the craziest story we've come up with together. All good things to those who eat the rude. Really though, stay around and patiently wait by our side as we clear up this rocky road to ruin.