Near Midnight at the Temple

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/2/02, late, near midnight.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 32
degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The
barometric pressure reading is 30.18 and rising, and the relative humidity
is 64 percent. The dewpoint is 21 degrees Fahrenheit (-6 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (15% full).

Temple

This building, obviously an ex-church of some kind, provides a slightly
raw acoustic for the pounding music--muffled only by dusty velvet and
tapestry hangings on the stone walls. Pillars march down the nave, which
has become the main dance floor; a black-pipe grid about fifty feet
overhead holds the fixtures and dark-colored lights that sweep the mass of
dancers. It's evidently quite the nouveau-goth hangout of St.
Claire--boasting more piercings per capita than the punkest of thrash
clubs, and more decaying brocade than Anastasia's Antique Emporium
downtown.

The sanctuary at the far end of the building is still cordoned off, often
used for "entertainments" of varying type and quality. At other times,
exhibitionists crowd the higher stepped platform of the sanctuary, or
dance on the smaller raised areas around some of the pillars along the
nave. A cube of chainlink fence to one side of the sanctuary houses the CD
spinner and DJ of the evening. One side chapel holds the main bar of the
club; the other chapels along the sides of the church serve as seating
areas, filled with castoff furniture in dark colors and the occasional
unlit candelabra or swath of dark fabric. Tattered, stained velvet sofas
and settees, tucked into the little 'rooms', provide conversation areas
somewhat shielded from the noise. The back chapels, arranged in an arc
behind the sanctuary, provide dark places for the Nachtskinder to play,
exchanging their money for sex, drugs, and other vices.

The arched double doors of the main church entrance lead back out to the
street. The wood panels are tall and imposing; only one of them usually
can be opened. A bouncer stands beside it at a tall podium.

In both corners, enclosed staircases lead up to the second-floor
galleries--balconies from which those less inclined to dance can watch the
writhing below.

From one church to another, and this one's naturally doing far more
business this cold Saturday night than St. Uriel's. Salem stalks into the
crowd, his saturnine visage far more in keeping with the Temple's
decadance, moving within his own little aura of simmering viciousness and
strained temper. His eye roams the crowd, picking out faces, searching.

It's the night of the Temple's Samhain masquerade, and there is far more
color here than usual, a wild riot of masks and feathers and red devils
and demons.

There is only one black angel, dancing alone in the shifting light and
dark, the arch of her back mirroring the arch of feathered wings.

Salem's gaze almost passes over her; for once, he's seeking out quite a
different face. But hers is a trigger, like Pavlov's bell, an automatic
snag at his attention. He pauses, turns back, eyes narrowing.

In the sea of color and darkness, it is easy to see those wings--and when
she dances, Rina always draws the eye. It's her usual practice to drift
into the darker places; she is not here to display herself, but to lose
herself in the music and the shadows. With the wings, though, she cannot
dance too close to the stone pillars along the nave. That has forced the
black angel into the light, into the slow snowing of dark glitter from
above. The sleeves leave her forearms bare, the scratches vivid against
pale skin. Her hands and wrists look to have been soaked in blood, as if
she has been eviscerating the hosts of Heaven with them.

He stands quite still, watching her for long minutes as though transfixed,
other dancers -- so unimportant that they may as well not exist at all --
swirling around him but never getting close. Finally, he takes a breath
and starts toward her, parting the sea of bodies.

She writhes in her trance, eyes half-closed, hips and one heel keeping the
beat. There is no acknowledgement of the lights that play across her face,
the occasional glances from others on the floor; even occasional
intrusions into her personal space are, for the most part, ignored.

He slows as he approaches near her, his face as still as his body was a
moment ago, jaws clenched, gaze intent in a way that screams predator to
anyone looking. Before long, he's within her space, one hand closing on
her shoulder, the other around her wrist.

Rina's eyes flash open, dark and wild; she freezes, staring at him a
moment like a trapped animal. Her heel keeps the beat for a few more
pulses, and then finally halts. A flicker of confusion crosses the girl's
face. Her wrist is wet, sticky in his grasp.

Salem's hand tightens around her wrist, twin to that flash of anger and
pain that stabs out of him when he looks back at her. And then it's the
rave all over again, almost, as he tugs her to him to steer her toward the
exit. Just like the time at the rave, only he looks like he hasn't slept
recently, and the rage snarling under his skin is almost as bad as if the
moon were full instead of dark.

His hackles raise; someone is watching them. 

Rina stumbles along with him, unsteady at first. Her wings hamper his
ability to corral her, but the crowd is actually some help, avoiding his
presence instinctively.

Salem says nothing as he herds her toward the doors, and his hand remains
closed around her wrist like a manacle. His nostrils flare as he scans the
crowd again, alert, even paranoid.

Nothing. There is a blond, craggy-faced man, turning away; the black
clean-lined suit stands out a little in the surrounding gaiety. It might
have been him.

"Jack--" She twists her wrist a little, when he stops; there is confusion
in her eyes, and a touch of anger at being restrained.

Salem stares after the blond man for a moment, until her voice draws him
back. Then those eyes, one pale, one dark, turn down on her. "We're going
home," he tells her flatly, and starts moving again.

She knows better than to argue with that stare--and so she allows him to
pull her out onto the street, conspicuous in her gothic finery.

The chill outside hits like an icy hammer, coldly rigid, like the hulking
ex-Ahroun in his big black coat. His car's parked no more than a block
from the club, the dull orange Yugo that's too ugly to steal.

Rina pages: When does he let go of her? At some point she'll have to get
those wings off. 
You paged Rina with 'Probably once they're about half a block from the
club, halfway from there to the car.'.

When he lets her go, she stops. "Jack--" Her voice is guarded, careful.
"What the fuck."

Salem halts when she does, turning sharply on his heel to face her, his
breath puffing out in angry white clouds. "What the fuck? _This_ is what
the fuck." He holds up the hand that that grasp the blood-sticky wrist, to
show her the stain on his own skin, now.

Something twists across her face--hard, and wry, and cynical. "Lick it,"
she says dryly. "Smell it."

There's a pause, a flicker of doubt on his face suddenly. He brings his
hand to his face, and the scent alone -- or lack thereof -- confirms the
artifice. His hand drops, the substance, whatever it is, untasted, and
with the other fishes a handkerchief from one coat pocket in order to wipe
it off. He's all tightness, not looking at her now.

Rina begins jerking the straps of the wings from her shoulders. "Fuck it,"
she murmurs, avoiding his eyes. "It didn't help anyway." Tears shimmer
faintly, but none fall.

Salem glances sidelong at her, his head lowered. "I'm sorry," he mutters,
stuffing the stained cloth back into his pocket. "I thought..." He trails
off; it's more than obvious what he thought.

"They don't /allow/ it," she says tightly. "They /can't/. It's a health
code thing. No blood." She stares at the ground fiercely. "And you
don't--" A swallow tightens her throat. "You don't understand. I promised
him."

He might have realized that, of course, if he'd been thinking clearly.

Salem looks away, lips thinned, humiliated. "Right," he says flatly. "You
did." A beat, and then he asks, "Can I offer you a ride home?"

Rina hugs the wings to her chest by the two straps. Her free hand comes
up, the heel pressing between her eyes as she ducks her head. "Yeah," she
says hoarsely. "Yeah. I need to-- I need to get off the streets. Out of
there. They were watching."

Salem nods, touching a hand to her arm -- lightly, now -- and starts
toward the car again. "'They'?" he echoes, automatically.

Giving a quick shake of her head, she follows him. "Probably Levnikov's
boys," she mutters. Her steps are quiet, despite the hard-soled boots, and
she stays behind him; her free hand rubs fiercely at her eyes.

"Ah." He doesn't say another word for the rest of the walk toward the car;
silently, he unlocks the passenger side door and opens it for her. The
interior is clean enough, but it's an old car. And it smells strongly of
cigarettes.

Rina tosses the wings into the back. By the time they reach the car she is
crying silently. When she slides into the passenger seat, her hands rub
anxiously at the healing lines on her wrists and arms: tense, compulsive
movements.

Salem drives back to the studio in silence, hunched over the wheel like an
unhappy vulture, navigating the streets almost too fast to be quite safe
and then, upon arrival, jerking the car rather abruptly into a parking
space along the street. The interior of the car is still chilly; the
heater doesn't work well, apparantly.

He puts the car in park and turns off the engine and then just sits there,
staring ahead.

"Thanks," she whispers, sitting there for a moment. "For the ride." Tears
streak her cheeks. She is not wearing makeup, at least, so nothing else
mars her face. There is a silence, and then she opens the door.

Salem turns to look at her as she opens the door, and he doesn't move to
open his own or to even take his hands off the wheel. Neither, though,
does he start the car back up.

"Nothing helps," she whispers, without looking at him. Then she gets out
of the car and walks toward the apartment, dashing at tears with the back
of a wrist, digging into a pocket for the keys.

It's only later that he remembers the wings, still crammed into the back
seat of his car.