Returning Rina's Wings

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/4/02

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 41 degrees
Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric
pressure reading is 30.06 and rising, and the relative humidity is 86
percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (2% full).

Salem climbs up the stairs to Rina's apartment, the black-feathered wings in
hand. He pauses at her door, steeling himself, and then knocks.

Rina answers the door bleary-eyed and scruffy. The apartment is dark. She is
wearing sweats and a ragged wifebeater, her arms scabbed with cuttings, her
hair a tousled unkempt mop. She opens it without checking his identity, and
regards him for a moment in confusion before understanding his errand. "Oh,"
she says hoarsely. "C'mon in." The heel of a hand rubs at her eyes as she
turns and walks away.

"You left it in the car," Salem says, rather unnecessarily, He steps into
the darkness, defenses raised, his body language stiff. Slowly, he closes
the door behind him and takes a moment to adjust to the gloom.

Rina scratches at the back of her head, and waves the other hand toward the
couch. "Just toss 'em anywhere. Thanks. Sorry about..." Her voice is
rough-edged from disuse, or sleep. "All of that."

Salem sets the wings down on the couch and pushes his hands into his coat
pockets, watching her pensively. "The club the other night, you mean?" He
shakes his head slightly. "No, I... I over-reacted."

Rina's shoulders lift, and then fall. "Yeah, no big." She turns to him then,
dark eyes and shadowed face, her hands dropping listless to her sides.
"Look, Jack..." That numb, exhausted gaze is almost too much to look at.
"Whatever you're tryin' to do, you don't have to. I don't know what it is,
but..." A tiny shake of her head, and she glances away. "But y'don't have
to."

It _is_ hard for him to look at, that much is clear. But he does -- jaw set,
shoulders tight, stubborn miserable bastard that he is. "You're not dead,"
he says flatly. "I'd rather not pretend that you are."

Rina shakes her head minutely. Her eyes are lowered, the darkness empty.
"No," she answers. "No, I'm not." There is something chilling about that
terrible indifference.

Silence, at that answer. Salem's face is closed, closed tight, and within
the pockets, his hands close into fists. Even so, the halfmoon seems more
tired than angry; even the beast within him seems weary. He looks away from
her after a moment, downward.

Rina ducks her head, bridging a hand over her eyes and rubbing at her
temples. "What do you want me to do?" The question is soft, hollow. "I
don't--"

Salem looks up again, solemn. "...What?" His own voice is quiet, quiet and
dull. "You don't what?" He doesn't sound like he really wants to know the
answer.

She gives a small shake of her head. The hand drops, revealing a faint
shimmer of tears in her eyes. She does not look at him directly. "I don't
know what to do," she says quietly. "It's like whatever I-- whatever I do
it's wrong."

Salem passes a hand back across his hair, ending up rubbing at the back of
his neck with a quiet sigh. "You can do what I do," he says sourly. His hand
drops, vanishing back into the pocket, his mouth turned grimly downward.
"You get up. You take care of business. And you try not to... think about
it."

Rina swallows, and looks over to him. "I'm workin' on it," she says quietly.
"You got anything f'me to do, lemme know." She averts her eyes again,
looking toward the kitchen. "Y'want anything t'drink?"

"...Could use a drink," Salem mutters. His gaze remains on her, fixed but
unheavy. "And we could use your help on the Neo-Night thing as well." He
shifts his weight, straightening slightly. "There is, apparantly, a stronger
version of the pill being distributed. Darker color, with 'UL' stamped on it
twice instead of just once." His delivery remains dull, flat.

Rina rakes a hand back into her hair, and paces to the kitchen. "

There's a strange little laugh. "Don't want me to try it this time, do ya?"
She opens a cabinet or two, indecisively. "Coffee? Whiskey? Tea?" She
doesn't sound like she cares much.

Salem follows, though he keeps a certain distance from her. About an arm's
length. "Whatever's convenient," he answers, in regards to beverages.
"And... no, I don't recommend you taking any. The source is looking more and
more vampiric in origin. At least, the part of the pill that isn't ectasy is
blood."

Rina fills the metal kettle and puts it on, then. "No wonder it had such a
rush to it," she murmurs. "Heard the blood's kinda like coke, makes y'feel
real strong..."

Salem stiffens, and there's a beat before he answers. "It's also addictive,"
he says darkly. "And a good way to get yourself slaved."

"Yeah, heard that too." Her voice is quiet, indifferent. "So. What'd'y'want
me to do? Trace sources? See if I can find out who's puttin' it out?"

Salem nods. His mouth twists slightly as he watches her, his expression
bitter with a subtle touch of pain. "Right. Nicodemus has been doing some
analyzing, but... he's only had a few of the pills to test."

Rina leans on the counter, and gives a small nod. "So I turn into a regular
customer and work my way up the chain? And hope it's not tied to our /pals/
the Russians." Her face is distant, hard.

Salem tilts his head slightly, favoring his good eye as he studies her.
"Something like that, yes."

Rina nods curtly. "Fine. Then it's convenient I started goin' back." She
blinks a few times, and swallows. "Nicodemus the cop, yeah?"

"Dalton, yes." Salem rubs at his beard, scratching at the short black
bristles along his jaw. "How well do you know him?"

"Pretty well," she murmurs. "Least, as much as anyone can. We usedta hang
out a lot. Now... not so much."

"Hmn." He purses his lips, then asks, "Is he trustworthy?"

"Depends on for what, I guess," Rina murmurs. "He'll do what he thinks is
right. Doesn't jive with /my/ morality, but..." One shoulder lifts and then
falls. "I'm a capo. He's a cop."

He makes a short, curt noise that a month ago might have been a laugh. The
sound, though, is too dour and tired for even Salem's dry brand of humor. He
leans against the counter, rubbing at his eyes absently. "Have you ever had
any inkling that he was... more than he appeared?"

Rina's eyes narrow, and she glances over her shoulder. "I thought it was
kinda odd that he'd be a cop. Ex party-boy walkin' all straight and
narrow..."

Salem folds his arms across his chest. "...Around whom Gaia's Truth doesn't
work. Or works so poorly that it's useless. Who twitched every time I turned
the Gift on in his presence."

Rina narrows her eyes, and looks down to the kettle. "Huh. Interesting."

"Yes," Salem says, flatly. "Interesting."

Frowning, Rina turns to lean back against the edge of the counter. She
doesn't lift her eyes to look at him. "He's not on the /other/ side," she
says quietly. "My guess would be some kinda wild talent. One a those weirdos
that pops up every once in a while. Or maybe he's just... perceptive." She
gives a tiny shake of her head. "I d'no."

Salem grimaces, his body tightening. "I'm not planning to go gunning for
him," he says, sounding rather cranky. "He's not tainted, anyway, according
to Alicia. I just..." He frowns. "Random elements irritate me."

"Easy," she whispers, slanting her eyes away. "Take it easy." When the
kettle starts whistling, she nearly jumps.

A small muscle twitches under the Garou's right eye. He closes his eyes a
moment, pinching at the bridge of his nose, muttering an apology.

Rina turns quickly to start making tea, her hands the slightest bit
hyperkinetic as she works. "It's okay. It's okay. I'll do what you said. I
d'no anything about Nick. I could try'n work on him some but it's hard, him
bein' a cop."

Salem massages at his temple, his eyes still closed. "Don't worry too much
about Dalton. He's been in town for years. The drug's a much bigger problem,
right now."

"Still. If he's after it, maybe he can help s'more." She swirls the tea a
little in the pot. "I'm sorry 'f'I... upset you. I don't mean to. Don't want
to."

Salem takes his hand away from his face and folds his arms again. "It's not
your fault. I'm just... on edge, lately, I suppose." His eyes are tired; he
looks aged.

"No shit," she mutters. The barest ghost of a smile touches her lips, and
she fills two cups, putting a little sugar in each one. When she turns to
offer his, there are tears welling in the dark eyes. She doesn't say
anything.

Salem takes the cup, and he's careful not to brush his fingers against hers,
as difficult as that might be for more than one reason. And he sees the
moisture in her eyes, and says, wearily, "Don't think about it. Try not to
think about it."

"I don't," she says hoarsely. "I'm not." She turns her face away, and wraps
both hands aroud her cup.

Salem stares into the contents of his cup for a few heartbeats, then looks
back up at her and says, reluctantly, "The Gathering is tomorrow night.
Kinfolk _are_ invited."

Rina swallows, and closes her eyes for a moment. Her lashes are wet. "Can
you get me there?"

"Absolutely." His voice is very quiet, and if there's an ache in it, it's a
dull one.

"Thanks," she whispers. "I can't-- I shouldn't go alone. Leave alone.
Drive."

Salem takes a sip of tea, gingerly, enough to wet his lips and tongue. "You
won't have to," he promises.

Chamomile with something else. Rina drinks for a little while, quietly,
leaning one hip against the counter.

Salem lets the silence between them linger, drinking in slow sips. He
watches her, though whenever she glances his way, his gaze is elsewhere --
usually studying the tea left in his cup.

She breaks the silence with movement--pushing away from the counter and
walking out into the room. It looks empty, without easels or canvases about;
wide and empty and blank.