Anger and Blood

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/13/02

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 49
degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from
the south at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.08 and rising, and
the relative humidity is 100 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit
(9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (52% 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.


Tuesday is the night for techno and flash, at the Temple. The crowd is
younger, thinner, and hyped on various stimulants. There are still a few
hard-core goths and spike-strewn fetishists, here and there, and there is a
great deal of black.

Salem stalks through the crowd like a bad vibe, his dour expression quite at
odds with the hyper techno set and too hard, too vicious, and not elaborate
enough in his attire to be one of the goths. A glinting brown eye scans the
faces in the club as he moves through it, searching with severely strained
patience.

There is one that makes him stare--a slender wisp of an Asian woman, with a
perfect face and a teasing little smile. She doesn't look at him, but at
someone kneeling in front of her, right by the rail that marks off the dance
floor.

Salem pauses. Not quite the face he was looking for, but something makes him
linger a few moments, long enough to get a better look at the woman and the
person who has her attention. His eyes narrow.

Suli tightens her hand in the dark hair, and jerks Rina to her feet. The two
are of a height, in the maelstrom of the dance floor. Rina's eyes are
closed, her face turned away. A silvery metal band wraps around her throat.

Suli grabs her by the collar and pulls her close, to whisper something into
her ear.

Salem's nostrils flare, and the low, gutteral noise that escapes his throat,
while too quiet to be heard by the pair, is feral enough to make the
glittering androgyne that happens to be passing near him blanch. He starts
toward Suli and Rina, his pace unhurried but relentless, his face hard.

With a thin smile, Suli pushes Rina roughly out into the whirl of the dance
floor. He is almost there, when she leans back against the rail to watch.
When Rina starts to dance.

Salem stops, his eye following the kinswoman to the dance floor. He stands
still. Quite still. Rigid, even.

The ambient techno thrums into a half-goth mode, and the lights move in
sweeping arcs. Rina is lost in it, possessed, dancing out the slow,
inevitable triumph of desire. Dancing out submission, her wrists crossed in
the air above her, body stretched on an unseen rack of suffering. That line
moves in sinuous waves, the snake-call of belly dance, fluid as water.

He watches for several eternity-stretched minutes, then breaks out of the
trance with an irritated mutter in Serbian. After a brief, sharp glance at
Suli, scowling, Salem stalks onto the dance floor at a determined stride,
making a direct line for Rina.

Her head rolls slowly on her neck, until it falls all the way back. She
sinks a little, knees buckling, her body lunging upright a moment later with
a deep, liquid arching of her back. Her upper body leans back, and back,
until it seems like she has to fall, arms reaching up and back to continue
the sweetness of that line. The light flashes on metal, as she moves.

It takes a certain ruthlessness to destroy art like this, that or plain
brute thuggery. It's like stepping on a Van Gogh, but Salem breaks her
rhythm with a hand on her arm.

The spell breaks. Shatters, in fact, a sudden tension snapping into place,
the sensual grace turning to something far more feral. Wild eyes, flooded
with black, look at him--without recognition, at first. After a moment it
sinks in, and she takes a step back.

Salem's face is unreadable, though the potential violence in him is
well-controlled, and the glaring, intent stare is not _quite_ anger. A
moment passes, and then he jerks his head in a nod toward the railing, off
the dance floor. The opposite end of the room from Suli, in fact.

He feels the tension, the shiver. Rina swallows, and lowers her eyes. She
follows him, docile.

Salem keeps the hand on her arm as he leads her off the dance floor. She's
not the only one who's tense, either; the Philodox walks stiffly, iron in
his spine. Only when they've reached the railing does he speak, a low mutter
for her ears alone. "Who was the woman?"

Rina's eyes close, and she turns her face away. "Leave it alone," she says
roughly, her voice raised to be heard past the music. "It doesn't matter."

Salem opens his mouth, then shuts it abruptly. Scowling, he glances back
over the crowd, skimming faces and forms; when he looks back down at her,
his expression's softened, but not by much, and there's a touch of
resignation in his eyes. "Fine," he says at last, tightly. "Fine."

Rina's eyes are lowered, her expression numb. "She has something I need.
I'll go home with you, if you want... but after. I-- I just have to--"

Salem inhales sharply, tension coiling another notch tighter. His hands
vanish into his coat pockets, pushing down deep. "--Have to what?" An
insistant note creeps into his voice. "What is it she's giving you?"

"Need to hurt," she says hoarsely. "Need to know I'm alive." She ducks her
head, then, wincing.

There's a moment of silence -- from him, anyway; the Temple continues its
relentless beat, heedless and uncaring of the two members of Family
Cockroach. Then Salem murmurs a curse under his breath and looks down at her
wearily, the resigned look back in full force. He grimaces. "I'm not your
father," he rasps, at last. "Nor your-- nor John, either. But I don't..."
His jaw tightens. "I don't like it."

"You don't like any of it," she snarls, turning to look up at him with
fierce, dark eyes. "You don't like /me/. But unless you want to throw down,
or beat me until I scream, you'll have to fucking deal, won't you." Her
expression twists somewhere between anguish and anger.

His first reaction, the instinctive, knee-jerk one, is anger -- snarling,
unthinking, vicious rage; he goes utterly rigid, his right arm particularly
so, but he keeps his hands in his pockets -- fists clenched -- and beats
down on the beast slavering under his skin. The pain drowns in it.

"Guess I will," he rasps. Salem's voice seems to have dropped half an
octave. "I'll be outside when you're finished." Without waiting for a reply,
he turns away from her and pushes toward the exit. Not that he _has_ to
push, really; the crowd parts before him, drawing away like nervous sheep.


[...]


It feels like hours. By the time she comes out it is well after midnight.
Rina is less than steady on her feet; she leans on the arm of a youngish,
fantastically-dressed goth boy

Paige is pretty enough to look adrogynous, though on close examination he
does have an Adam's apple. And right now, as he catches sight of Salem, it
is bobbing. Large, apprehensive, soulful blue eyes look out from a youthful
pretty-boy face that is thin to the point of gauntness, like Cat's--but
Paige is perhaps twenty-one, and his eyes show traces of late nights and
unhealthy vices. His platinum-blond hair is drawn back in a tail, tied with
black ribbon, and he wears a frilly shirt and frock coat to match.

Salem drops the smoldering butt-end of his cigarette and crushes it
underfoot. The Walker's pulled the hood of his coat up, making the garment
all the more cloaklike as he stalks toward the pair. The Washington night is
cold, though not as vicious as it'll get in months to come and not nearly as
frigid as the hard lines of his scarred face.

Rina doesn't lift her eyes. She looks half-dazed, her expression the
slightest bit taut, hinting at pain.

Paige straightens his shoulders visibly, like a nerd facing off with a
schoolyard bully. His blue eyes slant over to the girl on his arm. "How
about if *I* get you home, okay, sweetness?" His attitude is not
proprietary, but knightly: protective of her, prepared to face even this
demonic-looking fellow to ensure her safety. There's another distrustful
look at Salem.

Salem stops. He's within arm's length of the two, but his hands are in his
coat pockets rather than reaching for Rina's arm. He glances at her, his
expression unreadable, then fixes that half-blind gaze on the youth. He
doesn't say anything, but he's in their path, and his stare hovers
threateningly down onto the younger man.

Rina gives a small shake of her head in answer. The dark, dilated eyes
glance up, not quite high enough to reach Salem's face. "'S'aright, bel
paggio," she murmurs. "He's a friend. I'll be safe."

"Angel, sweetheart, look at me..." The boy's voice is anxious, his hands
solicitous as he turns her toward him. One hand tips her chin up, though
he's not all that much taller. "Look at me. You tell me, and I'll go... but
if you need anything, /anything/, you call, okay?" It's not hard to see the
concern for her, in every gesture, in that hint of pain that ghosts his
expression.

The ex-Ronin knows something of the boy's pain, though he's not showing a
hint of it now. He folds his arms across his chest and waits. He's waited
for hours, outside the club. He can wait a little longer. Centuries, if
necessary.

Rina looks up, meeting the boy's eyes for a moment, and giving him a nod.
"Jack's family," she says simply. Her voice is quiet, subdued, far more
relaxed than it has been of late. "I'll be fine."

Paige reads her face for a moment, as if to judge her condition and the
truth of her words. Then he strokes her hair, kisses her carefully on the
cheek, and whispers something to her. It is difficult, clearly, for him to
leave--but he draws back and turns away. A few steps, and he glances back
over his shoulder, as if to make sure she is really going to place herself
in the care of that unsavory stranger.

Salem steps forward then and offers Rina his arm, just like he used to, just
like he always has. The perfect gentleman. The frock-coated youth is
banished from his attention as he retreats; as far as Jack's eyes are
concerned, Rina's the only entity in the entire city.

Rina studies the ground with those drug-hazy eyes. "You don't have to," she
says, very quietly. "After what I said to you--" She swallows. "I'll get a
cab. Or walk. You shouldn't've waited."

"I said I would," Salem says simply. The anger that flashed out at her
earlier is gone -- frozen, perhaps. "Can you walk? My car's several blocks
away."

Rina closes her eyes for the space of a breath, and then looks up at him. It
takes her a moment to speak; her voice is hoarse with stifled distress.
"Jack," she almost whispers. She hasn't yet taken his arm. Hasn't moved, in
fact, save to lift her head.

Salem stiffens slightly, though he's so rigid that it's hard to tell; his
mouth twitches, thinning, muscles tensing in his jaw. "...What?" His voice
is just as quiet.

She looks as if she might be in tears, but she is exhausted past that point.
The pain is there is her eyes, though, a raw thing. She has to force herself
to look up, to meet his gaze and hold it. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.

The ice in his face thaws slightly at that, and he lets out a soft sigh.
"Forgiven," he murmurs. And again, he offers her his arm.

Rina takes it, ducking her head to hide a wince behind the fall of her hair.
She doesn't speak.

Salem begins walking down the sidewalk, away from the club and toward the
car that's parked several blocks away. He's got her on his blind side,
though the hood obscures his face somewhat as well. He walks slowly.

The silence is heavy. They pass by a disturbance in an alley, and Rina
doesn't even glance toward the fistfight. Her eyes are focused ahead and
down--or rather, unfocused, staring into a distance.

Salem glances its way, but only long enough to make sure it's not going to
disturb them. He doesn't say anything on the way to the car; once it's
reached, he unlocks and opens the passenger-side door for her with more of
that gentlemanly air. The interior of the Yugo smells like cigarette smoke
and old oil.

She gets into the car without her usual carelessness--and makes the mistake
of leaning back against the seat as she closes the door. She shifts rather
abruptly to lean forward, her lips pressed together.

Salem notices, and his jaw tightens visibly. Scowling, he closes the door
and walks around the front to the driver's side, opens the door, and gets
in. He pulls the hood back and glances sidelong at her, the dark eyes
intent. For a moment, it seems like he might say something... and then he
buckles himself in and starts the engine.

The Yugo grumbles, then lets the Walker drive it out of the parking space
and onto the road. It's reluctant, sluggish in the cold, but obeys.

Rina doesn't bother with a seatbelt, but sits with elbows leaning on her
knees, her head not quite in a position to bump the dash. She watches the
road, her expression tight.

Salem drives carefully, without attempting conversation, watching the road
with narrow-eyed concentration. They arrive in front of Rina's building in
short order, not saying anything until the vehicle's parked and the engine's
off, ticking quietly. Then he looks at her again. "Do you want me to come
up?"

Rina doesn't look at him; her expression twists with conflict. "If you--
want to come up, if--" She shakes her head minutely. "If you want to help.
But I-- don't want to make you upset. Maybe it's not a good idea."

Salem's mouth twitches subtly. He lowers his head, regarding her from under
lowered brows, and says, "I'll deal." He unbuckles his seat belt and climbs
out of the car, walking around to open her door for her.

She swings herself out of the car, carefully, and walks toward the building
without meeting his gaze.

Salem follows like a well-trained guard dog, his boots heavy on the stairs,
his expression distant.

She unlocks the door to the apartment, upstairs, and steps in. Her movements
are stiff, unsteady, and her attempt to shrug the jacket from her shoulders
is quickly aborted. "Could you--?"

Salem murmurs, "Of course." With utmost care, he helps her out of the
leather jacket. His jaw is set as he steels himself for what's going to be
revealed underneath.

Rina takes in a hissing breath, tensing slightly as he takes the weight of
the jacket and slides it from her arms. He is standing close enough to smell
the blood; it looks as if the mesh shirt is sticking to her in a few places.
The shirt hides most of it, but there must be welts or cutting beneath the
layered fabric.

He was expecting this, surely, or something like it. He must have been.
Still, his jaw clenches as he tosses the jacket aside. "The shirt's going to
hurt more," he notes, keeping his voice bland. "Need help with that too?"

Rina ducks her head. "You don't have to," she says hoarsely. "I can probably
loosen it up in the shower." She swallows, and takes a careful breath. "If
you'll either peroxide it, or slather somethin' on it, though, after..."

Salem nods. "Of course." He slips out of his own coat and lays it over hers
on the couch. He eyes the mess of her back, what can be seen of it anyway,
then shakes his head and looks away. "Where do you keep the first aid kit?"

"Under the kitchen sink," she murmurs, as she heads for the bathroom.
"Should find everything y'might need, there."

Salem grunts an acknowledgement. His eye wanders back to her, his sight
following her toward the bathroom; once she's out of view, he shakes his
head again and goes hunting for the appropriate first aid materials.

The shower runs for a time. 

He finds the kit in a big mixing bowl, under the sink: bandages, drugs,
syringes, Neosporin, Lidocaine, hydrogen peroxide...

It's a more impressive array than what he has in his apartment at Red Mill,
that much is certain. He carries it out to the main room, keeping an ear
tuned to the sound of running water. He settles down on the couch as he
waits, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, absently going through
the items in the kit, taking inventory with a troubled, abstracted
expression.

She spends a long time in the shower: fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Long
enough for hot water and steam to soften scabs.

When she comes out, she wears a pair of sweatpants, a white towel, both arms
holding it to her upper body protectively.

Salem looks up as she emerges. His face is composed now, controlled,
neutral. The bowl of first aid material is on the coffee table; he nods her
toward the couch next to him, sitting up as he does so.

Rina comes out to him, eyes downcast. She turns and sits with her back to
him, her shoulders tense.

The marks of a singletail whip, used with quite a bit of strength and
energy, stripe her from shoulders to the small of her back. Most of the
stripes have at least an inch of broken skin, and there is an angriness to
all the marks, raised welts and whip-cuts alike. It is not a random
destruction, but a carefully-ordered pattern, a set of marks laid one way,
then another at the opposite angle, slanting in neat but irregular diamonds
and chevrons. And, like a Bosch painting come to life, it is horrifying in
its precision.

He suppresses a shudder and tightens down on the reflex of sickened anger;
she's spared the hollow look in his eyes as he stares at the artful, bloody
wreckage. After the passage of a few long seconds, he begins cleaning the
wounds with methodical, mechanical care. If she hazards a glance back at
him, his face is wooden and blank.

She tenses at the first sting of peroxide, drawing in a hissed breath
through her teeth. Her breathing quickens a fraction. When she manages to
speak, her voice betrays a hint of strain. "They-- should be pretty clean."
She swallows. "She-- likes to do things, with-- vodka, with alcohol, and
then she--"

"Don't." Salem's voice is harsh. He's paused, going on again with the task
after a few tense breaths. "I don't want to know." More controlled this
time, but insistant.

She flinches slightly from that sound. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "You don't
have to-- do this, you don't--" She gasps, as foam hisses in one of the
deeper cuts.

"Shut up," he whispers. "Just... hush." He finishes with the peroxide and
sets it aside, then begins applying Neosporin to the whip-marks. His hand is
steady.

Rina is not. One hand comes to her face, to shield her eyes. Her shoulders
and back jerk once, and then again, with convulsive sobs.

Salem pauses again, then forces himself to continue. Neosporin, then
bandages, his teeth clenched and his face hard. Even so, he administers to
her wounds as gently as he can. When he's done, he takes a moment to eyeball
his work critically.

The clean white bandages nearly cover her back; there was little space
between her stripes for the tape.

She hunches forward a fraction, both hands coming up to cover her face.

Salem touches her shoulder, near where it joins to her neck, lightly.
"What," he says, and then takes in a breath. "What else can I do?"

Rina shakes her head, and faint sounds come from her as she tries to
suppress her sobs. Moments pass before she can speak; when she does, her
voice is choked, small, tearful. "Just-- j-just don't-- don't hate me,
don't--"

"Never." Salem's voice carries a touch of quiet resignation but is no less
sincere for that. "I could never hate you." He squeezes her shoulder, then
gets up from the couch and moves around to her front. "You should try to get
some sleep."

Rina swallows, and nods quickly; a hand drops to hold the towel to her
chest. "I'll try," she says hoarsely. "I'm sorry." She lifts her head, then,
to look at him. "D'you--" Another swallow. "Will you stay?"

Salem nods. "Of course," he says. The loyal watchdog, yet again. He extends
a hand to help her up.

She takes it; a measure, perhaps, of how weak or injured she must feel. He
is given a pillow and blankets, several of them--all the glass keeps the
place chilly.

The night passes with the usual disturbances, several nightmares that wake
both Rina and her guest.