More Business

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:19 Pacific Time on Sat Nov 30 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is foggy. The temperature is 39 degrees
Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric
pressure reading is 30.09 and steady, and the relative humidity is 100
percent. The dewpoint is 39 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (26% full).

Whispering Pines - Rhiannon's Apt.

Rhiannon appears to follow the tenet of 'order in chaos', as the apartment
is a complete and total mess, save for a few small corners of sanity. The
doorway opens to the living room, which is large and bright, with a
balcony and sliding glass doors on the left and a dining nook at the far
left corner. To the right of the living room is a short hall that allows
access to the bedrooms and bathrooms, and the kitchen is located across
the living room and to the right, with a bar allowing a view from the
dining nook into the kitchen. The apartment is still sparsely furished,
with only the basics covered: a low coffee table is covered with magazines
and papers, mostly catalogues from the looks of it, ranging from Coldwater
Creek to an NRA publication or two. Blankets and pillows litter the wide,
plaid couch, and the entertainment center has a mess of VHS tapes and DVDs
in front of it rather than stacked neatly in the available shelving.
Although the TV and VCR appear to be garden variety, the stereo system and
DVD player are anything but. Several different company logos are apparent
between the large speaker system and accompanying components, the main
speakers being almost 4' tall and flanking the entertainment system.
Reiterating a love of all things audio is the pair of CD cabinets on the
opposite wall, both holding a huge selection of CDs. Unlike the movies on
the floor, not a single CD is out of place, and a closer look reveals they
are all alphabetized--several hundred, if the height and width of the
cases are any indication. The apartment walls are barren except for a few
family and friend photos.

Salem's knock is short and businesslike.

Rhiannon levers herself up from the couch, clicking off the Saturday
evening flick-of-choice (some sort of Gen-X Western, apparently), and
heads for the door. She's dressed for relaxing, but there's nothing like
relaxtion on her face; she looks exhausted as she opens the door. "Hey.
What's up."

There are shadows under the Walker's eyes, and his expression is
humorless. "Business, as usual." His voice is quiet, flat. "Unfortunately,
this isn't a social call. May I come in?"

"Sure thing." Rhiannon allows Salem inside, shutting and locking the door
behind him. The apartment's heat is at a sedate high 60s, rather than
attempting to emulate a California summer. "Want anything? Coffee, soda,
water?" she offers, gesturing at the kitchen.

Salem quite willingly shrugs out of the heavy black coat, which is more
than a match for a Washington near-December but worse than useless in the
heated apartment. "Water's fine." He drops the garment, which smells of
cigarettes, onto the back of her couch. "First things first. You're aware
that I'm going to be taking Guardian duty next month, yes?"

Rhiannon frowns slightly as she fetches a glass from the cupboard.
"Someone told me, at some point, because it doesn't sound like surprising
info," she admits finally. "I don't remember the particulars." She returns
from the kitchen and hands Salem his water, then takes a seat on the other
end of the couch.

Salem accepts the glass with a murmured thanks and takes a sip. "December
first through the thirty-first." His lips thin. "The timing's poor, but
December tends to be rather quiet anyway. I'll be reachable via cellphone
when I'm not actively patrolling, and I'll be checking in at the farmhouse
regularly." He shakes his head slightly, then digs into a pants pocket
with his free hand and removes a pair of odd-looking little keys on a
plain metal ring. He tosses them to her, lobbing them underhand. "Here."

Rhiannon hmmphs softly. "Poor timing, you have no idea. I just got a
called from Dexter." She catches the keys deftly and examines them. "Your
roaches?" she guesses with raised eyebrows.

Salem hesitates, then shakes his head again. "I've got someone looking
after them," he says, somewhat evasively. "No, those are the keys to
Rina's safe. Where she keeps her guns. She doesn't wish to have them
herself, but..." He shrugs. "If something happens, they should be with
someone who's in the city."

"Understood. Give me a second." Rhiannon stands up and heads down the hall
into her room. After a few quiet moments she returns, without the keys.
"Now they're in *my* gun safe." She quickly takes back her seat on the
couch. "You caught that story in the paper, about the family being killed
and the blood being collected?"

Salem takes a seat on the couch and another sip of water. He frowns for a
moment, thinking. "Sounds vaguely familiar."

Rhiannon rubs her head. "Well the daughter of the family was a girl named
Elizabeth. Her body wasn't found at the scene. Dexter just passed along
some info he got from Renee, though. Someone saw her grow some extra arms,
and some fangs, and go into her own house." She grimaces, indicating the
rest of the story may fall into place at this point.

Salem closes his eyes briefly. "That fits in with what Ebony described,"
he says quietly. "He mentioned seeing a girl growing a third arm, and
another whose jaw seemed too big for her face. Which says 'fomori' to me
rather than 'vampire'..." He grimaces, eyes opening. "...But that still
doesn't explain why the pills don't have the usual type of taint."

"But wait, there's more," Rhiannon offers in a faux-gameshow host voice.
"Remember that voicemail I left you the other night?"

Salem grunts. "There's _always_ more." He swirls the water and ice around
in his glass. "Yes, I remember. What happened?"

"Big motherfucker, like WWF-wrestler big, attacked some cops at the last
NeoNight rave locale. One of them was hurt but he's recovering. Took them
a shitload of bullets to stop him." Rhiannon shifts on the couch. "That
guy you mentioned, Nick Dalton? He was there too. Acting a
little...strange. I haven't gotten any forensics information yet, but, I
did get to have a peak at the crime scene before the CSIs showed up. His
blood was...eating into the floor."

Salem scowls and, setting his glass down, gets up from the couch and paces
the length of the room. "Someone needs to do a Wyrm sensing on these
people," he says, tightly. "Fortunately, Alicia's returning to the city on
the same day that I'm departing from it. And what do you mean by
'strange'?"

Rhiannon makes a sound of annoyance. "Aside from acting like he ran the
place even though he's a rookie beat cop--" that apparently doesn't sit
well with her, "when I got there he was sitting in his car, staring into
space. When I asked him what was going on, he just kept on staring. He was
talking like he was...daydreaming, you know? Sort of not-in-this-reality."
She shakes her head. "Then the shots started and he snapped to and started
giving me orders."

Salem snorts. "That sounds like him. Hm." He pauses, hands buried deeply
in his pockets, looking pensive.

Rhiannon taps her chin thoughtfully. "You were thinking he wasn't just
human, right? Maybe a wizard?"

"He's not a vampire," Salem says flatly. "I've seen him in the sun. I'm
thinking he's either another kind of shapeshifter or, yes, a wizard." He
purses his lips, then goes back to pacing.

"Well, for what it's worth, he seems interested in ending this NeoNight
business, and not furthering it." It's a grudging allowance that Rhiannon
doesn't make lightly. "As long as he doesn't go connecting me with you, I
think I can probably get some useful information out of him and the
precinct. They'll be involved now, so, we'll have Actual Sanctioned
detective work happening."

Salem gives a curt nod, quick strides carrying him from one end of the
room to the other. "Good. And you're well positioned to keep abreast of
things there, yes?"

"I've got Quentin, he'll make a good lieutenant," Rhiannon agrees. She's
about to say more when her phone rings, and she gives it a bitter glare
before answering reluctantly. The phone number displayed almost earns the
caller a smile. "It's Lyra," she tells Salem, just as she picks up the
receiver. "Hello?"

Salem stops pacing and looks over toward the kinswoman, one eyebrow
arching slightly. "Lyra? Hmn." As Rhiannon answers the phone, Salem mulls
over something for a moment, then returns to the couch and his glass of
water, still thinking.

There's a knock on the door, a small hesitant series of taps. "Miss Rhi?"
is the muffled voice. Lyra's muffled voice.

Rhiannon's face twists. The caller on the phone is probably not Lyra,
despite what caller-ID has claimed. "No, he's not here at the moment," she
says, almost tightly. "Want me to leave him a message?" Putting her hand
over the receiver, she mouths to Salem, "It's Renee." The knock on the
door is an amusing surprise, and she gestures for Salem to answer.

Salem grimaces at mention of Renee, then nods. He takes another swallow of
water, then sets the glass down and answers the door. "Evening, Lyra." The
tall Walker's greeting is smoothly courteous as he steps aside to let her
enter. "Long time."

Lyra blinks, mouth slightly open in surprise...one hand flies to her hair,
brushing it carefully flat, covering her neck. The other hand slips into
her pocket as she steps inside, smiling faintly. "Salem-rhya! How are you?
Did you have a nice Turkey Day?"

Salem doesn't, to be honest, look like he's had any nice days recently,
nor well-slept nights, but he manages a twitch of the lips that's almost a
smile as he closes the door behind the cub. "I did, yes. Rina invited
several of us over for dinner."

Rhiannon sees Lyra, and smiles ruefully. She waves the young girl a hello
from her kitchen, where she's talking on the phone with someone. It
doesn't appear to be a pleasent conversation, judging by the look on her
face. "Yeah, I just spoke to Dexter about that. Salem and I are going to
try and get more information on the Rave folks, and the pills. This
doesn't really fit with the whole vampire theory." She rubs her forehead.
"I'll be sure to tell Quentin." She glances at Lyra as she says that, then
turns away slightly.

Lyra tilts her head at Salem, a bit puzzled, but Rhiannon's voice catches
her attention and she turns towards the kin. A quick glance around the
apartment- no Quentin. The halfmoon looks crestfallen. "I suppose pip's
not here, then?" she asks the other philodox softly. "I heard he's been
let back home."

Rhiannon hangs up the phone after a few more brief words with the caller.
"Lobita, good to see you," she greets Lyra. "Did you want something to
drink?"

"He has," Salem confirms, returning to his seat on the couch. He stretches
out long legs, crossing them at the ankles. An eye tilts up toward
Rhiannon. "What did Renee want?" Any hint of pleasantness vanishes from
the Walker's voice when he asks about the Gnawer Galliard.

"Just water if it's no trouble, I won't be long. Wondering where Kentin
is, that's all." The cub looks startled then, one hand flying nervously to
the back of her neck at the mention of Renee. She stands near the door,
glancing from kin to cliath.

"She was hoping to talk to Quentin." Rhiannon gives Lyra an amused glance
as she goes back into the kitchen to fetch another glass of water. "He's
popular with Rat's own, I guess. And, she mentioned that business with the
dead family and the...fomor, I guess we can call it."

Salem grunts. "Might as well call it that, yes." His mood's definitely
dour tonight. His frown, though, is a bit bemused as he glances at Lyra.
"Something wrong with your neck?"

A little more quickly than would be natural, the other hand goes into the
other coat pocket. "No rhya, I'm fine," she murmurs, looking back at
Rhiannon ruefully. "Nee said we're to find the missing girl. Elisabeth
Hunt. Oh, but she prolly told you all that..." She trails off, looking
between the two again. She seems confused, on edge, like someone who is
twenty minutes late for an appointment and still not where they need to
be.

Salem's mouth thins. "Don't bullshit a halfmoon, Lyra. We have keen noses.
What's wrong?"

Rhiannon comes back from the kitchen and hands Lyra her glass of ice
water. "Lobita, one thing Renee did want to talk to Quentin about was you.
She's worried you're not okay." It's said firmly but gently, as an attempt
to get her to speak.

Lyra winces, accepting the glass of water with both hands. There's
something in her pocket. "Why does everyone ask me that?" she says softly,
before taking a sip. "I'm -fine-, honestly. Stressed out a bit, maybe, but
nothing's -wrong-." The cub is pointedly not looking at Salem.

"Right," Rhiannon drawls, her voice thick with sarcasm. "And I'm not tired
or overworked in the least."

Salem grunts, jerking his head in a slight nod in agreement with Rhiannon;
his mismatched eyes are fixed on the cub. "Don't lie, Lyra. I can tell
when you do. Out with it."

Lyra's quiet for a long time, looking down into her water. "It's nothing,"
she insists softly. Then she takes a deep breath.

"But if it -was- something, I wouldn't really like to tell either of you."
She flinches, glancing at Rhiannon and then finally Salem, apologetically.
"I'm sorry."

Salem's eyes narrow, still focussed on the girl, his face full of
disapproval. "I see," he says, flatly.

Rhiannon narrows her eyes at Lyra. "Do you really think you've been
through enough to judge what's important and what's not?" she asks,
sharpness creeping into her voice. "And why haven't you shifted and
healed?"

Lyra's fingers tighten around the glass, a red tinge of shame creeping
over her face. "I'm sorry, it's just..." She bites on her lower lip,
looking to Rhiannon. "What...did...oh. 'Nee told you." She doesn't give an
answer.

Salem's frown deepens a notch. "Have you forgotten how?" He uncrosses his
legs and sits up, setting his glass down. "Or are you avoiding it for some
reason?"

The cub edges back towards the door, still holding tight to the
barely-touched glass. "I only came to see pip," she chokes out. "He's not
here, I'll go now." She steps towards the coffee table to set her glass
down, coat pocket clinking as it bumps into the table. "I'm sorry, I
didn't mean to interrupt your talk-"

Salem rises swiftly, and suddenly, he's between Lyra and the door, all
six-foot-plus of him. "Lyra..." There's a definite hint of warning in his
voice, and an unmistakable note of command. "Tell us what's wrong."

The look on Rhiannon's face changes dramatically at Salem's suggestion of
forgetting how to shift, and for a minute she seems to be holding on to
her temper by the barest margin. Lyra's attempt to leave has the Kin
clenching her jaw, but she doesn't say anything, merely waits for an
answer.

Lyra straightens, eyeing Salem's blocking-the-door-frame with growing
panic. "Please, rhya," she murmurs, on the verge of tears. "-Please-. I
just came to see Kentin. It's for him, not for you." She puts her hands
over her face, trying get back some self-control. "(Just leave me
alone...)"

Rhiannon takes a steadying breath. "Lobita. If there's something wrong,
something very wrong, we may need to know about it. It might not just be
you who's affected. If Renee--an elder in your Tribe--is worried about you
then we've got a problem." She's clearly not comfortable with referring to
Renee as anyone's elder, but does anyways.

Salem folds his arms across his chest and stands there, saying nothing,
his eyes boring holes down on the girl. He's got that merciless, ruthless,
stubborn look.

Lyra takes her hands away from her face, rubbing at her eyes with the back
of her hand. "It's between -Kentin and me-," she insists tearfully. "It
has nothing to do with anyone but us, why won't you just leave me alone.
Where is he?" She turns away from Salem, unable to be under his stare.
"Miss Rhi, please, where is he?"

"So whatever reason it is that you won't shift to heal yourself is between
you and Quentin," Rhiannon says evenly, her tone expecting clarification
on the matter.

Salem grunts, his expression dubious. He opens his mouth to say something,
then closes it, letting the relentless gaze speak for itself. His
patience, though, seems to be wearing thin.

"Please Miss Rhi, where's Kent," Lyra asks again, wrapping her arms around
herself tightly. Rhiannon's seen her expression before, one of a girl
close to hysteria. "Please just tell me where I can see him. I can't tell
you what the matter is, I -can't-!" She doesn'

She doesn't look like she's going to be able to stand for much longer.

"Lyra," Rhiannon says patiently, "Unless you're under some sort of geas to
not tell me, you can--you just aren't willing to. If your reason is
because you made a promise, that's all you need to tell me. But if you're
not going to even allow us that, I guess there's nothing we can do about
it." The amount of disappointment and resignation in her voice would do
any mother proud, and there's a distant bitterness in her eyes. She
glances at Salem and shakes her head, then looks away.

"_Are_ you under a geas, Lyra?" Salem asks. The Philodox's voice is
deceptively soft.

Lyra shakes her head, tears falling down her cheek and dropping off her
chin. "You don't understand," she murmurs, the disappointment in
Rhiannon's voice painful to hear. She turns to Salem, seeking help from
one adult to the next, desperate. "No geas, no promises, I just...it's..."
Whatever shreds of self-possession she had, they're flung to the wind. The
halfmoon crumples to the floor, burying her face in her hands as she sobs.

Rhiannon shuts her eyes for a moment, then slowly sinks to the floor next
to Lyra. "We don't want to hurt you, lobita. We don't understand because
you won't tell us. It's a pretty shitty catch 22." Her voice is softer
now, and considerably more compassionate.

Salem exhales a quiet breath, very like a sigh, and massages his left
temple with light fingertips. He nods to Rhiannon, then says, "Lyra,
between the two of us, Rhiannon and I have vast amounts of experience that
could very easily aid you in... whatever trouble you've gotten yourself
into, or think you've gotten yourself into." His mouth takes on a
humorlessly wry twist. "However bad you may think it us, trust me... I've
heard worse. I'm sure Rhiannon has, too."

Through stutters and tears, Lyra manages to eke out a few sentences, but
so softly only Rhiannon will hear them. And as soon as they're uttered,
she bursts into a new set of sobs, fingers digging into her own sides
tightly.

Salem frowns, arching a brow questioningly at the kinswoman.

Rhiannon simply stares at Lyra, surprised. She glances up at Salem, then
carefully rubs Lyra's back. "Do you think you hurt anyone, lobita?" Her
voice is soft, although Salem might be able to hear her. "Or do you think
something else happened?" It's as tactful a wording as is possible, given
the circumstances.

Salem steps closer to the pair, his hands vanishing into pants pockets;
the tight, concerned frown remains.

"Something else," is the pained whisper from the cub...her tears are
fading, replaced by the numb hollow feeling of shame, so deep that tears
are useless. "Something else."

Rhiannon continues gently stroking the young woman's back, keeping her
tone calm and soothing. "What makes you think something happened? You woke
up somewhere? Someone was with you?"

Trembling fingers reach up to the back of her neck, then come down,
ripping the gauze away and tearing a few hairs with it. There's several
deep scratches, knife-cuts, already beginning to scab over although where
the lines cross, it's still bleeding. It's a single Chinese character.
"It's his name," Lyra murmurs, tears continually streaming down her face,
trickling into her mouth as she talks. "I woke up with this,
after...after..." A deep breath, and another sob. "Pip will hate me!"

Rhiannon examines the character closely. "You know who specifically did
this, lobita?" There's no anger in her words, in fact if anything she
sounds more concerned. "It wasn't Garou or Kin, was it?"

Salem mutters something under his breath in Serbian, a low grumble of
Slavic words. The Walker starts pacing again, back and forth across the
room.

Lyra shakes her head, letting the gauze fall from her fingers as she
covers her face with her hands again. "I think...I think he works at the
restaurant. I think. I don't- don't really know him-" She takes a deep
breath of air, trying not to hyperventilate. "I'm so dirty..."

Rhiannon carefully repositions herself so she's facing Lyra, and takes the
girl's face in her hands. "Listen to me, Lyra. You aren't dirty. You
probably feel like it, and you might for a while, but take it from someone
who's been around this block before. It wasn't your fault, and no one
blames or hates you because it happened." She carefully tucks some of
Lyra's stray hair behind her ears. "I understand why you didn't want to
shift, but you should have someone write down the character, then heal it
up."

Salem continues to pace and grumble.

Crying quietly, the cub nods. "Fei. I think it's the dragon character for
it, or maybe the leg...but it's Fei." Lyra reaches into her pockets, hands
trembling- she pulls out a pencil and a grocery receipt, and another gauze
pad, this one fresh. "It could...could be a few boys though," she
stammers, wiping at her eyes again. "There's more then one with that
name..."

"Go ahead and draw the character for me, and write down the names,"
Rhiannon requests. As the cub does this, she tells her, "If you'd rather
have Renee and your own Tribe handle this, I won't interfer." She begins
running her hands along Lyra's back again, hoping to help settle her. "Yi
would be best at helping you find whoever this is. But I think Quentin
would be happy to help, and I know I am."

Shaking hands manage to scrawl the name on the back of the receipt, but
Lyra drops the pencil stub when Rhiannon mentiones Quentin. "What if he
hates me?" she asks, terror of the thought gripping her. "What...what if
he hates me for it?"

Salem stops pacing, and passes a hand back over his head, smoothing back a
few loose strands of black hair. "He won't hate you. If I know him at
_all_, he'll fight to be the first in line to strangle the little bastard
for you."

Rhiannon nods, agreeing with Salem, but after a moment she asks, "Why do
you think he would hate you, Lyra?"

Lyra lifts her glance to Salem's face for a brief moment, but lets it fall
again. "Salem-rhya knows why," she murmurs, eyes on the gauze pad. Safe,
blanketed white. She gulps in air, then glances up at Salem again with the
tired, miserable look he must surely be good at recognizing by now. "I
never...never did understand why you told him it was okay. I thought, out
of anyone, you'd be the first to snap my neck."

Rhiannon shoots Salem a look of accusation. "Why is snapping your neck
even on the table?" she asks Lyra, although it's the looming cliath she's
still watching.

Salem's face twists into a tight, irritated-looking grimace. He flicks a
glance at Rhiannon, then turns back to Lyra. "Nevermind that," he says,
shortly. "The point is that he won't hate you. If anything, it'll be quite
the opposite. You don't need to apologize for anything. If anything,
you'll need to hold him back from going out and killing assailant
_immediately_." His eyes narrow. "_You_ are not without your own abilities
in that regard, too, you know."

"Quentin had better take a number, unless he thinks he can shift faster
than I can shoot," Rhiannon mutters blackly, looking out across the room
for a moment. She waves that statement away quickly, however. "Salem's
right. Quentin won't hate you, and anyone else who might will have to deal
with the rest of us."

Lyra's quiet for a moment, before she leans into Rhiannon, seeking touch
and comfort. "I miss him," she mumbles tearfully. "Can never find the
silly git when I want him...always out or moving about." She's not really
making a whole lot of sense now, mumbling and sniffling. Quietly, she
adds, "Thank you..."

Rhiannon grunts. "This is what we're here for. No thanks needed,
hermanita. We'll find Mr. Wander Lust tomorrow." She runs her hand through
the young girl's hair, looking thoughtful. "Do you want to stay here
tonight? You can have my bed."

Salem takes a perch on one arm of Rhiannon's couch, rubbing at the back of
his neck. "Sounds like a plan. Maybe some hot chocolate as well," the
Walker suggests, humorlessly. "Chamomile tea, even. Works wonders for the
nerves."

"Are you...y'sure?" the cub asks, looking from Rhiannon to Salem, then
back to the kinswoman. "I...I can make it back to the shop. I don't want
to impose." She reaches up to touch the cuts on her neck, and winces, then
looks for the gauze pad she knows she pulled out somewhere.

"You should heal that up," Rhiannon suggests again. "And you're not
imposing. It'll also put you right here when Quentin does show his ugly
mug around the place." She glances at Salem, and nods. "I have tea and
cocoa, as it turns out. And marshmellows. Quentin made me buy a lot of
food."

"There, you see?" Salem says, with forced lightness. "No imposition." He
glances at his watch, then stretches and shifts around to a proper seat on
the couch, leaning back against the cushions.

Lyra still looks dubious, but she's emotionally drained and in a feeble
position to argue. "I'll shift now," she decides, wiping the last tears
from her face and moving a few inches further from Rhiannon. In a few
moments, there's an unhappy-looking red wolfcub curled up beside the kin.
Thanks for the chocolate, but I'm not very hungry or thirsy, Four-Leaves
chuffs sadly. Just tired. Just want Speaks.

Rhiannon scratches at the back of Lyra's neck. "Much better. Now, you can
sleep like that, but probably not here, or Quentin will trample you when
he comes home." She levers herself off the floor and goes to the closet,
digging around for blankets. She produces 3, all of them old but stury
wool throws in terrible colors--olive green, dark orange, and light tan.

Salem glances at his watch again, then stretches and gets up. "I should be
going. I still have some packing to do." He glances at the kinswoman.
"Rhiannon, may I have a word?" He nods toward the door.

"Sure thing." She sets the blankets down next to the couch, so they're
further away from the door. "If you want to use these, here they are," she
tells Lyra, rubbing the cub's ears gently before stepping out into the
hall with Salem.

The lupus'd cub is more then happy to leave the two of them alone, wanting
solitude and sleep herself. With a grateful chuff of 'thankyou' again, she
dives into the wool blankets and soon naught of her can be seen but for an
ear there, a paw here. Oh look, that's part of her tail.

Out in the hall, Salem dons his coat and takes from it a black cigarette
case. He takes a cigarette out and lights it while he talks, and doesn't
miss a beat with either. "One more thing," he says, voice pitched low and
quiet. "Do me a favor and keep an eye on Rina." The set of his mouth is
grim around the filterless cigarette. "And an ear out for our Russian
friends. They haven't gone away, and John's death may make them bolder."

"Rina. I take it she's not keen on keeping her promise to John?" Rhiannon
runs a hand through her hair. There's the hint of unrealized tension; she
doesn't dare get violent with Lyra on pins and needles.

Salem inhales deeply on the cancer-stick, then exhales, taking care to
direct the stream of smoke away from Rhiannon. "She'll keep it," he says
flatly. After a beat, though, he adds, "I think. I hope, anyway." he
shakes his head, dragging on the cigarette again. "She was better at
Thanksgiving." The dark gaze meets hers, intent. "If necessary, have her
committed. But only as a last resort, and let me know first, if you
possible can." A pause. "And I'd appreciate it if you, ah... kept it
quiet."

Rhiannon nods. "It's not a problem." She bites her lip, finding whatever
she wants to say uncomfortable, but finally makes a decision. "If it comes
to it, are you prepared to drag her ass out of whatever Abyss she's
jumping into, and force her to get better?" she asks badly.

His eyes narrow slightly. He grunts. "Whatever it takes. If I have to
somehow drag John back to the land of the living to do so."

Rhiannon raises her eyebrows. "Can we do that?" she asks, sounding amused.

Salem actually pauses for a moment, then shakes his head grimly. "No. A
few thousand years ago, you might have been able to convince one of the
Gurahl to do something like that, but they're all quite dead these days...
and any survivors there might be aren't talking to us. For understandable
reasons." He takes in another lungful of smoke.

Rhiannon pinches the bridge of her nose. "Well, it was a nice thought."
She thinks for a moment. "Is taking her out to the Farmhouse not really
viable?"

"God, no." Salem's reply to that is quick; he pulls a face. "Too damned
crowded. Even _I'd_ rather rough it out in the woods rather than sleep
there."

"Well, the crowding was the main appeal," Rhiannon explains. "There'd
always be someone there watching her. But it'll be the absolute last thing
she wants. Goddess, this is fucked up. First John, now this." She shakes
her head, and gestures at the apartment. "I'm gonna get in there and get
some sleep. I imagine when Quentin gets home we'll all need to have an
extended chat."

Salem nods curtly. "You know how to reach me." He glances at her door,
then back at her, ruefully. "Going to be a long month. Hmn. Anyway. Be
seeing you."

Rhiannon waves a goodbye. "I'll be calling." She disappears back into the
apartment, the locks clicking behind her once the door is shut.