It is currently 22:26 Pacific Time on Tue Dec 3 2002.
Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (5% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 43
degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The
barometric pressure reading is 30.13 and steady, and the relative humidity
is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 41 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)
Sunrise Road, South of I-90
Sunrise Road is a wide two-lane strip of blacktop without any lines,
though the road looks almost newly paved. Majestic trees, both conifers
and deciduous, grow a short distance off from the road, seeming to widen
out and thin out further north and pack closer and denser to the south.
Now and again, a mailbox and the beginning of a driveway can be seen on
either side, and the glimpses of houses you sometimes catch through gaps
in the trees are impressive. Sunrise Road is known as a place where
nature-lovers with a lot of handy cash live. However, interspersed between
the grand new homes, the occasional old farmstead can be seen. Through the
widening area of open land to the north, you can see the grey concrete
structure of the I-90 overpass.
The road runs north toward I-90, and south into the woods. On the eastern
side of the road, a gravel lane extends to the east before turning north
and running parallel to the road.
He is trailing around the farm again when he finds her trail: familiar
combat-boot lug soles in the mud, and her scent caught here and there
where her hands have brushed the fence or plants.
Rina pages: And it leads him, oh, around the edge of the farm, to the end
of the driveway where her bike is parked.
He follows the scent-trail on near-silent paws, pausing to backtrack once
or twice, making sure he hasn't lost it. He isn't surprised when it leads
to the farm; he pauses at the edge of the woods, still in wolf form, to
study the parked motorcycle. He scents the air and listens with ears
cocked.
This close, he can catch the notes of tears and distress. Perhaps it is
not only scent; when he catches sight of her, she is leaning against a
fencepost, sitting by the edge of the ditch with her knees drawn up, her
head down. Crying softly.
The Glass Walker lays his ears back, then reverts to human form as he
moves toward her, slowly. "Rina?" His voice is soft, touched with concern.
Rina flinches slightly--and then lifts her head, enough to look dully at
the road in front of her. One hand dashes tears from her cheeks. "I'm
/fine/," she says firmly.
Salem hesitates, about to say something, and then shakes his head. He
closes the distance between them and leans against the fencepost, looking
down at her. "All right. You're fine." His tone's dubious, though he
doesn't press the issue. "What's new?"
"I upset that Gnawer. Whatsername. The one that was screwin' around with
Jer." Her voice is dull, somehow. "She flipped at me. Quentin was all
upset over some shit with Lyra. And then Cat made it better, but-- but I
couldn't stand it there any longer, so I came out here--" She swallows
thickly.
"Aiyana." The amount of venom in the way Salem says that name almost
rivals his own special brand of loathing for Renee. He shoves his hands
into his coat pockets, scowling. "Fucking Christ. She didn't hurt you, did
she?"
Rina shakes her head quickly, giving him a wary glance. "No. No. Chill,
nothin' happened."
"Fucking little mutts being just a little too cavalier around our people."
His temper's at a low, dull burn; there's no danger of explosion. "Lyra,
though..." Salem grimaces, then steps around to take a seat next to her.
"Lyra, from what I understand... got taken advantage of." He glances at
her ruefully. "By someone who decided to top this off by carving Chinese
into her neck."
Rina glances over to him sharply, a sudden guardedness in her expression.
"/That/... he didn't mention." It puts her decidedly on edge.
Salem balances his elbows on his knees. "I'm not surprised," he says
quietly. "She came over to Rhiannon's on Saturday, looking for Quentin.
Completely on edge, practically in tears." He rubs at his jawline; there's
a touch of stubble around the usually well-groomed beard. "Rhiannon's
copied the character down. Lyra said she wasn't sure who it was that did
it, though."
Rina closes her eyes. "She was drunk," she murmurs. "That he told me."
Then she opens them, looking down. The silence is uncomfortable, tense.
"Lyra, drunk? Christ." In the quiet that follows, he takes the slim black
case out from inside his coat and removes one of the handrolled cigarettes
from within.
"There's--" She swallows, her voice suddenly unsteady; the dark eyes slant
to him. "Don't," she murmurs. "Please?"
The cigarette's almost between his lips, but he stops, glancing at her,
and then puts it back into the case with a grunt. "Sorry." He slips the
case back into his coat. "I should quit, I know, but..."
Rina swallows. "It-- I just-- don't like it," she says uncomfortably.
Salem tilts his head, studying her with that one brown eye. "I'll... try
to remember that, in future," he says quietly.
Rina swallows. "Maybe we can put Xia on it," she murmurs. Do we-- do we
know where she picked the guy up?" Her voice is quiet, too controlled.
Salem shakes his head, arms resting on his knees again. "I'm not sure. She
said his name was 'Fei', but she knows more than one with that name." He
massages the knuckles of one hand pensively. "You'd have to ask her. Or
Rhiannon. She stayed over at Rhiannon's that night."
Rina nods minutely. "I'll ask around. See what I can find out. Everybody
knows I do carving, anyway." She leans against his shoulder, closing her
eyes.
"Erm, well," is Salem's only reply to that remark. He glances down at her,
his expression rueful. "Whatever you can do. Lyra's... a good kid."
Rina swallows. "You think? I-- don't know her really, much." She rests her
head on his shoulder, looking numbly at the road and the ditch.
He puts his arm around her, close against the cold of early December.
"Idealistic. Open-hearted. Innocent, really, although not as much as Cat.
She reminds me of Merria, sometimes. Though younger. Much younger."
Rina swallows. "Cat... how is he holding up? Is he learning? I-- it's so
hard to tell anything, with him..."
"Hmm." Salem considers that a moment. "He's making friends, at least, and
one of the cockroach spirits followed him from the apartment. He seems to
be doing well enough." He pulls away slightly to look down at her. "Are
you still going to teach him how to shoot? I think he'd like that."
Rina nods against his shoulder. "Yeah, I will," she murmurs. "Told him I'd
come out here and visit him. We can shoot cans off the fence or
somethin'."
"Good." Salem's voice is quiet, the earlier display of temper long gone.
He sounds calm, and it doesn't have that strained, forced quality it does
at other times of the month. "He thinks the world of you, you know."
Her voice is quiet, unsteady, as if she might cry again. "I didn't." She
swallows. "Before yesterday. Not-- not really."
Salem glances down at the top of her head, and his arm tightens briefly
around her shoulders. "Well. He does." He pauses a beat. "Frightening,
isn't it?"
She almost laughs a little, that peculiar silent chuckle of hers that
makes little sound at all. "Yeah," she murmurs wryly, "we oughta be up for
Parents of the Year any day now, right?"
Salem snorts. "Ozzie and Harriet, right." There's a definite sardonic tone
to his reply.
This time she does laugh, a little. "Yeah. You can be Harriet."
Salem blinks and peers at her, startled into a crooked little half-grin, a
definite touch of his old self. "Only if you really, _truly_ insist," he
replies, dryly. "And only behind closed doors."
She lifts her head, straightening only enough to slant those dark eyes
toward him--mischief in them, and the barest hint of a smile. "Okay, now
I'm picturing you in a dress," she says dryly, "and that's just not
right."
"_You_ were the one who suggested I be Harriet," Salem notes, with perfect
outward seriousness. "So you've only yourself to blame."
Rina laughs, shaking her head helplessly and leaning against him.
Salem's smile is quiet, though stronger than it's been in weeks -- months,
almost -- and he listens to her laugh with definite pleasure. He basks in
it, staying silent.
After a while she says, somewhat timidly, "Well, you /are/ a really good
cook..."
"And I can keep a bathroom clean, yes," Salem says, that little smile
still lingering on his lips. "But, really, which of us looks better with a
pipe?"
Rina looks over to him again, raising an eyebrow. "Have you /seen/ me in
an Armani suit? I look damn good in drag."
Salem tilts his head as if imagining this very thing. "Hm. But I, alas,
don't. One of my great failings, I know." He puts a touch of mock
self-deprecation in his voice.
"S'aright. You don't have to look good... I never wanted a trophy wife."
She snuggles closer, her face turned toward his--too close, for a moment,
and the smile abruptly fades, replaced by something uncertain.
Salem stares back at her, quite motionless, his own smile freezing in
place. His eyes are intent; even the blind one seems to be focussed
unblinkingly on her face.
Rina comes within an inch of kissing him--and then turns her face away,
taking a shallow breath, closing her eyes tightly. "I'm sorry," she
whispers. "I'm sorry."
Salem inhales deeply, his eyes turning away and staring up at the
moonless, starlit sky. "Don't be," he murmurs. "It was good to hear you
laugh." His arm's still around her shoulders; his voice is quite calm.
Rina returns to her former position, tipping her head against the hollow
of his shoulder. Tears come to her eyes, and fall silent down her cheeks.
"You'll find someone," she whispers. "You'll find someone, and you'll make
some girl a wonderful wife someday..."
"Perhaps," Salem replies, quietly. "It's not something I'm worried about.
Really."
Rina wraps both arms around her knees, and sniffles quietly. "I am," she
whispers.
Salem's lips thin. "Don't be. Some of us are confirmed bachelors." He
manages to keep his tone light.
She cries quietly, her shoulders shaking a little. After a long time she
whispers, barely audible, "When will you let go, Jack?"
Salem arches an eyebrow, a frown tugging lightly at the corners of his
mouth. "Hm? Oh." His arm disappears from her shoulders.
Rina swallows, and abruptly rolls to her feet, hands shoved into her
pockets. "I'm not worth it," she says quietly. "I'm not, Jack."
Salem stands a moment after she does, straightening the front of his coat
and then pushing his hands into his own pockets. "Rina," he says, sounding
mildly exasperated. "Don't. Please. I've been single for most of my life.
It's not you keeping me that way."
"It's not that--" She lifts a hand to cover her eyes, trying to gather her
wits for a moment; then she shakes her head quickly, as if to clear it.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I pulled a gun on a fucking /teenager/ today... I'm
not okay."
Salem's eyes narrow. "A _Garou_ teenager. We heal bullets, remember? I've
personally taken more than I can count."
"She fucking hates me now," Rina says dryly. "I feel like shit."
Salem grunts. "Yes, well, she hates me, too. And Renee doesn't think too
highly of me, either." He moves closer to her, taking a slow couple of
steps. "You can't be loved by everyone, though."
Bridging one hand across her eyes, Rina murmurs, "I'm not worth it. I
never was. I should never have made him-- made him stay--"
"You're worth it," Salem says. He's right behind her. "If you believe
nothing else I ever tell you, believe that." There's no doubting the
sincerity in his voice.
She lifts her head, tipping it back slightly--as if that can hold back her
tears. "Jack," she says brokenly, "you don't /know/. You care about me
because you don't know... all the times I lied and cheated and killed
and-- and--" Her shoulders shake, convulse with a sob.
Salem snorts. "And I'm some saint? Are _any_ of us? Even... even John
wasn't without his faults, after all." He takes hold of her shoulder,
tugging her around to face him. "We're all sinners, Rina."
Her face is tear-streaked, the dark eyes empty. "But if I hadn't-- if I
hadn't made him stay, if I hadn't made him human he wouldn't have been
here--"
Salem frowns, brows lowering over intent eyes. "You're blaming yourself
for John's death?"
Rina closes her eyes, letting out a breath. Anguished, she turns her face
away. "I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know anymore. I just know
that there's this giant sucking black hole in me and it's killing me from
the inside."
Salem sighs, lowering his head slightly. His hands vanish back into his
pockets, gloved fists pushing down, deep. "I'm sorry. If there was
anything I could do, anything at all..." His gaze is still on her,
unhappy. He hesitates, then says, slowly, "I... know something of what
it's like."
Rina's shoulders hunch slightly, and she ducks her head. "Yeah?" She
swallows, a hand coming up to dash away tears.
Salem nods faintly. His head comes up, glancing around at the quiet road
for a moment before turning his eyes back to her. "Yes. And..." He takes a
deep breath and lets it out, carefully. "And sometimes... eventually... it
stops hurting." He grimaces, reluctant but dogged. "I know that sometimes
the only thing that gets you out of bed is what you _have_ to do, and it's
bitter. And cold. And it seems like the future's going to be just... more
of the same."
Closing her eyes tightly, she takes several deep breaths.
Salem rubs at the back of his neck, then abruptly reaches for the cord
around his neck, pulling it up and over his head. The little nightingale
charm dangles from it; he cradles it in his palm, looking down at it,
silver and blue. It's within her view, if she chooses to look. "Lyra gave
this to me, the night before we took back the caern," he says quietly.
"Because nightingales bring people joy." He lets it fall from his hand and
dangle from it's cord, which is entwined in his fingers. He appears to be
offering it to her.
Rina doesn't reach for it. She looks up, though, haunted, dark eyes
settling on his face. "Keep it," she whispers. The tears roll down her
cheeks, inexorable, and she ignores them.
"Humor me." His eyes fix on hers, intent. "It's not much more than a
promise... a potential for the future. Pain _is_ temporary." A smile
flickers for a second across his face, wan and wry. "I wasn't sure, to be
honest, until I heard you laugh tonight. And until you called me a dumbass
yesterday."
She is still crying, but her lips curve in a pallid echo of that smile.
"I'll call you all kindsa things, if it'll make you happy," she says
hoarsely. "That way one of is okay, at least."
"I'd like to return the favor, somehow," he says dryly.
The dark, grief-ravaged eyes remain fixed on him--but something drops, a
mask or a pretense, that wryness fading away and leaving behind a raw
emotional contact. There are no barriers, and all of a sudden they are in
that instant before the kiss again, the artificial distance stripped away.
Tears gather, and she gives a tiny shake of her head, blinking them back.
Salem inhales sharply, and then abruptly looks away. With a swift,
resigned gesture, he slips the cord back around his neck. "I'm a rotten
optimist," he mutters, tucking the charm back under his shirt.
Rina ducks her head, to stare at the ground. "I don't ever want to hurt
you," she whispers. "Not you."
Salem pushes his hands back into his pockets and regards her ruefully.
"Nor I you."
Rina sniffles, and draws a hand across her face. "I--" Her voice is
unsteady, hoarse. "I'm gonna go, now," she says weakly.
Salem nods slightly. "All right. Will you, ah, be okay to drive?"
Her expression shifts, a bitterness crossing it; then she nods, quickly.
"All right," Salem says again. He steps back, leaning an elbow against the
fence post, watching her.
Turning away from him, she ducks her head and tightens the jacket around
her waist, zipping it and belting it snug. She pulls a pair of tinted-lens
wraparounds and put them on; he might have noticed that she hasn't been
bothering with a helmet, the past month. It doesn't take her long to start
the Ducati; the tears are still wet on her cheeks, when she pulls away.
Salem watches until the kinswoman is out of view, watches until even the
sound of the bike has faded away. Then, with a sigh, he slips back into
the forest, dropping back into a four-legged form and returning, somewhat
reluctantly, to duty.