"No. That can't be right. Everyone goes to the same place, as long as they were good people."

[hazlogs]

It is currently Sat Apr 26 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 52 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.94 and rising, and the relative humidity is 71 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (31% full).

Harbor Park -- Fountain

Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.

The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.

Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.

The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.

Salem

Tall and dark, he stands a few inches over six feet, a well-built and rather dangerous-looking man somewhere around thirty years old. A mane of thick black hair, usually gathered into a loose ponytail that hangs nearly to the middle of his back, frames a somber, hawkish face, the left side of which is twisted by scars. If not for this disfigurement, he could be considered handsome -- albeit in a dour, moody, saturnine kind of way. His face is one designed for brooding and cynicism, and the short black beard that lines his mouth and jaw makes him look all the more satanic. His left eye is dead white, lost within the tangled jungle of scar tissue covering that side of his face; his good eye, on the right, is dark brown, not quite black. Both are shadowed, as if from lack of sleep. In short, he has the look of the very devil about him, or of a Christ figure gone bad.

A gray and black flannel shirt hangs open and loose on his tall frame, revealing a plain black t-shirt that's tucked into a pair of black jeans that are only slightly faded. Black, too, are the heavy combat boots, which also look well broken-in. Something hangs from a black cord around his neck but is hidden from view underneath the t-shirt. The tails of the long black leather duster sweep around his ankles; the coat appears new and is in excellent condition.

Cat

He's fifteen years old, but he looks twelve, and at times acts eight. His almost white-blond curls have grown back curlier and more windward than ever, tendrils dangling in his eyes and over his ears. With his small, too-thin body and big round eyes, he looks like a child refugee, and from far away he might be mistaken for a girl. His eyes are a brilliant blue-green shade, a shock of color on his naturally pale face. Despite the better diet and exercise, he hasn't lost the gauntness in his frame; but he's growing, slowly but surely. 5' 2" now. He eats an inordinate amount for someone his size, which probably attributes to the growth spurt.

He's wearing a longsleeved, grey cotton overshirt over a white button-up Catholic-school-uniform type shirt, and his usual black slacks and mudstained Keds. He's been given a black, worn-out briefcase/backpack, the type often seen on Japanese schoolchildren. There's a piece of red yarn wrapped several times on his wrist, and a small, half-dollar sized mirror strung on it. (+detail Cat's backpack).

It's a little bit late to be out, but the boy is scurrying home at a good pace, the grocery bag in his hand. Coffee, creamer, milk, and one single Dr. Pepper. He'd had enough change to buy that. Cat stops outside of the park, looks around, and then heads in. It'll be a bit longer that way, but...well, nothing quite like a nice walk!

The park's empty tonight, as much as Cat can see of it anyway, empty but for a solitary figure smoking over by the fountain. Salem watches the endlessly falling water, his face blank, smoke rising from the handrolled cigarette between his fingers.

"Hm?" Cat sniffs, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting though the light breeze. He catches sight of the Elder once he's closer to the Fountain and slows his walk, canting his head to make sure he's got the person right- as though Salem's hard to mistake. "Mister Salem sir?"

Salem's scarred side is toward the cub, and no -- it's hard to mistake that map of keloid and ravaged flesh. The halfmoon looks up as his name's called, his attention snapping back into the here and now. He narrows his eyes a little, just for a moment. "Cat?"

Cat smiles weakly, his steps carrying him closer to the Philodox. "Good evening Mister Salem," he greets cautiously. "I was just out for some groceries." The bag is held up quickly, proof. "Um...how are you?"

Salem's expression reverts back to its usual studied neutrality, though the cub, having lived with the man, might possibly note the subtle cues of gloom around his eyes and mouth, the set of his shoulders. "Not bad," he answers, taking a drag. "How're you doing?" His voice is flat.

"I'm okay." He looks it. He looks worlds better than that first time Salem found him, and less nervous from their last Talk. Cat nudges the ground with his shoe, trying to think of something to bring out Salem's good side...where it's hiding. His head goes up with sudden inspiration. "I did s'more drawings, and Miz Rina's painting again," he informs the cliath cheerfully. "Y'wanna come see?"

This does, indeed, catch his interest. He hesitates a moment, then nods. "Why not." He takes a final drag off the cigarette, then crushes it out and flicks the butt into a nearby wastebin. "Lead on."

Cat's face lights up and skips ahead a few feet, the bag whirling about him as he turns to look behind him at the slow, older man. "Okay!"

Salem follows the boy, hands buried in the pockets of his long black coat. "How is she?"

Cat chatters easily the whole way to Rina's. "She's better than from when she was sick. She sings sometimes and she took me to Easter mass." He fishes a key out of his pocket and opens the door, padding inside and dropping the bag on the kitchen counter. "One of the ushers said I should ask to be an -altar boy- sometime. At school, only the seniors could do that."

Salem lets himself be carried along by the cub's innocent cheeriness. He even smiles a bit by the time they've arrived back at the studio. "Are you going to try for it?"

He looks up with a very pensive expression, hands inside the bag. "I...I'd like to." He rifles inside the bag and unloads the foodstuffs into their proper cabinets, then takes his Dr. Pepper and hides it in the fridge. Forbidden goodies! "But what if I have something important to do an' it's a Sunday? I can't tell people I'm a superhero space wolf." Cat grins a bit sheepishly. "They'd keep me in confession for a long time."

Salem shrugs out of the heavy coat and drapes it over the back of the couch. "You'll have to lie, of course. Say that you were sick, or that you had to go out of town."

Cat frowns slightly, coming into the living room and searching the shelves for his sketchbooks. "But lying's a sin," he points out mildly. "And lots worse to lie to a priest or sister, because they talk to God. If they find out you lied, well, see?" He nods sagely, then grins and pulls out a familiar book, although the pages seem a bit more worn and used than crisp and white, the way Salem bought them.

Salem settles on the couch and stretches his legs out. "I see." No, he's not going to get into a theological debate with the boy. "Too bad we don't have kinfolk in the priesthood here, hm?"

"I don't think they'd believe it," the boy says after a moment, handing the sketchbook over to Salem for inspection. "Sister Helen used to say that children had imaginations to keep 'em busy, and by the time you got grown up, you dedicated yourself to your work, like she dedicated herself to God. I don't know what she'd say if I she knew I was Garou."

"Mm." Salem takes the sketchbook and starts going through it, turning pages carefully. "Back in the the day, the Church hunted our people. Us, the vampires, the wizards and witches, and anyone associated with them. A lot of kinfolk died."

The last drawing. There's a painting that looks like this, hanging in some faraway cathedral, but the drawing is black and white. Cherubs spiraling up to the clouds, which are separated by a searing white light in the center that spills down to the earth. The clouds surrounding that bright white spot seem to be made of thick pencil lines, but look closely- they're tiny glyphs, written close together. In fact...the cherubs are made of glyphs too. Everything that looks like a curved line is glyphs. Mind you,the cherubs could be imps, too, because they're far from perfect...

Salem squints at the picture, studying the tiny detail. Then he smiles. It's small, but this is Mr. Salem after all. It's a sincere expression, anyway, and if the cub's looking for approval, he's got it. "This is good, Cat."

Cat's still looking a bit upset from the news that the beloved Catholic church killed people. "But they...they killed vampires, right? Bad people." The compliment further derails the cub and he blinks, then smiles shyly. "Really? I haven't shown it to Miz Rina yet. She likes seeing them in color, when they're all done."

"Are you planning to color it?" Salem asks, still looking at the drawing.

He nods emphatically. "I saw these pencils in the grossry, they're like colored pencils but then you go over them with a paintbrush and then they're watercolor. I'm gonna ask Miz Rina if I can get them, but later." Cat's hands fidget a bit. "I haven't really been good enough lately, to deserve presents."

Salem grunts and closes the sketchbook, handing it back. "Forget it. You know why Rina and I were upset, yes?"

Cat nods again, a bit more sedately as he takes back his book. "Yeah," he murmurs, staring at the top of the book bindings. "I could get hurt, or get caught by a bane, and it could eat me. Or Dancers could catch me."

"Exactly. And you wouldn't even be able to defend yourself." Salem folds his arms across his chest and looks at the boy.

He peers back through the mess of his bangs. "I could get away," the cub almost suggests. "I run fast. An' I have my bracelet. But it's still wrong," he adds quickly, glancing down at his wrist.

Salem exhales a quiet breath. "Yes. It's wrong. _Don't_ do it again. Understood?"

Cat mumbles, "Yessir," and pushes up his sleeve, starting to pick at the knots that keep the sliver of mirror tied to him. "Is it true?" he asks after a moment, still picking at the yarn. "About the church killing people?"

Salem watches Cat with those guarded, somber, mismatched eyes. "It is. The burning times. When you were in school, did you learn about the Inquisition?"

Cat nods, biting his lip. Stupid knot. Okay, there it goes. "A lot of Jews died, and people they thought were witches. But they thought they were killing bad people. Couldn't the kinfolk- couldn't they." He glances towards Rina's bedroom, even though the kinswoman is obviously out. "Maybe sometimes people make mistakes."

"Our kin were accused of lying with beasts," Salem says quietly. "And of devil worship. Remember, anything that wasn't part of church doctrine was considered evil, Satanic. Including earth-worship... _especially_ earth-worship."

That's disturbing news, from the look on Cat's face; his nose sort of scrunches up. "But...we're not evil. We're -protecting- the world. Christ wouldn't send us t'hell for protecting Gaia." A definite pause. "..Would he?"

Salem sighs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Cat... You should realize by now that the Christian church, like all other human religions, is wrong about a lot of things, including the afterlife."

Cat shakes his head. "They just don't -know-," he amends gently. "It's not their fault they're leaving things out of the Bible. And it's better that way. The Veil, an' all. And-" He blinks. "What about the afterlife?"

"That it's not as simple as accepting Christ or Allah or following the Torah and going to paradise," Salem says. "You and I... when we die, our spirits will go to our tribe's homeland. It's a realm in the Umbra. I've been there. Our kin sometimes end up there, too. Sometimes. But the church's ideas of sin and salvation have nothing to do with it."

He blinks, then hesitantly smiles and shakes his head, certainty trembling. "No. That can't be right. Everyone goes to the same place, as long as they were good people. Maybe it's just a big place, and we go to one part of it, but it's the same place. It's the Kingdom of Heaven with Christ our Lord, who died so that we may live. Th-that's the way it works."

Salem answers with a very firm, very solid, "No." His expression turns grim, almost reluctant even, but he continues doggedly. "There is the Umbra. The near Umbra, where we go when we step through mirrors. And the far Umbra, where we travel away from reality and further into the realm of spirits. There are realms that are heavenly and realms that are hellish, but there is no one Heaven and no one Hell. There is no God. There is the Triat and the spirits large and small. Christ was a man. A man with power, perhaps, a man with wisdom, but not a divinity."

He's about to add more, but then his coat rings. Or, rather, the cellphone inside it. Cursing in Serbian, he answers it.

Just crying noises, and growly groo, and a suddenly-splatted vampire.

"There -is-!" Cat cries out, staring at Salem in disbelief and a sneaking suspicion that he -should- believe. "He-" Then Salem's attention is diverted and he looks down, clutching his sketchbook to his chest.

Mel pages: Right. Mel's crying, if he's familiar enough with it. Though it's more like hyperventilating sobbing, trying to get breath back and not dissolve into hysterics.

Salem listens for a moment, and it's clear that whatever's going on, it isn't good. So much for a quiet evening. "Who is this? Mel? Rina? Where are you?" He pushes to his feet, already grabbing his coat up.

The boy is silent, and makes no move.

Mel pages: There's an unnatural, grisly 'Snap!' noise, of bone separating from itself, and sinew or flesh. Mel mumbling in the distance, "Oh God..."

Salem pauses in the process of struggling one-handed into his coat. His face tightens and, more urgently, he says, "_Where_?"

Cat sneaks a glance upwards, at the on-the-go cliath.

Mel pages: The phone's obviously being ignored. Mel's talking to someone else. Telling someone, "Renee... she's..." and panting.
Mel pages: And Lyra's crinos voice. ~No dying.~

Salem curses in Serbian, loudly, and snaps into the phone. "Mel, dammit, _where are you_? I'm not--" He pauses, frowning, then continues. "--I'm not a fucking mind reader!"

The cub shifts to lupus and slinks underneath the coffee table unhappily.

Mel pages: More thumping and movement noises. Then the phone turns off.

"SHIT!" Salem turns the phone off with a snap and looks like he might hurl it into a wall. Instead, after a moment's fuming, he dials.

You paged Mel with 'Ring ring.'.
You paged Mel with 'A moment or two after you clicked off.'.
From afar, Mel giggles. There's thinkin' with y'noggin. But she turned it /off/.

Cat whines, ears flattening. ~Something happen?~ he chuffs hesitantly.

Salem doesn't answer right away. He listens, instead, to the ringing at the other end of the cellphone, shifting it to his other hand as he finishes putting on the coat. There's no answer, apparantly, because he clicks it off without speaking into it and shoves the phone into his coat. The halfmoon's face is pale. "Yes. Fuck. Fuck fuck--" The rest is in Serbian, a stream of verbal frustration.

Cat chuffs again. ~Is it Miz Rina?~

Salem shakes his head. "No. Another friend of mine." He stands there for a moment, frustrated and helpless, then passes a hand across his face and heads for the door. "I have to go. Say hello to Rina for me." He's out the door without waiting for a reply.

There's a soft answering sigh, and Cat stays under the coffee table. It's an hour or so before he crawls out, reverts to homid and locks the door again.

Long distance to Mel: Salem leaves Rina's and... well, he doesn't know, does he? I guess he'll just walk, listen for sirens maybe, keep trying the phone...
You paged Mel with 'And, of course, think pessimistic thoughts.'.
Mel pages: Yesss... and how her last thoughts of him were scrambling for a phone, crying and bleeding to death, combat all around her the likes of which she's never seen before... which /he/ brought her into....
You paged Mel with 'Yes.'.
You paged Mel with 'Precisely.'.


Mel pages: Phone call!

It is currently 21:57 Pacific Time on Sat Apr 26 2003.

Long distance to Mel: Salem answers before the first ring's done. "Yes?" He sounds harried.

Mel pages: Mel's voice. She sounds fine... if a little shaken and tired. "Hey Jack. It's me." Soft, apologetic.

Long distance to Mel: Salem | "Mel." Relief. Very clear, very audible relief. There's a pause, and then he asks, quietly, "Where are you?"

From afar, Mel breathes out slowly. "Home. Renee's here. She's pretty badly hurt." There's a pause. "She was coming around to talk, anyway, when there was this... vampire? We had a talk. Please don't be mad."

Long distance to Mel: Salem says, "I'm not mad." He doesn't sound it, either. Just relieved; relieved and tired. "I'm on my way home."

From afar, Mel breathes out slowly, hanging her head and just standing for a while. She murmurs softly, "She saved my life, Jack. ...Come home soon," and hangs up.

Red Mill Apartments #603

This smallish, two-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but has a comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch holds court in the main room, accompanied by a low, sturdy-looking coffee table. A squat black entertainment center is set up on the other side of the room, in perfect view of the couch; on it sits a rather large television and within the small cabinet area underneath is a VCR. There's bookcase set up along one wall, its shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs and video tapes, but very few actual books -- most are nonfiction paperbacks, history books. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and covers whatever floor doesn't belong to the kitchen or the bathroom; the walls and ceiling are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints; _Starry Night_ hangs over the couch in a position of prominence.

The kitchen's small and narrow, but it's clean and holds the basic conveniences of modern life, including (but not limited to) a microwave, a toaster oven, and little blue and white dish towels. A short length of hallway past the kitchen entrance leads to the bathroom and a pair of bedrooms.

Though the apartment is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant presence and go about unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In fact, a small plate of fresh canned cat food sits in a corner at the far end of the kitchen, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

The key rattles in the lock, announcing Salem's arrival. The Walker enters quickly, shutting the door behind him. The emotional mask is up, but there are cracks in the armor; he's a little paler than usual, and his eyes dart quickly over the room.

Mel looks up - pale and weak, herself. And probably not having moved for the last half hour, from her spot on the couch with her head down and hands folded behind her neck. Red-rimmed eyes watch Salem dully. "Hey." She turns her head and tilts it up a little, towards her bedroom. "She's in there." Looking back, Mel murmurs with a touch of reproach, "Be /nice/."

He just looks at her for a moment, his eyes intent, his expression unreadable. Then he nods once and moves toward the left-hand bedroom, not even bothering to remove his coat.

Mel pries herself out of the temporary groove she's worn in the couch, and follows him, stiffly.

Renee looks horrible and her glabro form isn't helping matters any. Her throat and neck almost look as if someone attacked her with a chainsaw and one gaping wound has literally ripped her throat open. The messy tracheotomy gives those looking at her a rather unpleasent view of the back of her throat. Atleast now the blood has dried and she no longer gurgles like a sinking ship with each breath. Still, its almost as if there isn't enough blood around the wound and the girl's face is alarmingly pale. Eyes closed, Renee doesn't even register the Walker's arrival.

"Shit," Salem murmurs, stepping over toward the bed. He pulls out his cellphone, dials a number, and while listening to it ring, glances back over at Mel. "Tell me what happened." His voice remains quiet.

The redhead rubs the back of her neck with one hand, the other arm crossing over her chest as she leans in the doorway. "We were just walking home. She'd come looking for me. To apologise. We talked. I promised her you wouldn't kill her if she'd just come back here and talk with you." She sighs softly. "I was gonna hide her in my room til I'd prepped you a bit. So you'd be more reasonable, see all the sides, calm down. Not take it so personally, and reach an understanding... But on the way, there was a vampire, biting this woman. Renee went in, and it... got her. And then it went after me, when I tried to chase it off her. And..." The redhead pauses, as if not quite believing this bit. "And /Lyra/ came and changed, and.. and..." She shakes her head, shutting up, now.

Salem clicks off the phone. No answer, apparantly. He nods, his expression still quite blank, and looks down at the wounded Bone Gnawer again. "How long as she been like this?" He takes Renee's arm, surprisingly gently, and feels the inside of her wrist for a pulse.

Mel shakes her head a little again. "It was... tearing out her throat. Sucking on her blood or something. And then it..." She shudders. "She was half-dead, but she grabbed its legs as it tried to get me. We walked the rest of the way home. I helped."

Renee's pulse is there, if weak. At the touch, she grimaces.

Salem puts her hand back down on the bed and straightens up. "That's the third attack. Fuck." He passes a hand back across his head, brushing back a stray lock of hair. "Do me a favor, Mel?" He starts removing his coat, his eyes still on the battered Galliard. "Put this away and make some coffee. Please." The 'please' is added almost as an afterthought; his voice remains soft and deadened.

Mel simply obeys quietly, glad for something to do.

Long distance to Renee: Salem assumes she's struggling for breath, or it sounds thin and reedy, or?
Renee pages: You can actually breath though a throat wound. The real problem come from breathing stuff directly into your lungs. :) She is breathing fairly shallow and there is a fair bit of whistling involved. :)
You paged Renee with 'Ah hah. You smart medical people. :) OK.'.

Salem, meanwhile, pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stands by the bed, looking down at Renee and listening to her breathe.

Renee's eyes open a crack and a swollen tongue runs over dry lips. Brown eyes eventually focus on Salem and show a breif flash of fear, that is hard to miss.

Elsewhere, coffee starts brewing.

Salem's mouth thins, muscles in his jaw tightening. But all he says is a simple, "Thank you." Then, his expression growing blank again, he asks her, "Raul. He a healer, by any chance?"

Renee opens her mouth full of pointed teeth, then closes it and swallows carefully. 'I don't know,' she admits to the Walker mentally, calling on the aide of her gift.

Salem's face does a tensing little twitch, jaws clenching. He shakes his head. "I'll keep trying to reach Alicia, then. Meanwhile, rest."

Renee takes in a deeper breath, air whistling as it rushes in though the hole in her throat. 'Raul is usually at the church, if you wanted to look for him.' The young woman's eyebrows scrunch together.

The bedroom on the left is a cosy little room that somehow assaults the senses with a seeming kaleidoscope of images. Photographs and posters, of varying sizes, pasted all over the walls create an odd effect - they've been arranged by colours, creating a belt of warm to cool. Individual photos are largely of landscapes, sometimes people. There's plenty of black and white interspersed... and they're taken at angles and with compositions that suggest an artistic mind, rather than holiday or memento snaps.

Far less striking is the rather small single bed with black sheets, and nondescript wooden desk next to it, with lamps, and a cluster of sketchpads and various writing/drawing implements. A chair almost creaks under the weight of various pieces of clothing that hide it, and there are small piles of clothes arranged in some kind of order. The scent of perfume in the room, plus the nature of the clothes (including occasional lacy or frilly things) suggests that a female lives here.

"Of course he is." To Mel, it must sound a little odd, the one-sided conversation. The cellphone's in his coat, which she took away and hung up. Salem glances around the bedroom, then moves the pile of clothes off the desk chair and sits, facing the bed. He stretches his legs out, arms folding across his chest.

Mel is conspicuously absent. Various preparation things are probably happening in the kitchen. Probably.

'My daughter is going to need me,' is the last thing the Half-Moon hears from Renee, before she closes her eyes and tries too sleep.

Salem makes an 'mm' noise. He eyes Renee and, seeing her lapsing into sleep, refrains from further questions. He rubs his chin, fingernails scratching absently at the short black beard, and then sighs.

Mel returns with coffee. One cup. Holy throats are not good receptacles for coffee.

Salem glances up and accepts it with a nod and a murmured, "Thanks." He takes a sip, then gazes into the cup. "You can use my bed, if you wish. I'm going to stay up." He glances over toward the girl on the bed.

"It wasn't as big a thing as you thought. She was just exaggerating," Mel murmurs, folding her arms and watching Renee. "Really only one person complaining, she said. One just curious about the fuss from them."

It takes Jack a moment to make the connection. He glances up at Mel, frowning remotely. "Did she say who?"

Mel lifts one hand only briefly to rub at the bridge of her nose. "It's a point of honour. She thought maybe she could take some time to find some way of satisfying you without betraying whoever confided in her. You wouldn't ask her to do that, would you, Jack?" Green eyes slide sideways to watch the man.

Salem compresses his lips. "Just one, hm? I have some inkling." Then he shakes his head and takes another sip of coffee. "Nevermind. It's not important." He sounds weary, but looks miles away from sleep.

"No. Not really," the Kin agrees, arms folded and gaze returning to the Gnawer. Quiet. Pensive.

The silence drags on for a bit. Salem sips coffee, then murmurs, "I'm sorry." His gaze is within the cup again.

Mel stands there motionlessly for a while longer, before turning, patting the man's arm softly, and reaching down to peck him lightly on the cheek. She slips out of the room.

Salem, after another sip of coffee, gets up and retrieves his cellphone. He dials Alicia's number as he walks back.

Alicia pages: After a few rings, there is a hurried. "Yo. Lisha'. Whats up?"

Salem drops back into the chair by the bed. "Alicia. It's Jack." He sounds tired, numb. "Third leech attack. Renee needs a healer. My place."

Alicia pages: Third? There was a first an second? What the hell dude. Geezus H Christ. Fucking Hanford bullshit." The voice gets softer for a moment, followed by a grunt, then a thud. "Aiight, got my damn jacket on, see ya in ten." *Click*

Salem clicks off the cellphone and leans back, eyes closed, to wait for his packmate's knock.

Ten minutes on the dot, there is a knocking on the door.

Salem's eyes snap open, and he hauls himself to his feet and answers the door; the Child of Gaia is greeted by a particularly somber-looking Walker Philodox who gestures toward the left-hand bedroom -- Mel's bedroom. "Renee's in there. Alive... just. See what you can do." He sounds just like he did on the phone.

Alicia reaches out and pulls him into a big strong care bear hug, then pats him on the stomach. "You need sleep. I'll gather up Chop-Sticks an we'll do a patrol on the streets. See what we can rustle up in the way of news. You ganna fill me in on the morning?" She asks, making her way past him towards the desired room.

Renee looks horrible and her glabro form isn't helping matters any. Her throat and neck almost look as if someone attacked her with a chainsaw and one gaping wound has literally ripped her throat open. The messy tracheotomy gives those looking at her a rather unpleasent view of the back of her throat. Atleast now the blood has dried and she no longer gurgles like a sinking ship with each breath. Still, its almost as if there isn't enough blood around the wound and the girl's face is alarmingly pale.

"Holyfuckingshit. You said heal her, not preform a frigg'n miracle." Alicia says, nose wrinkling at the sight.

Salem grunts, accepting the hug with the air of being too tired to protest and follows her toward the bedroom. "Yes." He gives her a moment to survey the damage, then says, flatly, "Do what you can. Her body'll take care of the rest. Get her on her feet, at least. She has a child, after all."

"Man. If I pull this off, I want some major asskissing." Alicia sinks down to her knees and tries to attack this at a good angle. Furrowing her brows, she reaches out with her hands, carefully sliding them around Renee's throat, then begins to heal her with the touch of Gaia's blessings.

Salem watches from the doorway, coffee cup in hand. He doesn't drink from it.

Well, when Alicia heals, she /heals/. Putting forth all her effort and concentration, it seems that this Gaian is blessed tonight. She puts her 'mph' into it.

The wounds on Renee's neck almost seem to crawl and squirm on their own. Ragged edges pull together and the Galliard's skin smooths, as her breathing becomes easier.

Salem exhales a breath and swallows some coffee. "Excellent," he murmurs.

"Ooooh. I am the /man/." Alicia states, blowing on her fingers, as if they were gun barrels. Stepping back from the Gnawer, she glances over to Salem with a wide grin.

"You are," Salem says dryly, "a paragon of healers." He glances toward the bed, then moves away, back out to the living room. "Let her sleep. You know where she's keeping the puppy, right?"

Alicia shrugs her shoulders. "Um.. No..." She says softly. "I bet Ebony does tho'. May wanna check with him. I know she had it in that one apartment, but who knows.. could be at the church, junk yard, blah."

Salem rubs his eyes. "Check the apartment. The pup will probably be fine for one night by itself, but could do with some checking on, I imagine."

Alicia waves some and starts out the door, yawning. "I will. I'll make sure the Ewok doesn't run around naked or anything outside. Take care guys."

Salem sees her out. "Good night, Alicia. And thank you."