"I'm sorry I disturbed your... fun."

[hazlogs]

Friday, 11 July 2003. Night.

Temple(#3322RAJL)

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.

The moon is almost full, and the weekend's almost here. That means time for the freak show, in Saint Claire. Midnight is coming, and as it approaches the party begins to pick up.

And she is dancing, twisting out her tale of pain and grief, whirling herself toward oblivion with all her strength and a substantial kick from the magic letter E.

Yes, Luna rides high and strong, and outside the club, above the glimmering city, she prowls, a pale lioness stalking through the night sky, hunting amoung the stars while Gaia, below, dances in pleasure and pain. Salem's her boy, tonight, and he lurks outside the Temple, in the parking lot, toying absently with a stone on a string, waiting in the shadows and listening to the pulse and throb that comes from inside.

A lean grey ghost flashes through the smoke and lights, pounding out anger and pain to Marilyn Manson's latest. The violence of her dancing keeps the more timid suitors away--not many will brave that whirlwind.

Not many, but one for certain; he's tall and graceful, moving to the club's heartbeat like it was his own, and he's drawn toward the wild angel, sliding through bodies like a shark through water, like a shark scenting blood. Lost as she is, in the music and in herself, she doesn't notice him, not until he's there, grasping her wrist hard and pulling her into his own gravity.

First glance -- black-on-black, waves of ebon hair, a beard and a face like the Devil's bastard son; the similarity is enough to make the heart skip a beat. But the stranger's leaner than Jack, his eyes pale blue, and that narrow face is unscarred.

And, anyway, Jack doesn't dance.

Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of tension as well.

Sinfully tight jeans of charcoal-grey PVC hug the lean curves of her hips, descending into buckled thrash boots of well-shined black leather with shin guards of ridged metal. A shirt of translucent grey net clings to the curves of her upper body, displaying every muscle and offering little concealment for the myriad scars across her back and shoulders--with decency barely maintained by a plain black bra underneath it. Across her stomach, raised scarring traces a word in square Roman capitals, centered on the pierced navel: ANGEL.

She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and scrollwork.

She fetches up against him, wild eyes lifting to that strange familiar face. "You--" The word is lost in the pound and thrash of sound around them, but the sense of it might be read on her lips, or in the way her free hand catches flat against the stranger's chest. Dazed, she steadies herself against him for a moment, almost vibrating with the hum of energy in the club. It radiates from the bodies around them, filling the smoky air.

He flashes straight white teeth in a predator's grin, his pale eyes alight and hungry. His lips form soundless words -- "Dance with me..." -- as he brings the hand he's captured up to his neck. His other hand slides around her, resting against her lower back as he sways.

She writhes within that circle, tipping her head back, losing herself in the crash of sound and the hammer of lights on closed eyelids. The light sparks on her hair, on traces of glitter picked up from other dancers--and forgives, in some measure, the shadows under her eyes.

The black-clad masculine body is hard with lean muscle and reassuringly human, heat and sweat in the goth-industrial Inferno of the club. If anything, he's almost _too_ hot; he burns like fever.

Ages go by, or mere seconds. Then his breath, hot against her ear, and words, just audible: "Delicious. Come outside with me."

Half-dazed, her eyes almost closed, she sways against him. A shiver courses through her, and she draws away enough to look up at him, slitting her dark eyes against the flash of lights. "You got a name, beautiful?"

"Estram." He grins at her, eyes glittering. His free hand, the one not pressed against her lower back, cups her face. "You?"

Rina wets her lips, closing her eyes and tipping her head back a tiny bit in surrender. "Angel," she answers, the first thing that comes to mind. When the dark eyes flicker open, they focus on his. "Let's go."

Estram licks his lips, his face full of hunger and the triumph of a successful hunt. He leads her off the dance floor and toward the exit, his arm around her and keeping her possessively close.

She strays hazily from a straight line, shivering with restrained energy. No coat, tonight--not even that much of a gesture toward safety.

Outside, Estram cuts an angled path through the parking lot, toward one side of the converted cathedral. Unlike her, no man-made chemicals course through his blood, nothing but what's produced by his own body. Confident, he offers up no useless pretty words. They pass an excessively large SUV squatting near one almost as big, and here Estram takes a sharp turn, almost pushing her into the shadowed, narrow space between the two vehicles and against the cold, dark metal of the former. The hungry pirate's grin never wavers.

She turns on a heel, stepping back and falling against the side of the truck. Dark eyes watch him, wild and intent; she is flying, lost in a world with far more color than this urban darkness. She doesn't speak, either--but there is something in her eyes that suggests an animal's wariness.

Estram presses close, keeping her trapped, and a streetlight gleams against something sharp and metallic in his right hand. "I'm sorry, Angel," he says lightly, purring. "But you're just too beautiful, and I couldn't wait. D'you mind?" The blade lies cool against her neck. "I know it's not gentlemanly of me..."

Rina shivers, her lips parting as she leans into the metal a fraction. Her eyes, hazy, meet his--strange, in the indirect light, but he might read compassion in them, in the way her expression shifts. "It's aright," she murmurs. A swallow tightens her throat, making it press for a moment; he feels the edge scrape on her skin. "I understand." A faint smile comes out of nowhere. "Who sent you?"

Estram frowns, the pale eyes narrowing a touch. He shakes his head, dragging the knife down, the edge honed to the sharpness of unfettered thought; it draws a line in red down to the collar of the net shirt. "Nobody sent me, lovely," he says. His body's like a furnace against her. "Why d'you ask? Involved in games, are you?" The knife starts downward, cloth parting before it.

Her breathing quickens, and she leans her head back against the glass and metal behind her--still watching him, watching his face. "Doesn't matter," she whispers. "I'm tired of them, anyway..." A hand reaches out, to touch the young man's cheek lightly. "Something must have hurt you..."

The knife stops at a point just below the plain black bra, and the frown deepens on the saturnine face above her; this isn't, perhaps, exactly the reaction he was looking for. He presses the knife-point against her upper belly, the very tip piercing skin. "Why d'you say that?"

"'Cause I can feel it," she whispers, hazy dark eyes meeting his. "...'Cause you-- /need/ these things." Breathing faster, she wets her lips and swallows. "I understand. It's okay."

Estram's head tips, birdlike; his tongue emerges -- stud-pierced, she notices now -- and licks across his teeth. "It's okay, hmm? What if I wanted to gut you like a deer, here and now?" The knife moves downward slowly, cutting, though still shallowly; both skin and net-mesh give way to it.

She draws a hissing breath, wincing slightly as the blade slides down to more sensitive skin. A thin trickle of red rises in the wake of the knife; her breathing is shallower and quicker, now, turning erratic with the stinging pain. "I'd say it's prolly ... not the smartest place 'n'time," she says quietly. "But you're the one with the knife."

Distantly, there's music playing, the throbbing pulse of the club spilling out into the open air. "Yes," he whispers. His hand's trembling minutely and there's sweat on his brow. "Yes... I am."

The knife moves in a sudden, sharp gesture, the blade leaving her flesh as it slices the mesh shirt wholly open, and he shoves close, shirt to skin, cloth to blood, and he's burning, burning, his voice hissing in her ear. "Where's your _fear_, Angel?"

Rina trembles against him, her shivering felt through his shirt; the cloth sticks to her chest, a link between bodies, joining them with bloodstains. She lets out a hissing breath with the sting of it, the roughness. "Somewhere else," she says, in a voice that betrays just a hint of strain. "'s'gonna hate me f'this..."

"Poor Angel," Estram whispers, grinding her against the SUV with a violence that belies his words. His teeth close on her earlobe, nibbling lightly, almost erotically... and then not so lightly, biting down painfully -- any harder and he'll draw blood, or worse.

A tiny sound comes from her throat, hoarse and stifled. She closes her eyes tightly, features drawing into a sharp wince. "...sing thee to thy rest," she whispers.

The pain increases... and then, suddenly, Estram draws away, lifting his head and staring off into the distance, nostrils flaring like a wary animal. "...Shit." He draws away, knife still in hand, leaving her bloody and unsupported against the SUV, to stand or fall as she may. "Shit shit _shit_."

Rina brings a hand up to her throat, forearm concealing the blood and giving her some semblance of decency. "Easy," she whispers. "What's wrong--"

"You all right... Angel?" The voice comes from a tall shadow at the other end of the narrow space created by the two large vehicles; though neither can see his face, Salem's voice is instantly recognizable to her.

Estram himself goes absolutely still, his knuckles tight as he grips the hilt of the blood-edged knife.

Rina looks away swiftly, letting out a breath. "I'm good, it's all good," she says, a flicker of tension in the words. "Take it easy, aright, J'como? Y'gonna spook my friend, here."

She can sense the tension in the Glass Walker, the disapproval; he can't help but have glimpsed the knife, after all. "You're sure?"

Rina looks across to the young man, her eyes still bright with the drug. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Salem's frown is felt -- or guessed at -- more than it's seen. Finally, though, he shakes his head and moves forward, stalking toward the pair. "No. Rina, I'm sorry. Not this time." He's staring at Estram, who backs away slowly, meeting the Garou's gaze with an expression that's not quite fear.

Rina glances toward the approaching Walker, her expression tightening into anger, the eyes too wild, too bright. "Get /out/ of here," she says fiercely. "Don't you /dare/ kill my buzz."

"Forget it, Angel," Estram says huskily, still staring at the interloper. They're almost of a height, their differences and similarities disturbingly apparant. He closes the knife and slips it into his black leather jeans. "Another time... when you've lost the bodyguard." He grins at Salem (who, coming up to Rina's side, says nothing and merely frowns) and slips out of view.

Rina's jaw tightens, and she looks over to the dark figure as he walks away. "Another time," she whispers. She tips her head back against the SUV, hazy eyes looking skyward. "Wrong color," she murmurs. "Not enough red. There was gonna be enough, before you showed up."

"Jesus Christ, Rina..." Salem's voice is equal parts frustration, anger, and weariness. He shrugs out of his coat. "You're bleeding."

"I'll call a cab," she murmurs, closing her eyes. "Just get outta here. Leave. Go /away/."

He stops and looks at her for a moment -- her shirt sliced open, shallow knife-wounds leaking blood down her front. He just... looks, his face tight, masking hurt. He pushes the coat into her hands. "Cover yourself, at least. Christ." His voice is a mutter, then a whip. "Where the hell are you going to go? Home, and let Cat see you like this?"

Her free hand--the one that isn't holding shirt and bra together over the thin line of blood--drapes his coat over the shoulder toward him. She turns her face away. "You hurt. You oughta understand... what it means. How it feels to need something." A fey-sounding laugh, barely more than a whisper, follows the words. "And I /know/ you can walk away when you need to..." Closing her eyes, she keeps her face turned from him, to hide the glimmer of tears she can feel building. To hide the pain. "So walk away, Jack. Please."

"Rina..." His voice trails off; he sighs, defeated. "Fine," he says curtly, turning. "I'm walking away. Call me, if you haven't gotten someone to kill you."

The words bring a shiver of tension, almost a flinch. "Thanks," she answers, her voice hard enough to be nearly unrecognizable. "I hear El Diablo din't /need/ a knife to kill. So maybe I'd be better off. Lights out."

Salem stops but doesn't turn around; his back remains to her, his posture rigid. "You're high," he rasps, after a moment or two.

"Yeah," she answers carelessly, without that fierce quality--her voice is fast, but almost relaxed. "I love Mister E, and he loves me..." Another dark laugh comes from her, hoarse, edged with the tears that are slowly slipping past her control. "Just like you, only he doesn't care if I'm fucking /safe/ or not. Moon's full... y'think maybe I can push you hard enough? After some beating, you wouldn't even know it was me anymore..."

"Moon's full," he agrees shortly. "I'm not." Not a full moon, he means, probably, though his hands twitch, the fingers wanting to close. He tenses, then starts walking away, quickly.

Rina hugs the trenchcoat to her chest, letting out a breath. When he gets it back again, it will still hold the traces of her blood and tears.

-------------------------------------

She is limping toward home, but still some distance away--and her progress is less than steady after an evening of dancing and bloodletting and Gaia knows what else. At least the pain is a distant thing, now, overshadowed by guilt. Somewhere between awake and dying, she weaves her way northward, not even certain at this point where she is going, or why.

Footsteps quicken behind her, and Salem, wordless, takes his place at her side, offering support, escort... It's unsurprising, really; there's not a chance in hell he would leave her to walk all the way home alone.

He hears it, then, the whispered litany, barely audible above her stumbling footsteps. "...hell is murky... fie, a soldier, and afear'd?... but who would have thought the man to have so much blood in him?"

"Fucking Christ," Salem murmurs, hearing it. "Not like this..." He puts an arm around her, steering her off her path toward her place, toward the Yugo that's parked one block over.

She is weak and pliant, dwarfed by his trenchcoat and pale against the black. "What's done," she whispers, "what's done can't be undone..." Her right hand, closed, leaves a trail of slow-dripping blood.

Salem's throat works; he keeps his mouth shut against the Bard's words as he leads her to the Yugo and belts her into the passenger seat. A quick search in the glove compartment brings out a small first-aid kit. He grabs the roll of gauze and gently prizes open the fingers of the bloody hand.

The loose razorblade swims in her blood, palm scored deep by the strength of her grip. "Who would have thought," she whispers. "Who would have thought..."

Salem grimaces, taking the blade away and tossing it angrily into the back seat. Then he wraps her hand in bandage and gauze, muttering something about doing a better job in a bit. The car rocks as he closes the door on her and climbs in on the other side, behind the wheel. And then he's driving, too fast, toward the concrete bunker that John found and that he, Jack, continues to maintain.

By the time he reaches it, she seems half-conscious--and then when he helps her out of the car, she sways on her feet for a second of two and promptly passes out. The gauze is soaked with blood, and so is the sleeve of his coat--prompting him to uncover the long gash down her forearm.

Rina pages: More gestural/cutting than OH MY GOD she's gonna bleed to death.
Rina pages: And of course it's starting to clot.

Salem swears again, softly, and in short order picks her up and carries her into the bunker. The generator provides harsh lighting; everything's clean and in order, but cold. Concrete and metal. He removes his coat from her and lays her gently down on one of the cots, then for a time simply busies himself with antiseptic and bandages... carefully cleaning the wound in her palm, on her forearm, and anywhere else, then just as carefully covering the cuts with bandage and gauze.

The slender line down the center of her body has closed, for the most part--a perfectly straight shallow cut leading nearly to her waist. It's isn't so bad; she is pale, but her pulse is strong, and somewhere in the middle of his work she comes around. He is wrapping her forearm when he becomes aware of her gaze; she doesn't move, doesn't protest, just watches him with dark, hazy eyes.

The Walker's manner is detached and clinical; only when he's done with her arm does he look up and meet her eyes, his own gaze clear and solemn.

She whispers a single word, a child's question--but for once, there is nothing childlike about her eyes, or the weary look that brings lines to her face. "Why?"

Salem sits back on his heels, looking at her with the remains of the gauze in his hand and the bottle of peroxide on the floor. "Do you really have to ask that?"

She looks up to the ceiling. Her brow furrows slightly. "I know this place," she murmurs. "Where are we?"

Salem straightens up, gathering the debris of first aid. "The bunker. We... shot Jacob here, remember? So he'd know what a bullet felt like."

"Crazy motherfuckers," she murmurs hoarsely. "All of us..." Her eyes remain distant, unfocused. "I'm so lost. So fucking lost."

His footsteps move away as he goes to stow the supplies. "I'm sorry I disturbed your... fun. I know you have certain... needs. But not from that one. Call it a hunch, but I think he'd be very bad for your health." Salem speaks in a near monotone.

Rina swallows, and closes her eyes. There can't possibly be tears left, but her lashes are wet. "Jack..." Hoarse and soft, her voice betrays her despite her best efforts. "I'm sorry. Everything I-- I'm sorry."

Salem shakes his head as he comes back to the cot. "Forget it. You're forgiven." He bends down, lays a hand on her forehead. "Stay here tonight... I'll tell Cat that you're with me, so he won't worry."

Rina swallows, and the dark eyes flicker open. "You'll call him?" she whispers. "He'll be upset--"

"He'll be more upset if you just don't come home." Salem sits down on the floor, crosslegged. "I won't give out... details."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I can't-- sometimes it's too much and I can't-- think about it, about going on and having a life--"

Salem exhales a long breath. "Next time... if you have to... please be more careful? Stay in the club. Hook up with that... that woman, if you need to. Just, please. No more random strangers with knives in the parking lot?"

Rina swallows. "I'll try," she whispers. "I'll try, Jack... I promise."

Salem manages a wan little smile. "Fair enough."