7/25/02: Very late at night.

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (94% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 67
degrees Fahrenheit (19 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.14 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 72 percent. The dewpoint is 58
degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius.)

Location: Rhiannon's Apartment


There's a knock at the door. Once, twice.

Rhiannon glances up from her simple dinner of grilled cheese and soda and
answers the door, leaving her meal on the momentarily cleared coffee
table.

Salem stands at the door, ninjalike in black boots, black jeans,
long-sleeved black t-shirt, and black gloves. His black hair is tied back,
and in one hand he carries a black duffle bag, presumably with Quentin's
stuff inside. "I'm back," says the Walker, unnecessarily.

Raised eyebrows are the only real sign of relief from Rhiannon as she
steps aside to let Salem in, before someone sees him standing there
wearing enough black to get him mistaken for Jeremy. Once the door is
shut, she wastes no time. "So. How'd it go?"

Salem sets the duffle bag down on the floor and starts tugging off the
gloves. "Without a hitch," he answers, lips twitching into a thin smile.
"No one saw me."

Rhiannon gestures at the kitchen. "I went to the store, so there's no lack
of drinks and food. Jacob is determined to have cooking materials." She
listens to his brief report, and nods curtly. "I was hoping it'd be that
easy. Last thing we need is some murder or kidnapping rap to deal with."

Salem drops the gloves on top of the duffle and, with a nod, heads into
the kitchen to help himself to a glass of water. "I left the note last, in
order to pass it off as a simple robbery if anyone woke up." He pulls a
slight face. "As it is, Quentin will have to do without some of the things
on his list. It would have taken too long to find them."

"Yeah, I figured," Rhiannon says, only giving the duffle bag's contents a
glance. "I think he was the most concerned with the infamous Lucky Dice.
Did you find those, by any chance?" Her tone indicates she suspects the
answer will be no.

Salem arches a brow. "Those, I was able to retrieve. They were right on
the nightstand." He returns from the kitchen, sipping ice water with some
pleasure.

"Well, that will probably make him happiest. Be prepared to have a doting
cub." Rhiannon retrieves one half of her sandwich from the coffee table
and bites into it. Assured that the mission has been accomplished, her
appetite re-asserts itself with a vengence.

Salem seats himself on the couch, stretching out long legs and leaning
back. He's not quite _relaxing_ -- there's too much of an Ahroun's rage in
him to do that when the moon's full -- but he's clearly at rest. He
grunts. "Dote? I can't picture Quentin doting overmuch."

Rhiannon laughs softly and finishes off the first half of the sandwich in
short order. She quickly starts in on the next piece after a drink from
her soda, but pauses long enough to say, "Well, we'll see about that. You
are returning some of his favorite items to him, and, you've done a lot of
his teaching."

Salem makes a noncommital 'hm' noise and sips his water. "Possibly. He did
well at the moot, though seemed overwhelmed. Understandable. He needs to
start learning the language."

Rhiannon swallows the last of her sandwich, looking thoughtful. "How long
does that usually take?"

"Depends on the cub," Salem answers. "He seems like a smart enough boy,
but he won't be as immersed in it as if he was being kept at the caern
twenty-four-seven." He shakes his head. "Which I won't inflict on him
until just before his Rite of Passage."

Dinner (such as it is) finished, Rhiannon perches on the other end of the
couch, looking determined. "Well now that that small piece of work is out
of the way, we can focus on other things. Like a new general meeting
place. And that damned hospital."

Salem pinches at the bridge of his nose. "And the sewers. And the
Russians. But yes. Safehouse and hospital first."

Rhiannon grumbles something impolite in Spanish. "Speaking of Russians. Or
perhaps more specifically, Russian mobsters." She shifts, adjusting her
balance. "The DA's case is not going too well. Dylan could walk, or get a
rather light sentence."

Salem's upper lift lifts slightly away from his teeth. "Hell."

Rhiannon continues, her expression and voice echoing Salem's sentiment.
"They don't have a motive," she explains. "They have good evidence he did
it, but without motive, he could be looking at 5 to 10, maybe 10 to 20 if
the DA gets lucky, and Seagrave fucks up. Certainly no death penalty,
though."

"Of course not," says the Walker dourly. "He's a rich white boy." He
shakes his head and sips again. "Even if he gets twenty, he'll be parolled
in no time at all."

Rhiannon's voice is a study in sarcasm as she says, "Yes, he only deals
drugs because he's confused." She hmmmphs, biting at her lip absently as
she speculates. "It looks far too much like the same setup Rina narrowly
escaped. In fact I imagine that's exactly what Seagrave will argue: his
son's being framed too. And you know, I can't blame the jury for not
thinking along those lines."

Salem toys with his glass, swirling the ice cubes around and watching them
clink against each other pensively. "It tempts one to consider alternative
methods of justice," the Philodox says after a moment, quietly.

"I don't know what going after Dylan will accomplish," Rhiannon warns
reluctantly. "It's like they say, he was just the messenger. It'd be
better if we could find out who hired him." She tilts her head, thinking.
"You know, since they pegged him as the killer, the cops have been leaving
Rina alone. Maybe we could try and help them out, somehow. Keeps us off
the radar and if something fucks up it's their problem."

Salem inclines his head. "It was only a temptation," he says, with a faint
hint of self-deprecation.

Rhiannon's lips twitch in an almost-smile. "Well, fair enough. I still
agree that blowing up the hospital is the best idea, if not entirely
feasible." She sounds wistful as she says it, but waves the thought away.
"A safe house might be more immediately solvable. Lianne was the owner of
the previous one, yes?"

Salem nods. "She sunk quite a bit of money into it." The Walker's lips
thin, jaw clenching. If Rhiannon's perceptive, she'll notice a brief
flicker of guilt there as he takes another sip of water.

"I'll assume the FBI breathing down her back dissuaded her from collecting
insurance for anything new?" Rhiannon asks, eyebrows raised.

Salem nods ruefully. "I haven't spoken to her recently, but that's what
I've been told."

"Well that sucks," Rhiannon mutters. "I don't know how suspicious it'll
look, her buying something new, then a bunch of freaks and weirdos moving
in. Cops and the FBI are bound to come sniffing around." She blinks, and
adds, "No offense."

Salem looks up, eyebrows arching. Scars and long hair and beard and dead
eye and all, Salem says, perfectly deadpan, "None taken."

Rhiannon gives Salem a strange look, as if trying to discern how much of
his flat tone is humor and how much is not, but shakes her head and
continues. "We could do the corporate lease thing. She might be under
scrutiny, but if the entire firm isn't, they rent or lease a place, then
sublet to us. They're all lawyers, they should know about this sort of
thing." Perhaps owing to years in courtrooms and apprehending perps, her
tone indicates she doesn't think very highly of lawyers.

Salem rubs at his bearded chin. "Something to discuss with her, at the
very least. But I'm loathe to gather us all together so closely again.
Meeting place, yes. Living quarters?" He shakes his head.

Rhiannon grunts. "I think the last attack proved that's a problem, in
general. Maybe living in small groups, two or three, isn't bad, but all of
us in a single building? Not good." She rubs her neck, stretching her back
some. "Maybe a house on a decent lot. So people--and cops--don't pry."

Salem finishes his water, downing the last of it with a gulp. "Mmn. I
admit that it would be good to move out of where I'm currently staying."

Rhiannon smothers a yawn. "Yes, if nothing else, your landlord can't be
happy with your...pets." She stands and works out a few stiff muscles,
poking at the duffle bag with her toes. "Think it's time for me to get to
sleep. You can leave this if you want, and I'll drop it off tomorrow."

Salem grunts and nods. After dropping his glass off in the kitchen, the
Walker retrieves his gloves and starts for the door. "Let Quentin know
that I expect him to be practicing his shapeshifting." Something like
humor touches his voice. "Tell him there will be a quiz."

"Isn't the best quiz usually a pop quiz?" Rhiannon asks with a raised
eyebrow.

Salem makes a dismissive gesture. "It's a reward for doing so well at the
Moot. Most likely, there won't be a quiz at all. But it's good for him to
think there will be."

Rhiannon narrows her eyes. "You sound like my professors from college,"
she observes, amused. "But I'll be sure to tell him."

Salem flashes the kinswoman a thin, brief grin -- no more than a second,
and it barely shows more than a sliver of his teeth. "Sleep well," he
says. "Be seeing you."

Rhiannon waves goodnight to Salem, covering another sudden yawn, and locks
the door once he's exited.