7/25/02 -- Even Later

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (92% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 63
degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the southwest at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.10 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 87 percent. The dewpoint is 59
degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius.)

Location: Harbor Park


Salem prowls through the night-shrouded park, restless under the full
moon. He's actually calmer than he normally would be at this time of the
month, but not by much. He's still got enough of a predatory aura to
scream 'danger' to random cityfolk. Fortunately, random cityfolk choose
not to frequent the park tonight.

There is movement, by one of the benches. A standing figure, foot propped
on a bench, sketchpad leaning on her knee, her head bent over the paper as
she works.

Salem slows a moment, squinting at the figure, and then starts approaching
from behind. His hand slip out of the pockets of the hip-length leather
coat -- a new acquisition -- and hang loosely at his sides. He's wary,
suspicious, until he gets close enough to recognize the artist. Relaxing,
he circles around to her side, making no attempt to be stealthy.

For an instant it is hard to recognize her. She's wearing a different
jacket from the usual, still leather but with a high collar--the Ducati
jacket. Beneath its collar her nack is bruised, and a fading shadow marks
her cheek and jaw.

A faint smile comes to Rina's lips. She is sketching out the sculpture in
rough lines, with a stub of charcoal; she doesn't look up from her work.
"Hey," she says hoarsely.

"Good evening." Salem cranes his neck to glance at the sketchbook, then
tilts his eye toward the subject matter. He makes an admiring noise.

"Thanks," she says wryly. "I think." Her dark eyes flick from the paper to
the stones, and back again; the charcoal lays out line and curve, rasping
across the roughness of the paper. Her hands are dusty with grey.

One corner of Salem's mouth tugs upwards, and for several moments he just
watches her quietly, leaning with one hand braced against the back of the
bench, his gaze going from the pad to the statue and back again,
occasionally breaking the pattern to study her face. He seems to find
something restful about watching the kinswoman sketch.

She works efficiently, focused entirely on the task, her features composed
in concentration. A faint wince comes to her face after a time, and she
shifts to the other leg with a breath. "You been aright?" she asks,
roughing in details of light and shadow.

Salem rubs at his mouth and jawline, scratching absently at the short
black beard. "I've been busy," he answers. "Moot, judging, a bit of B and
E on Quentin's behalf... Busy."

Rina wets her lips, and smiles a little, ducking her head. "I heard. You
din't have any trouble?" Her voice is soft, touched with concern.

"With the burglary?" Salem shakes his head. "In through the Umbra, out the
same way. His parents sleep like the dead."

The smile widens, as she catches her lower lip between her teeth. "Nnhm,"
she answers. "I was... a little worried 'bout that. Mirrorside's
dangerous. Coulda called me up to do the lock for ya, y'know."

Salem shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders. "Not so much when the
moon's full. Everything's bright as day." He glances up briefly, his
expression mixed, part grateful, part antagonistic. He looks back at Rina.
"And you, madame, are in enough trouble with the law already." Touch of
dry humor.

Rina purses her lips wryly. "The law's in trouble with the law, baby. I'm
just fine." Dark eyes slant over to him, sparking with laughter. "'Sides.
Gotta keep in practice for when they /really/ catch me, y'know?"

Salem's good eye, just as dark, meets hers, glinting. "They never will.
I'm quite sure of that."

Rina flashes teeth at him in a feral grin. "Y'so kind."

"I'm just speaking the truth," Salem replies, perfectly deadpan. "We do
that, you know."

Her smile turns closelipped, and quirks up at one corner. Her left hand,
charcoal-smudged, comes up to tap his nose affectionately. "Honesty is a
virtue." She lifts a shoulder, and returns to her work, still smiling.
"Just too expensive f'some of us."

It's like bipping the nose of a cat. Salem blinks, then rubs at his
smudged nose, his expression wry. "Sometimes less so than the opposite."

"Well." She adds a smudge or two with the edge of her hand, carefully.
"I'm no paragon." The smile fades, as she glances back and forth a few
times between page and reality.

Salem rubs at his nose again, unable to tell if he's managed to wipe off
the charcoal smudge from it or not. "None of us are, Rina," he says. "We
just pretend."

Rina's brow furrows, and she nods minutely. She's quiet for a long time,
looking at the page and not seeing it.

Salem exhales a breath, then shakes his head and mutters an apology.

"Nothin's... been right, y'know," she says softly. "Since they came. It's
like... everything came back. Johnny made it right for a while... but then
they came and--" Her throat tightens, a quick swallow silencing her for a
moment.

Salem's brow furrows. He shifts his weight, straightening up from his lean
against the bench. He starts to reach for her, then aborts the gesture
almost before it's born and pushes his hands into the pockets of his coat
instead. "The Russians, you mean?"

Rina nods minutely, a swallow tightening her throat. She wets her lips,
slowly, and focuses on the sketch. Abruptly, her hand flips the sketchbook
closed, and she pockets the bit of charcoal.

Salem's jaw clenches. He looks away, swallowing anger, and, after a
moment, offers, "Would you like an escort home?"

Tucking the book under her arm, she answers with a nod; her hand comes up
to her closed eyes, to rub hard between them. "I shouldn't be out alone,
anyway," she says hoarsely. "Not like this."

"We've all done foolish things," Salem says, turning his voice
philosophical, "and for worse reasons than art on a summer night." His
expression, between the cracks of the stone mask and past full-moon
tension, is rueful.

"Yeah." She winces a little as she moves, getting both feet on the ground.
With a quick look over to him, a vague attempt at a smile, she heads for
the edge of the park. "Needed to get away f-- from things. Be alone for a
while." Wrapping both arms around the sketchbook, she holds it to her
chest and tips her head back, looking up at the sky.

Salem falls into step with her, moving with controlled grace. The Glass
Walker keeps close to the kinswoman, but he's got his blind side toward
her, so the occasional glances he gives her are visible in the movement of
his head. He's much more wary of St. Claire's night-life, but rage is, as
always, a deterrant.

"I gotta get my shit together," she murmurs, glancing over the streets,
scanning for threats. "Y'know?" A glance over to him, and pain flickers
across the delicate features--regretting the confidence, perhaps.

"I know." Salem's answer is sincere. "I know that feeling very well." He
turns his face toward her, a quick glance and then away. He might have
added something else, then changed his mind.

Rina swallows, and ducks her head. "What." The challenge fades into
something far softer, when she looks over to him--concern, and
uncertainty. "You-- is there somethin' you need? I mean, if there's
anything--"

She trails off uncertainly, watching his face, her cheek almost tipped to
rest on the edge of the sketchbook.

Salem shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says, giving the usual answer. This
time, though, he elaborates a bit. "Tonight, today, this month, I'm fine."
He glances over at her again, giving a thin, tight smile. It doesn't touch
his eyes; this time, anyway, the wall has slammed down.

She doesn't push--at least, not until they reach the door of the renovated
building. With the sketchbook under one arm again, pinned to her side, she
touches her free hand to his arm to turn him. Then the woman rises on
tiptoe, touching a chaste kiss to his cheek and giving him a swift,
awkward one-armed hug.

Salem accepts the gesture with a feline equanimity -- not rejecting it,
certainly not untouched by it, but not demonstrative, either. He doesn't
smile, but the tightness of his expression loosens up a notch, and his jaw
unclenches. "Things will be better," he tells her. "Remember that, and
sleep well."

When she draws back, she looks a moment--long enough to offer a quick,
unsteady half-smile in answer. "You, too." Then she turns to let herself
in, her head bowed.