It is currently 20:30 Pacific Time on Wed Apr 2 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, watch out for freezing rain. The temperature is 36 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the north at 13 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.66 and rising, and the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 34 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (7% full).

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming shades of undersea blue and green. These patterns gradually soften as they grow out into the rest of the room, where walls are visible; angles replace curves, until the mural becomes a mix of ocean and curcuitry. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish rug in vibrant tribal colors occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum, rests on it in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of windows holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it, and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

It's somewhere between eight-thirty and nine o'clock in the evening when Salem's knock comes on the door, the usual brief rapping.

Rina lies on the couch, pale and wan, drifting in the haze of the opiate used to stave off her pain. Closed eyelids flicker at the noise, but do not quite open to the dimness of the studio,

The door is answered by a sleepy-looking Cat- his usual Catholic schoolboy shirt and jacket off and hanging somewhere, maybe in the wash. He'd fished out a man's shirt from somewhere, a button up about four sizes too big. Once he sees the Walker Elder his tired expression lets up a little. "Come see Miz Rina," he says immediately, stepping back from the door to make way for Salem. "She's not doing so well..."

Salem has a large paper bag in one arm, and as he enters, he hands it off to Cat with a warning of, "It's heavy." Which, since it contains a largish amount of soup in a sealed plastic container, it is. His dour expression gets darker as he stalks toward the couch. Kneeling down, he lays a hand on Rina's forehead, then feels for her pulse.

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.

His attire is strictly monotone, black on black, plain t-shirt and BDU pants and combat boots that have been well broken-in. Something hangs from a cord around his neck but is tucked away under the shirt, out of view. The tails of the long black leather duster sweep around his ankles; the coat appears new and is in excellent condition.

Diligently Cat takes the bag, although he nearly drops it, the thing really -is- heavy. He trots off to the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder worriedly as Salem takes Rina's pulse- but whatever facial expression the Elder makes is obscured from view once he enters the kitchen. "Want me to make it?" he calls out softly, peering into the bag suspiciously.

Slow thudding under his fingertips reassures Salem somewhat; the pulse is a little depressed, but not thready. Rina's eyes flicker open, huge and dark and dilated. "I'm alive," she observes, her voice hoarse and hazy.

"It just needs heating," Salem says in answer to Cat, his attention mainly on Rina. "Should be enough for a few days for both of you." It's difficult to tell the type of soup without prying off the lid, but a vegetable derivative would be a good guess. He meets Rina's eyes, his own solemn, and then exhales a breath in a quiet sigh. "Fortunately, yes."

There are a few clumsy sounds from the kitchen such as the container thumping against the counter, the rattle of a porcelain bowl, the slosh of liquid, and a little pause of silence. "I got it."

"I'm an idiot," Rina murmurs, in the same sluggish voice; the barest weak flicker of amusement tugs a corner of her mouth upward. "Forty five... bad idea. Scared the kid... too much. Stupid." The dark self-deprecation is there, in her eyes, through the fog of the drug.

"Very," Salem agrees dryly. "But we'll forgive you." He smiles crookedly and stands. "Rest. I'm going to talk to Cat."

For once, she does exactly as he says. That, in itself, might be disturbing. Closing her eyes, she relaxes back into the pillow, floating again on the wine-dark morphine sea.

Salem gazes down at her for a moment, then shakes his head and heads for the kitchen and the cub, the softness in his expression evaporating with each step.

Cat's in there, the cuffs of his overly long shirt soaked with soup, one hand with a towel in it trying to mop up what he's spilled, the other holding a bowl full of the stuff up in the air as he cleans. He didn't spill too much, really, it'll still last them a long time. When Salem appears he drops the towel and quickly puts the bowl in the microwave, eyes glancing at him worriedly and briefly. "Is she...okay now?"

"She will be," Salem answers flatly. "But it'll be weeks. She was struck by a _Crinos_. It's damned lucky that she's not dead." He scowls. "Hopefully, I can get a healer to Mother's Touch with Alicia away." His eyes narrow, the dead one turning to a pale crescent. "Cat, Beth says that you were cowering behind Rina. Hiding."

Cat blinks, looking stricken as he takes half a step back, already shying away from Salem and the accusation. "She- she- she wouldn't let me alone, I just wanted to go home...I dunno how Miz Rina found me but I-" He stops and looks at his soup-wet fingers as if they might hold a better explanation. "I mean, Tabey was -yelling- at me and swearin' and..."

"Shit," Rina whispers. It takes long minutes for her to gather her strength, and then there are vague sounds of movement from the couch; a hiss of breath, a hoarse sound of pain.

Salem's voice is pitched low, quiet enough not to disturb Rina's drugged sleep, but is no less intent for that. "You are a _Garou_. You're a goddamned _protector_. It is your _duty_ to--" He breaks off at the sounds from the couch, looking that way for a moment. Then he turns back to the cub. "I'm disappointed in you."

"You shouldn't be," Rina mutters through clenched teeth. "He was tryin' to preserve the veil. It was my fault she flipped, f'Chrissake--" She has made it about as far as her elbows, but she lays back down with a whimper of failure.

Terror-stricken eyes meet Salem's for an instant; then Cat bows his head, bangs dangling in his face as he stares at his stained sleeves. "I'm sorry, Mister Salem sir," he murmurs, just above a whisper.

"He still shouldn't have been hiding behind you," Salem growls, with restrained temper. Her efforts to rise and the subsequent pain don't help his mood. His eye falls on the cub again. "Nevermind the apologies. Think about improvement."

Rina swallows. "Maybe he shoulda stood up more, before she lost it. But he didn't want a fight. Nobody did." She stares up at the ceiling, breathing through bared teeth. "It was my fault," she whispers.

The boy nods mutely, shuffling forward only when the microwave beeps. "Dinner," he mumbles.

Salem stalks out of the kitchen, leaving Cat to his guilt. "Did you know she was Garou?" he asks Rina. He circles clear of the couch, keeping out of arm's reach of it, his steps quick and tense.

Rina winces, closing her eyes. She swallows. "Suspected," she says hoarsely. "Didn't know. Wanted to get her outta the open, didn't think she'd go unless I--" She gives a tiny shake of her head, gritting her teeth. "Stupid," she mutters. "Wasn't thinking. Fight or flight. Shoulda just grabbed her."

After a second, Cat follows Salem's steps, soupbowl and spoon in careful hands. "Here," he whispers, holding it out for Rina, and not meeting her eyes. "I can get you a napkin too."

Salem stops short and looks down at her, his gaze dark. "Accident. Nevermind. Forget it." He pushes his hands into his coat pockets and watches, jaw and shoulders tight.

Rina shakes her head, putting a hand over her eyes. "Just leave it," she says quietly. "You have yours, and then get to bed, Cat." The pain is sinking back into her expression again, gradually.

"You need another shot?" Salem asks. The question is completely deadpan.

Cat bites his lip, then quickly withdraws, returning to the kitchen. More sloshing of liquids, although he doesn't drop anything this time.

"I'll manage," Rina says tightly. "Leave it for a bit. See if I can take it." Her jaw is tight, and when she drops her hand her expression remains drawn. Her eyes look upward, focused on nothing, intent concentration in them as the pain seeps back into her awareness.

Frustration drags at the corners of Salem's mouth. He grunts an acknowledgement and mutters something about Cameron or one of his pack.

Cat reappears after a moment, poking his head out from around the wall, a penitent child afraid to approach. The soup's been put away, uneaten, and there's a fifth less of it now then there was to start. "Goodnight Miz Rina," he murmurs, ever-quiet so not to disturb her. His eyes drop to the floor. "Goodnight Salem-rhya." Then he shuffles into her bedroom, shifts to lupus and curls up half underneath her bed.

Relaxing a fraction, Rina lets out a slow breath. "Night, hon," she murmurs. Her eyes flicker open, to find Salem through a growing fog. "Jack...I'll be aright," she says quietly.

Salem glances sidelong to watch Cat slink off to bed, then looks back toward Rina. He grunts again. "I worry." He pauses a beat. "The girl's safely stowed over at the farm. It's in the Striders' hands now. Newspapers talked about a bear attack, and the police'll be watching the park. They think people are trying to hold dogfights." He snorts. "Could have been worse, but." He shrugs tensely.

Rina's eyes narrow. "Strider. Huh." Her breathing is slow, deliberately shallow. "Will you come by tomorrow or somethin'? Between bein' laid up and the kid, today was... I'll go stark raving."

She glances to him, then, giving the barest ghost of a smile.

"She had an owl kinfetch," he explains. Then he nods, not quite matching her smile. "Of course. Anything I can bring over for you?"

Rina averts her eyes for a moment, thinking. "Somethin' to read maybe. Anything fiction and light... whatever." The dark gaze returns to him, tight but still touched with that trace of amusement. "Anything."

Salem's eyebrows lift. "Anything?" He tilts his head slightly, considering. "Hm."

Rina's smile widens thinly. "Not the Godfather. I hate that guy, Mario whateverthefuck his name is."

Salem scratches absently at his bearded chin. "No Godfather, noted. I was thinking more along the lines of Gibson anyway. I have a copy of _Burning Chrome_ back home."

"Sure," she murmurs, the half-smile odd but somehow genuine. Dark eyes study him. "The girl's aright?"

Salem's hands vanish back into his coat pockets. He shrugs curtly. "A little shell-shocked, but understandable considering the circumstances. She'll be fine." He seems less than concerned, though; his tone has coolled.

Rina presses her lips together, and gives a small nod. "Good. Get some sleep t'night, a'ight?"

Salem grunts. "You too. You _especially_." He steps over toward the couch on his way toward the door and pauses there. Again, he looks intently down at her... like he could mend her wounds by will alone.

Rina reaches up with one hand to touch his own; her smile may be pallid and exhausted, but the is still a touch of slyness in it. "Shh. I'll be fine. Had worse."

"Hrmph," Salem says. "Get some sleep. I'll be by tomorrow." He squeezes her hand lightly, then releases it and heads for the door.

Rina watches him, the smile fading as he leaves. Then, and only then, does she reach to the coffee table, for an artfully decorative wooden box--that holds the sterile-bagged needles and the day's vial of morphine.