Icon of Coil: morning after [salome]

October 22, 2002

morning after [salome]

[north jersey motel]

[caught decker's scene for damon since he was on a stupid mac]

(imogen)
It's a semi decent hour, the sun only just set, the world finally cloaked in darkness, the stars outperformed by the moon, still so near to it's fullness. After two nights of raining, the clouds have finally disippated. It wasn't to last.

It's a semi-decent hour for her, as the SUV pulls into the parking lot, dragging to a stop, and silencing. It's still two hours past the time that most normally people were off work, but for her, it's a decent hour. Particularly for a Tuesday, when often she is still working off the caseload left by the weekend. There is a mute feeling of satisfaction as she steps out of the SUV a chirp of the alarm as she arms it from the doggle on the keychain.

One hand drags through her hair, as dark blue eyes stare up the night sky, beginning to walk across the walk way toward the group of condos. It's not her stairs she walks across to, but to the neighbours, where the Fenrir reclines, taking the stairs lightly one hand digging into the pocket of her jeans as she moves to sit a step or two below, waiting the likely very short time for the joint smoking music listening Fenrir to notice her presence.

(decker)
Stairs.
Overcast.
Headphones.
Joint.

Smoke, greyer than the bluish smoke of a cleaner-burning, factory-made cigarette, loops and diffuses up toward the sky. Perched (sprawled) on the stairs up to the condo, elbows set between two lingering puddles from the overnight rains, Decker waits for the hours to pass him by.

A lot of his life was waiting. For the next night, for the next fight, for the next (.fuck.), for the next thrill. Supposed to be some sort of hunt soon. Him and his nemesis...and their packs. Life and death isn't a certainty on the other side of such a thing, but hey - that's what makes it interesting.

Draaag. Hold. Exhale. Bacteria festering in the puddles will die when they evaporate. Decker stagnating on the porch will awaken when there's a good reason to. It's all a matter of time. Matter of waiting. Matter of when.

(salome(
She was still caught somewhere among the convaluting images of twisted waking dreams, an arm flung over her face and hiding her eyes from the world. Her breathing occasionally caught in her throat, but other than that, she slept soundly enough.

She hadn't woken screaming.

It was a good night.

She stretched long, lean, muscle-sore legs out, feet half tangled among sweat-stained off-white sheets. She fidgeted some more, streching the fingers out in one hand before letting them loosen again. Under her nails blood had dried to almost black.

It was a good night.
(decker)
Three. Two. One.
(Very short.)

Eyes open. The color - or rather, the light, the gleam, the atmosphere cast by those eyes - never ceases to amaze. Disturb. Whatever. Grey as the rainclouds had been, seething with a barely-tamped-down fury that had nothing to do with what was happening, what might happen, what surrounded him: grey, they fall on her, the good doctor. Lover? Neighbor.

(Like we said, whatever.)

Tugging the headphones off his ears, he gives her the slow slight nod up, a slower slighter curl of one edge of his mouth. Quiet, spoken just like that with no break, no comma between: "'Sup Imogen."

(imogen)
She sits, knees bent, elbows resting lightly on her knees, waiting the fraction of a second it takes for him to acknowledge her. A twitch of the wrist as she offers a thick sheet of paper, folded many times over, the edges worn from being held in her pocket for so long.

She holds it loosely, almost neglectfully between long delicate fingers, while her other hand reaches up to push several untamed curls from her face, tucking them behind one ear, "You'd said y'wanted what I could not read from Salome's scars so ye could give it to James."

(asher)
the Galliard doesn't move (slit wrist slash across the sheets) save deep, even breaths (sore, aching, how much of the blood is his, and hers) pulling the metallic sweaty scent deep into his frame, blond lashes sheilding the mismatched slits of blue hidden in the darkness, the shadows caused by heavy drapes

watching her stretch
watching the slow movement of her muscle beneath (lacerated, bruised, abrased, splite, grazed, cherished) skin in the languid waking stretch

how long has he been awake.... watching..... remembering

his hand lifts (deadly cobra) til fingers trace lightly across bare (scarred) belly
her marks did not escape his attention

oh.... blessed tresspass

(salome)
She makes a whimpering (small injured animal) sound deep in her throat as fingers trace the glyph cruely carved into her flesh and instinctively rolls over onto her stomach, removing it from sight.

She sighs in her sleep, a hand sliding under a pillow speckled with the color and scent of blood and a... very strenuous... evening. This only exposed further riddling scars, both from emergency operations and from a battle she lost... badly.

(asher)
but what she reveals to him now brings the scythe smirk back to his lips (lower healing split) tongue sneaking out to catch rampant drop from the reopened wound, attention caught like a cat's trigger the sliding pendant responding to gravity's call (fetish) fingers splayed to sweep across ribs in the roll

[property of ik'cha]

smirk rises mercury the flush in beneath tanned skin

but there is an gentleness in the touch (madman's sick caress) floating just over her skin, just shy of depressing the scars against what's left of nerve endings beneath them, a whim striking as weight shifts, arm stretching across her in support, all that touches her the warm breath washing over (flayed) flesh between shoulder blades

(imogen)
A line forms between her brow, marring her clear features before shrugging slightly, "I was under th'impression glyphs like that weren't supposed ta normally be defiled by my human tools anyway," a statement of fact; it's true, so it's possible enough to believe she is not bitter about it.

He's taken the paper from her, and so her hand drops beside the other, dangling loosely at her knees. "Garou?" she asks because she needs to know if she's right.

(decker)
(*grouch* and yet you watched while i duh'd out again! *LMAO* on the bright side, i'm on a PC now...on the dim side, i can't get AIM express to work *grr*)

"No," not 'nah,' no 'naw' - flat out contradiction. "Yer hands ain't meant to be defiled with these." In his pocket, his hand rustles the paper, crumpling it tighter.

She asks; his eyes flicker at her. Beside his set jaw, the headphones squawk tiny, tinny beats until a slight movement of his left hand clicks the CD player off. Rolling his weight up, sitting up, he takes another hit, eyes narrowed against the churn of smoke in his ever-pristine lungs.

Hard to get stained when your body fixes itself. No; for a Garou, it takes a different sort of taint. It takes a bit of...effort.

Desire.

"Wyrm," he answers at last. His hand comes down loose on his knee, joint between second and third fingers, palm up. He could be offering; he could be just gesturing, a shrug that never made it to his shoulders. "Ugly." Again, "Don't write 'em no more."

(salome)
She begins to stir at the touch of warm breath sidling across her skin, carressing flesh wounds that still occasionally seeped blood when movements reopened forming scabs. She turns her head, burying it into the pillow for a long moment, ribcage lifting and falling with several deep, muffled breaths (suffocation).

She slides her other arm under the pillow and as a concerted effort she pushes herself up onto her elbows and lifts her head (tousseled red-brown hair), gazing over one shoulder at the Dancer sharing the blood stained sheets (bed of sin). In what dim illumination that breaks the shadows in the room, her hair looks almost black. A wash of live shadows that floats aross her cheek, hiding a thin knife wound that kisses her forehead and travels in a pale line down one cheek. Muscles stretch in painfully ecstacy, contracting deep inside as memories emerge of a torrid night (sadism. perversion.). Each and every scar, however inflicted, aches with a pulsing life of its own. From the bite mark of the undead in her throat to the scars of surgery carressing her feet in whispers (crinos-broken bones)

A sleepy sound deep in her chest.

"Mmmm..." Part sound, part query.

(asher)
tongue flicks out, flattening against skin to smear through the well of blood from broken scab

the Galliard is not cannibalistic like his packmates, this time he tastes something different in the tang drawn from the dried sweat permeating her skin (desire, passion, lust...... indulgence) a smile drawn from the movement as eyes crawl the ravages of memory (glyphs, battlescars, vampire's mishap kiss) and (glowing) blue clashes with (sleepy) gold

no greeting rises, but his hand lifts from beneath the pillows to tangle in the black sea drawn by the oblique shadows (caress becomes fist) turning her further, beautiful agony of the muscle stretched to arch backwards (obey. me.) into a kiss as much teeth as tender flesh

sharing their taste (taint, sin) that gathered in saliva

not another sound save creak of (abused, broken) springs as the Dancer moves to shower

(decker)
There's an irony here.

In another part of the state, a Dancer and a Wyrm-tainted, fucked-in-the-head kin are sharing some sort of macabre afterglow beneath bloodstained sheets. In this part of the state, Decker's sharing a joint. with Imogen.

Taking it back from her, he clamps it between his teeth and gets to his feet, some sort of unconscious echo of his nemesis (alter.ego.) as he, too, moves away without another word. A sweep of his hand along the ground to scoop up his CD player, not once interrupting the never-quite-grace of his motion, before the Modi's taking the stairs in twos and threes. Rune's door is neither locked nor latched, and it's only a matter of a nudge of the foot to send it swaying open.

The fact that it doesn't close could be an invitation.

(salome)
Gold eyes (hunter) watch the Dancer's naked figure saunter into the bathroom.

Dear Gaia, what the hell was I... The thought never finished, interrupted by the persistant chirrup of the only way she was contactable. Mobile phone.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, muscles all over her body (some aching in places she didn't even remember having muscles) registering their complaint. The phone doesn't cease, the ring persistant.

It was a few moments more before she answered. It has been in her inside jacket pocket and that item of clothing had been tossed across the room negligently the night before.

She rubs her eyes, lifting the phone to one ear and yawns before answering.

"Speak."

It was her way of answering. No name. No greeting. Just get the whole thing over with.

(imogen)
After a few moments, she stands, hands brushing lightly at the thighs of her jeans, she lacks his immediate grace, that lazy ease of movement he has. She moves well, but there is nothing of a monster in here.

The door is open, perhaps as an invitation. As it is, she leans against the door jam, one hand reaching down to her jean pocket, removing the shield and flicking the cheap fake leather cover closed, sliding it into her back pocket.

It doesn't matter if she can see him or not, "So what does it mean?"

(asher)
....dear gaia....
he knows what that sounds like seeping from her lips on whisper, surely he knows what it sounds like questioned in her mind

he hears the phone, but her answer disguised by the blast of water beginning to steam the small room (pausing, deep bruise found in the mirror confirming cracked ribs..... re-cracked ribs) her private life ignored as he washes the bloodflakes from healing skin

(sal)
A moment of stunned silence to whatever was said.

"Little... pal?"

Dear God... not... not both of them...

(decker)
He leaves the CD player on the kitchen counter and the crumpled wad of paper next to it. After a moment, realizing someone might come by and drop it in the trash, he smooths it out, folds it over where the glyphs can't be seen, and scrawls "JAMES" on top of it.

She asks another question; again, it's a while before he answers. From where he stands, he can't see her, and she can only see the trailing edge of his calf, and the shoe he has hooked behind the opposite ankle. Moving back a step, two, until he can see her, he laces his hands behind his neck and leans his head back against the cushion that formed. Decker was getting used to Rune's flat, starting to spread out in it: in the air, an unnameable tracery of his ownership.

"You gonna come in?"

(asher)
the water strangles to silence, rivulets weaving in and out of the ridges of pleasure inflicted pain and muscle in the path back to the main room, mismatched eyes study the tension of her back through curtain of dripping bangs

(salome)
Count backwards from ten... count backwards from ten. Deep breaths. Count. Back. From. Ten. Deep. Breaths.

Dead.

... 'guess they picked the wrong guy to hunt' ...

Dead

... 'A Fenrir' ...

Get

Count. Back. From. Ten. Deep. Fuck it.

The phone flew across the room, hitting the wall, battery and phone splintering apart at the sheer force of the momentum.

Rage - not paltry anger - rippled down through her muscles, pouring over her like a rancid rain.

(asher)
the Galliard ducks pieces of shattering plastic as if they were connected by coils of silver instead of copper (perhaps he .is. still headshy) the distance therein covered in few short (silent) steps

hands cupping her face
mismatched (metis) eyes capturing (molten anguished) gold
as if breathing the Rage that rolled from her in thick (delicious) waves

(decker)
That faint, faint, ever so faint tilt of his mouth. Him and his lazy arrogance, his wire-taut anger seething beneath the skin.

After creasing the paper down one more time, he crosses to her sitting on the arm of the couch and, tapping her thigh ("Move yer foot"), drops down. Leans back. Picks gunk out from under his nails.

Looks at her. "Says the same thing that was put on her back in English. 'Property of' - somethin' I can't read right, but I'm guessin' the name's the same. I ain't gonna say it.

"Maybe I shouldn'a let her go."

(salome)
Instinctive reation brings one of her still dried blood covered hands to his throat, a throttling action. A killing action, if he'd been normal. Human. More mortal.

But the hand doesn't covulce. It doesn't tighten. It doesn't try to hurt him as it may have before.

Eyes locked (gold and mismatched). Staring back at him, brimming with emotions that do the Wyrm more than justice.

Fury. Indignation. Ire. Rage. Wrath. Anger.

Burning. Seething. Fuming. Flaring.

Like a roll of thunder chasing the wind...

There was no redemption for the sinners, the damned, the lost.

(asher)
knot moves beneath her palm (irreverent caress) to swallow against the hold, and for a moment time stops between them

instead the momentless void fills with the rising smoke of her emotions.... fury.... indignation.... wrath.... anger.....Rage..... and he allows the flames to stoke (fire ever consuming) to latch onto what is left of the Silver Fang Kin with barbed talons of divine righteousness (goddess, rising, elemental) twisting further and deeper until fitting comfortably home

chin lifts in slow gesture, lungs filling with (seething) heat, thumbs drawn in trace the high curves of cheek's crest

.......tell me what you desire.....

words whispering echo tangling in her mind (stoking the flames) rich with promise

(salome)
The world looked so crystal clear through the anger, not blurred as it had been in past bouts of anger. That anger now seemed paltry beside the emotions that seethed through her veins now. Snaking tendrils of fury swam through her head, slithering against the cyrtsal fragility of her mental state until it covered it heavily.

And the cracks began to show.

Gleam.

Widen.

No amount of glue would put this back together again. There was no spiritual plastic surgery for the soul that would save this torrid bed of thorns that sprang up around her thoughts. And the gardener had gone fishing. Permanently.

Sometimes, when you will inevitably fall it is better to dive.

"That they feel what I feel."

The bittersweet misery of losing those you loved. The anguish of being treated as worthless. The pain of injuried inflicted by their carelessness.

And so Vessel's memory died... there was no place for him anymore. He'd left her to suffer this pain. It was his fault. It was because of all of them.

(asher)
there is something that defines itself on the Dancer's face in response to what (cracks, widens, gleams) shows itself on hers

catharsis

perhaps they share more than a bed and bruises, for it is a serenity that swims into his smile (black ink in bloody water) that thickens the soft sound deep in his throat (is that laughter's dying echo?) the shadowy tendrils of Father's blessed arms glittering in dual-colored eyes, fingers rising in trail across her flesh to onec more tangle (gently) in blackfire ribbons of her hair

.....who......

the single word divulging the promise that vibrates from his frame, of everything he can offer her and so. much. more.
now.... she can see from where the calm (of his insanity) derives
and how easily he could share it with her

(salome)
"...Fenrir..."

It was the word that reverberated through hher head. The damned curse that stung her ears over the phone. Fenrir. It was a Fenrir...

They taken her life (mind), chewed it up and spat it back out again. They'd taken the only rationality in her life and tore bloody goblets from them, leaving them to die miserbly.

She could see the claws in her mind, ripping joyously through Ayla's tiny body as she screamed almost soundlessly, blood spilling from her mouth as the crimson liquid of life filled her lungs and she died, choking on her own lifes essense.

She could see Siophe trying. Trying so hard. The flash from the barrel of his twin pieces - Death and Taxes - as he tor through the battle, trying to reach his petite lover-partner. How his bone cracked and his skin tore in bloody gashes as he fell. The clang of metal as his guns fell from his useless fingers. They'd been made for one another and now they were together. In Death.

Dead.

"I want their pain. Death is too good for them."

(imogen)
Her weight shifts slightly as he taps her thigh, moving so she's balanced the tip of her toes brushing the ground.

She moves her head in a slight nod, acknowledging his refusal to speak the word. She is familiar with the traditional belief of 'speak of the devil and it shall appear'. Speak the name of the Spiral, and he shall appear. Speak the name Black Spiral Dancer, and he shall appear. So it seems, write the glyph of the wyrm, and perhaps it shall appear too. A loosely closed hand, her thumb running lightly across her index finger.

She should have told him sooner.

Instead, "I would assume y'had a good reason, or you wouldn't have," she notes drily.

(asher)
the smile widens (inviting, serene) fingers (nails, talons) arcing over the curves of her skull to cradle it (so. damned. gently. compared to the violence of last night) before his (approving, adoring) gaze

"Pity I only know of one.... and not where to find him."

the sudden assault of silken words against her ears (inflicting, infecting) coy in their smiling promise (vengeance) and tease

"Because you see..... I don't want him dead. But would rather enjoy watching him in pain....."

let me indulge you
let your desire consume you
what a decadent tango it can be.....

(decker)
Sprawled out on the couch, arms up along the back, he thinks, he mulls, he folds in on himself and cloaks himself in silence. In his eyes: distance, turned away from her, clicking slowly over each piece of the hightech mess in the room without registering.

"Had a good reason."
That's it, that's all.

(imogen)
She watches him draw in, dark eyes silent on his form as he mulls, not bothering to break the silence he brings into himself. Watching as he does so.

After a moment, she nods slightly, answering simply, "There we are then."

(salome)
"... and I know where he is."

Or at least, for the most part, where he is likely to turn up. That pretty little red-haired Fianna Kin swam into the shadows carressing (silken bedlamite) her thoughts. She'd found that Garou only dropped by a kin's house where they were sniffing around, looking for a little slap-n-tickle. A late night blow job. A little muff-diving...

(decker)
A late night blowjob. A little muff-diving. With Imogen's fifty-mile-high wall?

Unlikely at best.

So there they are then. Each in their own cell, as T.S. Eliot said. A wasteland of silence between; two inches. His rage thickens the air into ozone, but in the end he just leans forward to stub the forgotten joint out on Rune's ashtray. Polite tonight.

"There a reason yer still here?"

(asher)
a blond brow raises

"Oh? Well..... allow me a quick stop to gather something....."

arms tighten to gather lithe to strong from, lips tickling against hers, voice lowering to the softest whisper.... and never once do his eyes leave hers

".... and I will show you how to inflict real pain...... just like all the ways they've hurt you..... and a thousand more."

(imo)
She snorts softly, looking down at him where he slouches, "Your sparklin' pleasant company," she replies as she stands, dragging a hand through her hair, "What else?" a dry tug of her lips, replying to his bad mood with sarcasm, as she heads to the door.

(sal)
A very slow and very unsane smile slides across her lips, her face as perfect reflection of the emotions so often betrayed on his own. The barest nod of her head, eyes latched onto his.

Twisted twin souls. How scary.

(decker)
"Well, I don't know," how easily, how easy it is, to slide into the familiar sneering drawl. His bad mood was eternal, always looming just on the horizon of his overcast eyes. What sparked it off this time could've been anything. He gives the joint a good grind and rocks back, arms going back up along the top of the couch. "Thought maybe you was back to fuck."

(asher)
lips touch (burn) in a single (sadistic) moment of (indulged) sin before the smile spreads to pull her mouth into a perfect mirror image of his own (homicidal grin)

"Get dressed..... do not waste the richness of your desire....."

he would include her name, but he still does not know it

(imogen)
She regards him coldly as she slides her boots on, "Fuck? No. You haven't paid me for the last two times." She shuts the door behind her.

She's out the door, crossing the balconies to her own, fumbling for the right key out of seven.

(salome)
She takes little time to dress. She's always been methodical that way. No make-up, no high-heels, no teasing her hair into any intricate hairstyle. Jeans, t-shirt, leather-jacket, boots... all of which smell deliviously like him, her own scent lost before it even had a chance to come about (You can never smell her emotions... it was all body language with her). She merely runs her hands through her hair in lieu of brushing it, tucking it behind her ears.

The phone lays shattered on the carpet and she makes no move to gather the remains... or the SIM chip. She no longer belonged to the world that the numbers in that phone contained.

She fishes the keys to her waiting truck out of her pocket and opens the door, waiting...
(decker)
click, and she's gone.

Left alone, the time it takes Salome to dress is the time it takes Decker to seethe on the couch. As she's sliding on her jeans, he's pushing a hand back over his scalp. As she's pulling her t-shirt on, he's rocking forward as though to stand - only to think better of it.

When she fishes the keys out of her pocket, Decker gets to his feet. Doesn't stomp. Doesn't knock anything over. Doesn't throw lamps and vases.

He walks to the door. He opens the door just as Imogen's closing hers. He gets to her porch the usual way - jump - and then knocks on her door the usual way. Hammers.

(imogen)
The door shuts. She takes three steps inside, and was just starting to remove her jacket as he hammers on the door. There are very few people who would hammer like that, and he's the only one in this country.

She half turns, deliberately continuing to remove her jacket, and drapes it over her arm, all the while staring at the door, contemplating does she really want to open it, with her free hand she reaches over, twists it, and pulls the door open, tilting her head slightly to one side in question. Tongue silenced for the moment.

(asher)
jeans, socks, tankboots

his shirt met its fate with her nails, there isn't even the thought to retrieve the pieces, night's chill upon exiting the room raising gooseflesh around the scars lacing his torso

Salome's silver shot on the top his shoulder (even before last night, she permanently marked him) two long gouges over the blades (where once he may have had wings to match the Angel's voice), and worst of all the clawmarks latticing abs (its a wonder they healed)

it is not long to find the haphazardly parked truck of climb within

"There's a building on the corner of 34th and Winchester.... make a stop there."

(decker)
He hammers right up until the moment the door opens. When it does, his hand drops to his waist, match to the other - bristling, elbows jutting out.

"It ain't like that."

(imogen)
She regards him for a moment, taking in his ferocity and bristling nature, in some ways simply intrigued by it, in others taken aback by it. For all the fact she mouths off, or fights back (or perhaps because of it), she knows perfectly well what a Garou might do if provoked, and has a healthy awareness of it. In some ways she's sizing him up. "No," she agrees after a moment, "it isn't."

(salome)
She merely nods as she starts the engine, waiting for a few moments for it to warm up and then, turning in her seat to gaze out the rear window, she backs out. Turning back around, she sets course for the destination he gave.

Silence.

(asher)
it is a comfortable silence, not the silence of animals backed into corners waiting for the other to strike as it was upon arrival, not the silence of man and woman entering a room only to unleash their darkest desires (dreams) upon one another in a sudden roar of crashing waves slamming against the shore (music of the spears) of inhibition to tear the very walls down

it is the silence that gives birth
to ideas
to plans
to the affirmation of righteous vengeance

a little smile as they stop (knowing she hasn't showered, the blood and his scent still ripe on her flesh and clothes) he is gone from the car for a very short time

one bottle chosen
the others, browsed..... T.... K.....
the smile widens
this. should. do.

his slide back into the seat is smooth, satchel settled across his thighs (writhing, pulsing), and there is a serenity in his smile

"How far away is it?"

some preparation that must be done

(sal)
"Not far. Not far at all."

Forever is no distance at all.

She stops the truck a good two blocks from where she knows Imogen's condo complex stands. She lets the engine idle, staring at the road past the hood of the truck before letting a sign escape through her lips, warm and painful against the bruising split carressing her lower lip.

"I'm going ahead."

She wasn't going to walk themselves into a party of pot-head tree-huggers. She knew that at least two Garou knew where Imogen lived and being the type of smooch of their 'little cousins', they might be there right now. Having a little orgy all of their furry-little own.

She doesn't need to say that if there is a gathering happening that she will be dead on the spot if they see Asher within a block of her. Especially with his sickly (sweet) smell cloying to her skin, hair... clothes.

She gets out... and proceeds to walk to the condo.

(decker)
And what is there to say to that?

She looks away, he looks away. Her, inside the doorframe; he, leaning against the stucco wall, just outside. Door half open in between.

"Whatever." That's what there is to say to that.

(salome)
Step. Step. Each step pushing her closer to a resolution. A demand that whispers in her head like the snake that hissed at Eve in the Garden of Eden.

She was drenched in her fury, her miserable remorse at lost lives and loves. She was aching all over, skin bleeding in patches and bruises blooming on her skin in places the public never sees but can imagine.

The condo complex looms large in her eyes. A leviathan waiting to be brought to its knees.

And she ascends the stairs, her memory taking control of her footsteps... leading her to Imogen's apartment and the fateful meeting about to occur.

Fate takes a breath and waits... watching.

(imogen)
She shakes her head sharply, her own version, perhaps of his 'whatever', glancing at him with dark eyes, "You goin' t'come in, or what?" It's only her grammar difference that makes this moment any different than the moment at Rune's door only fifteen minutes ago.

(asher)
there is little argument, allowing her to walk ahead (all. alone.) before finally exiting the car, hanging back at a good distance, but still close enough to watch

(decker)
And Decker raises his head an inch. Turns to look at her: not Imogen, but Salome. His nostrils flare briefly, taking in scent...if he had longer hair, it would hang into his eyes; since he does not, there is nothing shielding her from the blast of rage behind his gaze.

Can she look the beast in the eye?

"Where'd you git yer scars, kinwoman?"
His voice. is. quiet.

(salome)
She looks like she's been in the losing end of a fight (you should see the other guy!). Bruised in ways other than what James inflicted her with (a shiner turning shades of dark greens with petals of yellow) on their first meeting. Her lower lip is split, blood speckling her top lip now that the small wound had reopened and oozed almost. She licked her lip, tantalized by the copper taste of her own blood.

She stares at Decker in silence, long enough perhaps to makes the Modi bristle at the lack of answer.

"Hunting something bigger than you...." will ever be...

(imogen)
Her eyes move from Decker to follow where she assumes his gaze is, to the kinfolk as she approaches, "shit," barely audible under her breath, drawing in the sight of the bruised and battered kinfolk. The silence.

(asher)
it's a quiet, slow progression that leads him around the corner
but not in sight
within earshot (long, mule, ears) head tilted, curiously

(decker)
No bristling.

"Is that so." Shifting against the wall: skin and cloth, muscle and wifebeater jersey. His arms were crossed, but now they come uncrossed. He turns his back to Imogen (trust.) and leans his elbow up on the wall, his body a taut sling from that point. He looks at her, takes in the bruising, drinks in the sight silently.

"Who beat you?"
He could swing.
Any. Which. Way.

(salome)
"The BSD I capped while you had your temper tantrum in plain view of god knows how many humans."

A temper-tantrum that broke the Veil six ways to Sunday. She knew. He knew. He hadn't even been punished for it. Go figure. They are never punished. Only ones like her. Like Siophe. Like Ayla.

Blood was rife among the scents on her clothes. It clung to her being like an aura. Blood. Hers and... someone elses. Whoever had done this to her had also bed. A lot.

(decker)
"Crack.

A pebble. Asher's not that quiet...and he isn't trying to be. Decker's head cocks as startlingly sharp ears pick up on the sound. He looks at Salome, head to toe. Toe to head.

"Hell are you here for?"
Suspicion, the lazy, contemptuous sort. Property of Ik'cha. If you're not with us...
"Someone with you?"

(imogen)
She is a silent presence at his back, simply a quiet behind him. She hears the question, one hand sliding quietly behind her back.

She knows it wouldn't make any difference, but it makes her feel better anyway.

(salome)
"You didn't protect me from Ik'Cha..." yeah, she said it out loud "What the hell do you care now?"

'You' didn't sound so singular. It sounded like it encompassed a lot of people. A tribe, maybe? A whole Nation, perhaps?

She draws a knife from the same place that Imogen's own hand was going. The lower back. A sting of silver, a tantalizing, itching sensation.

She lifts the blade to the leather throng around her neck, sliding it underneath and pushing against it. The balde slices through the necklace like a hot knife through butter. She catches the medallion in her other hand, looping her fingers around the wrecked leather throng and holds it out. The medallion swings slowly back and forth as she extends her hand.

"I don't want it anymore. Take it back."

(asher)
knuckles creak (leather gloves over latex) and shoulder scrapes roughly against the wall (fabric screaming between stucco and flesh) as weight spreads against it

waiting
so. damnably. calm.

it's almost sentient, the wind, whispering, calling, tittering in it's mockery..... deeeeckkkkerrr......

devil's whip hidden behind his back
but there's something else in his hands

(decker)
Blood was rife among the scents on her clothes.
Blood...and sex.
And that voice.

The first time he met her, that voice rang in his head. And when he attacked. She. Shot. Him. It's called circumstantial evidence. And in the Garou world, you're always guilty...until proven innocent.

His eyes narrow and his muscles tense. He snatches the medallion out of her hand - the air fills with something akin to static electricity - and nearly effortlessly, and oh-so-quick, bends it in half.

A solid metal disc bent like a copper wire.
Are we afraid yet?

Clink, and it drops to the ground. By then he's already moving - faster than any man had any right to be - grabbing her by the front of the shirt and hauling (throwing) her inside. Behind him, the door slams.

"Get those handcuffs, Imogen."

(asher)
the door slams
voices muffled
they're all inside

perfect

the Galliard moves around the corner to approach the stairs

(salome)
There are many things that she could possibly be afraid of. A Garou flexing his muscles in a show of brute strength wasn't one of them.

If it hadn't been coupled with the use of fuzzy arcane bullshit.

It was probably the only thing that stopped her from shoving a silver blade into his guts as a direct result of him grabbing her.

Mmmmmmmm... handcuffs... grrrrr...

(imogen)
There are many things that she could possibly be afraid of. A Garou flexing his muscles in a show of brute strength wasn't one of them.

If it hadn't been coupled with the use of fuzzy arcane bullshit.

It was probably the only thing that stopped her from shoving a silver blade into his guts as a direct result of him grabbing her.

Mmmmmmmm... handcuffs... grrrrr...

(imogen)
A blue glance, and she turns, stride swallowing the wooden floor as she crosses into the hallway. There's no searching, she simply comes back with two handcuffs, jaw setting harshly as she offers them to Decker.

Guilty until innocent, but somehow, if she's innocent, the good doctor doesn't think handcuffing her will improve matters.

(salome)
Wincing. There was pain. A lot of it. He jerked her around like a rag-doll and being merely mortal she had a lot more injuries still than Asher possible still had.

(decker)
He strips (yanks, tugs, wrenches) her knife away and snap the handcuffs on, but not nearly as practiced as Salome might be able to handle them: too tight, uncomfortable. Not that handcuffs were ever comfortable.

Imogen didn't like how he treated the kin. She was about to like it even less. Once she's trussed up, he slams her head into the ground, knocking her out for good measure. He remembers the last time she was around when Asher showed up.

One eye on the door, crouched on the ground with silver in his hand, he speaks again to Imogen - "Stay with me..." like hell was he going to let her out of his sight after Asher's track record with kinfolk, "...but if I start flippin', you get the hell outta here."

(salome)
But pain let you know you were still alive... and having your head slammed into the ground knocked you out like a light.
(sal)
...unconscious...

(asher)
three..... two...... one....
tankboots pull to a halt just outside the door

....... but if I start flippin', you get the hell outta here

so he's not alone, the young Dancer pausing, inhaling, reading the (betraying) air - he can smell the Fang kin, he can smell Decker, and maybe the vestiges of another..... maybe....... would the Fenrir be protecting the (his) Kin?

fingers (talons) traced (scraped) down the door, muffled only by the thick cover of gloves, idly wondering who lived here

(imogen)
She casts him a sharp glance, eyes flickering toward the back of the condo where there would be a fire escape, nodding her head slowly as she leans down over Salome's inert form, ruthlessly turning her over, a secondary clack as she double locks the handcuffs, turning her back over, and standing up. Her hands open and close uselessly an outward sign of quiet stress.

(decker)
In the enclosed space of Imogen's living room, his rage burns like a lightning storm: electric-ultraviolet.

Just a door between. He looks through the peephole even though he already knows who will be there, and the surge of bloodlust is hard to tamp down. Then, two steps back.

In the heartbeats between, he changes. Grows. Rearranges. Where the thuggish young man had stood - the one that had cracked unexpected, straight-faced quips in her car, the one that had drank with her at four in the morning while tension pulled as thick as blood, the one that had touched her hair and kissed her mouth and -

where he stood.
there is only.
an iron-grey beast.

You want some of this?
Come get some of this.

(asher)
he hears the steps, calculating, almost rearing back to kick the door into Decker's face
but where's the fun in that
(indulge me)
waiting until he hears the telltale crackling of bone and tendon (how it must ache, to hold back so much, Modi) and only -then- is the door nearly taken from its hinges in explosion, bale-fire blazes in the Dancer's eyes, the homicidal grin turned to the gray beast

and there is no fear

"Been awhile.... Fenrir...."

sneered, tongue lashing out in lude sweep over teeth, devil's whip snapping through the air, mismatched (metis) eyes stroking across Salome's prone (cuffed) form

"She's so much better fighting back....... what're you planning on doing with my kin....."

the last more growled than leered
(what's come over him)

(imogen)
Decker starts to shift up, and it's one of those ironic times where Doctor Imogen Slaughter has to actually wrestle with her courage and hatred for running. One was when she left England. The other time was when she left her last Sept. She hates running.

....... but if I start flippin', you get the hell outta here

As the door crashes down, she's already backing out into the kitchen to the fire escape, fingernails digging ragged wounds into her hands. She hates helplessness. there's nothing she can do.

She's good enough about being able to slip through the window and out onto the fire escape, slinking silently over the metal.

I'd sure as hell be pissed if you ended up on one of my tables

Safe and away, scrubbing nail damaged hands against her jeaned thighs, tamping down the utter feeling of... inability to do anything... Now what the fuck?

Whatever she does, she's not there when either Asher leaves, or Decker comes out. Or anything. And not back that night.

(decker)
The instant the door flies open, Decker moves.

The devil whip cracks behind him - he's that fast. There is - oddly enough - a grace in his lunge, flowing forward to clamp a huge hand over Asher's throat. Claws press into flesh. The hand shuts, sealing the windpipe as a man might pinch a straw closed. Murder shines in his eyes like the glow at the heart of a reactor.

But the claws do not draw blood, and the silver (can he feel it? Yes he can...they both can, throbbing like a toothache) in his hand shines mutedly, untarnished with blood. Because that's what it would be, spilling the Dancer's blood here. Tarnishing what is pure.

The words are a subvocal growl, vibrating the air, and there is no accent but that of his blood: son of Fenris. And Salome? No longer his concern.

Take your filthy whore and go.

(asher)
whatever he was planning, whatever he was doing
stops
lude smile forming above the strangling grip

......You handcuffed her...... seems like you wanted her.....

whispered (scatching) through Decker's mind (a voice that will haunt his dreams) since all vocalization has been restricted, shoulder shrugs before the hand without the whip (now, empty) reaches to slide fingers (intimately) through steel gray fur (taint smearing in tangled scents)

he can't get her if he can't move
..... or breath
quiver racing through lean frame

but was it of his muscles screaming for oxygen
or excitement at the Modi's dominance

violence.... indulgence..... desire...... how does it feel?

(decker)
Revulsion.

Asher can see it, and it has got to be gratifying. It's all the Fenrir can do to keep from jerking back, lashing out - and to bite it back takes something out of him. The weakness of every Fenrir is violence, an indulgence, a vice as addictive as any drug, and as liberating. The only difference is the means to that end. And to hold back...

I want.
Violent tension is next door to sexual.
(...to kill you...)

Without a word, the Fenrir throws the Dancer back. The impact of skull on doorframe is hard enough to kill a mortal...but Asher is much more than mortal, isn't he?

Turning, shrinking, stepping neatly over Salome unconscious on the ground (even now, he wouldn't - couldn't - strike a defenseless woman) the thuggish Modi makes his way through Imogen's apartment and out the back fire escape.

Same way she had taken. Same way he'll take.
And damned if he was going to let her live here anymore.

(asher)
gratification

so many layers
so many destructive fingers unraveling strength to the basis of primal pleasure, such coy and tantalizing possibilities that drive an opium dream to the very edges of reality and back, because nothing fulfills, nothing satisfies in the same way

and to hold back....

there's a glint in hazing eyes
locked on gunmetal grey
a reflection of the lightning
a reflection of the fire

..... me?.... how.....

mockery in the challenge (invitation) fingers tighten to comb talons through fur before skull cracking makes the room spin and blur, the floor rising all too quickly to catch the dazed Dancer.... it is a long while before he gathers legs beneath him to lift (cradle) Salome and return to the truck and motel

a whim to burn the condo to the ground set aside
they are even
..... for now
Posted by asher at October 22, 2002 12:00 AM

Comments