The rain mattered little to Finley. Pitiful was the soldier who yielded to a passing storm. Had she been thinking strategically, she may have considered that the weather may have masked her scent to passerby, or that other Saints would sleep comfortably tucked away from such melancholy conditions.
But Finley was not thinking, at least not to her usual hyper-aware extent. If tangible thoughts passed her mind at all, they fled fast as the drops from sky to ground: fleeting, indiscernible. She certainly wasn’t trying to be stealthy. Something primal dragged her on, intoxicating in its simplicity.
“And where are you going?”
Should’ve heard that coming.
With the gentle tap of a hammer the trance snapped—but it had yet to fall to pieces, not when she recognized that voice. Renard. What a character this one was. There would be no straightforward “what are you doing here”—this was Renard, why wouldn’t he be here.
Finley slowed enough to glance back, nearly pausing but not quite. She regarded Renard with what she thought was her usual skepticism, but she wasn’t thinking; beyond her recognition or control, her brow had furrowed into an uneven squint, lip curled back, blink-and-you-miss-it. “Could ask the same of you.” Words ran together in a single breath, as if she’d choke if she wasted another second.
She wasn’t mad at Renard, was she? What had the hybrid done but play word ricochet, even spar; regardless of how the latter had gone, Renard’s scars were not those of an unseasoned fighter. Hadn’t he said something about that, being trusted and important and then leaving? The details seemed so very hazy and Finley lacked the patience to fish for them.
In fact, she somehow didn’t have the patience to play at all. Initial impression sealed, Finley swung her head forward again, though she summoned a renewed awareness in case Renard followed. It wouldn’t be the first time if he did; one Saint trailing off and away to hell-knows-where, another following in baffled ignorance of their intentions. How long Renard maintained this follow-the-leader charade was of little concern to her; what mattered, if nothing else, was if he attacked.
High alert. Assuming the worst. In Finley’s book, essential traits. How lacking they seemed to be.
“Are you here to stop me?” Less scathing, no less taut. Possibly the most straightforward question she’d asked the Blade yet.
How blatant the threat in Renard’s reminder. How careless Finley’s own actions, aware just enough to acknowledge he could take hold of her whenever he damn well pleased, yet unwilling to face the fangs that gleamed in her trail. He might as well watch her throw her head away; down the hill it rolled.
Would Renard “surprise” her? Her ignorance laid bait on a trapless platter. Finley hadn’t the slightest clue, even unpossessed, that Renard entertained her as a solution to the Saints’ ails—but given this, well, all the more reason to leave her traitorous skull for the vultures. They could pick and tear and devour and it would have been right. Nature promised nothing to the weak.
She did not look back. Would the hunger in Renard’s stare have scared her? He was not a child, and he had no throne; his authority here was primal. Finley welcomed it. Let order reign.
But instead, Renard spoke. Of course Donovan hadn’t noticed; the brindled man-pup would rather frolic in distant caves than watch his border, lure in more and more recruits with promises of an oasis, trot and hum and piss around as if fate would drop willing warriors on his oh-so-deserving doorstep.
Renard’s with the Saints could make Finley believe in miracles. “Unfortunately for you, I pay attention.” She wanted to laugh.
The opening question had been pointless.
“Then you’ll know that I’m not dying”—literal and figurative, that; the closest she could muster to metaphor—“to protect an idiot.” Dry as sun-baked sand. Doublespeak was carrion at this point; rationalization gnawed at the bones.
Donovan made toys of them all, wound tight in a desert without reason in sight. To hell with the right places and times. Was Renard having fun yet?
If Renard found endless possibility within the Saints’ careening trajectory, quite the opposite was true for Finley. She had a purpose to fulfill, vaguely-outlined as it was, and the Saints’ offerings were bathed in mindless bloodshed and tumbleweed affections. A spectacle indeed—and Finley had never been inclined towards empty show.
The irony, then, of making a performance of her own through her behavior, then and now, was not lost on her. It mattered little, here and now, how smart her decision was in “truth;” sense was to be carved in retrospect, once the remains were thoroughly cleaned. But for now the pieces were strewn in an impulsive haphazard; instinct forged ahead without wasting breath for explanation.
“Thought you might have the guts to take this from him.” What followed was of less concern. Everyone could stand to be proven wrong in these canyons. Finley bit her tongue just long enough to let Renard continue, with a prod she would have scrambled to answer if she cared to try, but as the first matter of business: “There’s nothing to take.” Another dart of the eyes back, wondering if he’d caught the scoff in her tone; but Renard followed from behind, out of sight.
Nothing worth taking, to be precise; alas, the time for such specifics had passed. Already Renard’s final question threatened to muddle her head and, or bring it all to the surface or what have you it didn’t matter her mind was made—even if Finley wanted to turn back now, Renard would have her throat. But really, what did the Saints have to offer? Hollow, gaping promises; Donovan himself, apparently. The latter appeal was lost on Finley now as it had been from the start. His antics meant little.
Fine, she’d entertain him. “The nonsense.” Neither; both. “Entertain me: what hooked you?” A final bet, hedged on the limp semblance of fairness; she barely had the right to ask and expected no answer. “Surely not the fawning.” Renard had to be smarter than that.
Potential interested Finley as much as an escaped hunt; you either had what mattered or you didn’t, end of story. Teeth were useless without cause.
Of course she hadn’t entertained the possibility of takeover; Finley was not an ambitious soul, bred and born and molded under the banner of useful muscle—nothing more. To live and die for a worthwhile commander was the pinnacle of existence; such grand purpose strangled individual ambition and gobbled the bones. If a subordinate’s goals aligned with the leader’s, all the better, but such idealism came secondary.
And yet. The ego of Finley Grebe had, if nothing else, a staunch refusal to bow for the frolic of hormone-driven fools. So away it led her, with a mindless conviction the pledged “Grandmaster” had scarcely offered since the move to the mountains. It was impulsive, foolish, flaring a target on her own neck; it made more sense than anything had in far too long.
So what did Renard see in it all?
“Boredom.”
Ah.
It should have been evident from the beginning: by his own admission he’d “missed most of the fun.” The truth had stared her in the headlights; she’d been too busy wiping at a speck on the window. Renard didn’t care, had never cared, for the future of the Saints, no more than Finley did now. The smiles, the talk of mutiny, the watching, always watching, all rooted in a smug satisfaction the burning building wouldn’t explode in his face and take him down with it.
Sounded awfully familiar there, darling.
You’re smarter than this. The words tugged at the curl of Finley’s lip, but it wasn’t as though Renard didn’t know. The hybrid didn’t care. So much for expectations. Smarts, then, were also useless without proper application.
Trees thinned as the mountain sloped ever higher, marking the end of the Saints’ land. Renard had stopped following and Finley had little time to waste on dramatic delays. Any frustrations that the encounter threatened to dredge had been vanquished in the dance of the rain, flowing back downstream to a newfound object of her projections. Of course what Finely was doing made sense. Death and catastrophe were life’s unfortunate byproducts; when one saw them as stagehands, something had gone horrifically wrong.
At least Renard was honest. For that alone Finley could offer her best excuse for an encore.
“Enjoy your mirage.” Whatever distaste festered had been supplanted by her typical monotone. Thank you for your time, good fellow; now she must be on her way, as should you if you’ve a brain left. Whether or not Renard heard, Finley did not care—but, just as unintentionally as her earlier snarl, she’d raised her voice. The words were sardonic; the sentiment drying her tone, less so.
Finley offered nothing else. The Saints weren’t her concern anymore.