Redsand Canyon One more drink, one less I’ll lose

present tense felt fitting here. Finley’s present, but only physically, and stands a short distance from the fray; groggy unreliable narration ahoy!

Screams rip through the night; Finley is marching to the source, tensed for battle. A fight has broken out; Donovan is there. His howl beckons her to hell and hell is what she sees: two “leaders,” drenched sanguine red, Nemisis on the ground, lifeless, beheaded. At last, he’s dealt with her.

A white apparition stands in the crimson pool, speaking; unrecognizable. Colin’s voice; he backs away. The other female, her head bowed; more words, more noise. Whimpering; Derg.

Check. Check. Down the list. Renard has not drifted into awareness, if present at all. Others, if any, are no clearer than the feathered-ear healer. The show. A show? Ghastly performance.

Donovan stands, hulking, center stage. Wild eyes burn in the moonlight. He will bow, and shake his head, off with it now; away the corpse’s skull will fly, into the darkness, ripped asunder the raccoon’s leg raining blood limp little spatters on the dirt a toy a plaything goodbye—dead. Long live the queen.

Finley is static. When she wakes, this will be a nightmare.