Page 100 of There is No Devil

These days, I have no problem with the company I keep.

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18

Cole

Shaw dies on Christmas Eve.

That’s the plan.

I’ve gone over it with Mara a thousand times, but I still hate that I have to involve her. She’s the bait, and the bait is never entirely safe from being swallowed whole.

We’re attending the East Bay Artists’ Christmas party. In the art world, this is the biggest rager of the year—bigger than Halloween or New Year’s. Holding it on Christmas Eve probably means something—that artists lack the traditional family ties that would usually consume this night of the year. That used to be true for me.

Tonight I wish I was home with Mara, far away from anyone else.

At least she looks fucking stunning. I love showing her off. Wish I didn’t have to ruin it all in a few hours’ time.

Mara wears a glittering gown, the halter top cut almost down to the navel, the long skirt hiding the fact that she’s wearing her favorite boots beneath. No high heels tonight—that would be very stupid.

Her makeup is full of sparkles too, her hair tumbling down her back in dark waves, with little diamond stars and moons pinned all over it. She looks like the night sky come to life.

Her arms are bare, the long scars running up both wrists still dark and raised. They’ll probably never fade.

Tonight, they’re meant as an invitation to Shaw: come finish what you started.

I know he’ll be here, though I haven’t seen him yet. He wouldn’t miss the biggest event of the year.

The party is in the Castro Theater on Market Street. The old baroque theater is currently being renovated, so all the seats have been removed, leaving plenty of space for socializing and dancing. The movie screen remains, playing a loop of psychedelic images: time-lapse video of flowers blooming, withering, dying. Raindrops falling upward in reverse. Spiraling mandalas that break apart and reform like beads in a kaleidoscope.

The music pumping from the speakers is dark and insistent, perfect for my current mood.

On My Knees – RÜFÜS DU SOL

Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple

Right before we left the house, I tucked a knife in the pocket of Mara’s long black evening coat.

“I’m not going to need that,” she said.

“I don’t care,” I snapped. “You’re taking it anyway.”

The knife is freshly sharpened, the blade finer than a razor’s edge. I have its twin in the pocket of my tux.

Shaw won’t use a gun, and neither will I. A knife is far more personal. And far more effective, once we’re in close range of one another.

I’ll keep my promise to Shaw: the next time we’re alone, only one of us will leave alive.

We circulate through the crowd, Mara staying close by my side as we both search for Shaw. It’s easy for me to make conversation with anyone we pass, because I’m used to scheming and chatting at the same time. It’s harder for Mara. Her smile is strained, her eyes darting around the party.

I keep my hand on the small of her back to calm her.

She makes a sharp sound, drawing in a breath.

“Do you see him?” I mutter.

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