Page 101 of There is No Devil

“Not Shaw—Hawks is here.”

Fuck.

I turn to look, spotting him over by the open bar. He’s dressed in a rented tux to try to blend in, but his best disguise is his scruffy face and uncombed hair. That’s what really makes him look like one of us.

Hawks has been demoted again. He was in charge of the investigation of the Beast of the Bay for two short weeks—then Alastor made another kill, and Hawks was booted back down the ladder.

Mara was devastated when she heard the news of another body on the shore. She said we waited too long to attack Shaw.

“The Christmas party is our best chance,” I told her. “If we don’t play this off flawlessly, if we tip him off in any way, it won’t work. He’ll bolt and we’ll be right back where we started.”

In a way, it benefits us. That was the second girl in the cycle. Shaw will be aching to complete the triad.

And Mara is the perfect prize.

If I know anything, I know that Shaw is salivating to take her from me. He wants it more than he wants money or success. Killing Mara would be the ultimate act of domination over me. Shaw ascending to his final form.

Too bad I’m gonna put him in the ground instead.

I want to get this over with. Where the fuck is he?

“We can’t do anything if Hawks is here,” Mara frets.

“Don’t worry about that—he’s not on the guest list, and there’s no way in hell somebody brought him as a date.”

I take a short detour to whisper in Sonia’s ear. Ten minutes later Hawks is hustled out of the party, arguing with security all the way out the door.

Sanity is a fragile thing—a few taps with a hammer and the whole psyche can crack. I think Hawks has had more than a few taps.

As Hawks leaves, Shaw arrives. He’s dressed in a midnight-blue tux, a stunning redhead on his arm. The girl looks suspiciously like Erin Whalstrom. I doubt that’s a coincidence—we knew Shaw would come, and he knew we’d be here, too. He can’t resist turning the knife one last time on Mara.

She watches Shaw twirl the redhead around the dance floor, her shoulders stiff with anger.

“Just a few more hours,” I promise her. “Then he’ll pay.”

“Bleed every fucking drop out of him,” she replies, never taking her eyes off Shaw.

We wait for him to get comfortable. We wait for the night to progress. This is an important part of the hunt: the false sense of security. Let the prey come into the clearing. Let them approach the water. And let them lower their head to drink. Only then does the crocodile lunge up out of the water.

Shaw drinks his champagne. He flirts with the redhead, and with anyone else who passes within his view. Occasionally he throws glances in my direction, or in Mara’s. I ignore him as I have at other events where we’ve been forced to share space. It’s never me who approaches Shaw, always the other way around.

Mara and I dance together.

She’s already beginning her part of the charade. She pretends to drink too much champagne, leaning heavily on my arm. And I pretend to become annoyed with her, snapping at her once or twice, before she spills her drink on my trousers and I stalk off, annoyed, abandoning her on the dance floor.

This is phase one.

Mara goes to the ladies’ room to collect herself. She’ll splash water on her face, pretend to attempt to sober up.

Meanwhile, I search for Sonia.

I find her engrossed in conversation with a broker named Allen Wren, pitching him on Mara’s newest series.

“She’s in high demand these days. Every painting sells for more than the last. If you’ve got potential buyers, you’d better put the wheels in motion—even a few weeks could cost them thousands.”

“You’re not going to railroad me, Sonia,” Wren says, wagging his finger in her face. “I’ve been burned on these so-called rising stars before.”

“Not this one,” Sonia promises, sipping her drink. “Have you seen her work in person? Photographs don’t do justice. The paintings glow, Allen. They fucking glow!”

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