Page 102 of There is No Devil

“I’ll come take a look this week,” Wren says, finishing his own drink in one gulp and leaning forward to run his fingertips down the back of Sonia’s arm. “But why don’t you ever come visit my gallery, Sonia? It’s been months since I had you alone in one of my back rooms …”

Sonia arches an eyebrow at him, not shaking off his hand.

“I consider it … I liked what I saw last time …”

They both jolt upright when they see me standing only a few inches away. Sonia blushes and gives an embarrassed laugh, while Wren doesn’t even try to hide what he was up to.

“Yourfidus Achatesis very persuasive, Cole. I think I’d do anything she asked …”

“Come dance with me,” I say to Sonia, ignoring Wren.

This is such a strange request that Sonia accompanies me without question, following me onto the dance floor and slipping into a formal position better suited to a waltz than the music actually playing.

She looks up at me quizzically. “Where did Mara go?”

“The bathroom.”

This is the part of the plan that neither Mara nor I particularly like. She wanted to explain everything to Sonia, but I told her that would be a mistake. Most people are terrible actors. If Sonia knows she’s playing a part, Alastor will see it. I need her discomfort to sell the story.

Alastor must see everything exactly as I’ve arranged, and exactly as follows:

Mara returns from the bathroom.

Sonia tries to cede her position on the dance floor, but I won’t let her. I’m rude to Mara, deliberately dismissive. Mara answers back sharply, carrying a fresh glass of champagne that sloshes onto the ground as she gestures angrily.

Sonia pulls away from me, trying to apologize to Mara, but we’re already ignoring Sonia, locked in an argument that escalates and escalates because I intend it to. I’m cruel and cutting until real tears sparkle in Mara’s eyes, until she’s red-faced and shouting back at me.

We’re drawing the attention of our fellow party-goers, but I don’t make the mistake of looking to see if Shaw is watching too. I pretend to be entirely engrossed in the argument, trying to quiet Mara, grabbing her by the wrist.

Mara pulls her hand away, and when I won’t let go, she slaps me across the face. The slap is sharp, cutting through the music.

I release her wrist, saying, “Fuck off then, you fucking lush.”

I don’t enjoy saying these things. In fact, I hate it. But it has the desired effect. Mara storms away from me, off toward the coat check to retrieve her purse and coat.

I don’t watch her leave. Instead, I snatch up a glass of champagne off the nearest tray, toss it down, and ask Betsy Voss to dance.

Betsy is glad to take me up on the offer, slipping her hand into mine and saying with ill-concealed curiosity, “Trouble in paradise? Don’t let her get away, Cole—you’re such a gorgeous couple.”

“She’s more trouble than she’s worth,” I mutter.

I haven’t lied in a while. I’m out of practice. The words feel clumsy on my lips.

“You don’t mean that,” Betsy says.

I don’t bother to answer. All that’s required now is for me to keep dancing, looking as miserable as I feel.

This is the trickiest part. Will Shaw take the bait?

He has to slip out of the party without me seeing—or at least, with me pretending not to notice.

He might not leave at all.

The seconds tick past. I can see him in my peripheral, still dancing with the redhead. Twirling her around, laughing loudly, pretending to have the time of his life, his smile as phony as my fight with Mara.

Mara gathers her bag and coat, then storms out of the party.

Even then, Shaw lingers. I begin to believe he’s not going to follow at all.

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