Page 110 of There is No Devil

Shaw’s upper lip twists from a grin into a snarl. His teeth clench so hard I can almost hear them cracking, and his fists shake. With a howl, he charges down the alley.

He’s running right at me, getting bigger and bigger, until his shoulders almost touch both walls.

He’s a wrecking ball swinging right at me. There’s nowhere to run.

Out of a passageway in the dark glass, Cole barrels into Shaw, diving at his legs, sending them both tumbling end over end, until they slam into the opposite wall.

There is no strategy. There is no plan.

Cole is already gasping and sweating and bleeding everywhere before the fight has even begun. He grapples with Shaw, no element of surprise on his side. From the second they make contact, it’s a melee of madness: desperate, bloody, and brutal.

The men fight and claw, biting, punching, and kicking, rolling over and over in the snow. The ground becomes a morass of churned-up mud and bloody slush.

This is like no fight I’ve ever seen, wildly hectic, viciously brutal. I can hardly tell one man from another as they punch at each other’s throats and gouge at each other’s eyes. This is how predators fight: not to win, but to kill.

Shaw is bigger, stronger. Cole is faster, but that’s of limited use now that they’re already on the ground. Cole gave up all the advantage when he tackled Shaw, taking him down before he could plough into me.

Cole turns, wild-eyed, mouth bloody.

“Mara RUN!” he shouts.

I’ve never seen him scared. He thinks he’s going to lose. He thinks we’re both going to die.

I’ve been trapped in the dead end, pressed up against the cold glass, unable to move because the fight is too wild, I don’t know to help.

But now I know what to do.

I dart forward, leaping over the men’s churning legs, running away from them down the narrow passageway.

Shaw gives a strangled yell of range, thinking I’m escaping. Cole is silent, focused only on Shaw, keeping him right where he is.

So much snow has fallen that for a moment I can’t find it. Then I see the glint of steel, and I dive my frozen fingers down into the ice, closing my hand around the handle. I pull out the knife, already stained with Shaw’s blood.

My fingers are so cold that I can hardly feel them, but I grip the handle tight all the same.

“COLE!” I shout.

He gives me one swift look, and in that moment, the terrifying computer in his head runs a thousand calculations.

He rolls over onto his back, letting Shaw take the advantage straddling him, throttling him. Cole puts himself in the vulnerable position, Shaw’s hands around his throat.

With his own hands, Cole grips a fistful of Shaw’s hair and jerks it back, while shoving the heel of his palm against Shaw’s jaw, wrenching his head to the side, exposing his throat.

Our eyes meet. Everything that needs to be said passes between us.

I’m holding the knife, sharp as a fang, dark on its point like venom.

Shaw is the spider, but I’m the snake.

I never saw a spider kill a snake.

Sprinting forward, I raise the knife.

I slash it across Shaw’s throat in one perfect swinging arc.

Blood scythes across the snow, a parabola of crimson on the blank white canvas.

Shaw sinks to his knees, lips parting in stunned surprise.

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