Page 113 of The Devil

She swallows the man’s scream as she rips into his throat.

“Amal!” I call out, crouching to send my gun skittering across the floor toward her.

She lunges for it, that chain catching her. But she gets it. She gets hold of the gun.

A soldier raises his arm, recovering from a bullet. But he never gets it level because I slam into him and send him crashing against the wall. I plunge my knife so deep into his gut I feel the warmth of tissue and muscle before jerking the dagger out.

I get up only to be attacked by a man wielding his own ceremonial dagger. I whirl out of his way, but he manages to knock my knife from me. I don’t care. I don’t need it. Two free hands is a good thing. I catch him, sending him to the ground. I use my fists on this one. I pound and pound and fucking pound his face until it’s a bloody pulp.

Guns go off around me, and I turn to find Amal taking aim at one, shooting. She’s a warrior, my wife. An incredible, fierce goddess.

The man drops to the floor, and she doesn’t even flinch when his blood splatters her face.

From the corner of my eye, I see two men run toward the altar. One stops, turns.

Senna. In his hand that mask. The wretched, evil mask.

He grins at me, then takes aim at Amal.

“Amal!” I call out when I see it.

I run for her, a chaos of bodies and bullets around me.

And I swear I see the pulling of the trigger and hear the release of the bullet, watch its progress through the room.

No.

No.

No!

I lunge for her, the space impossible between us. And somehow, some way, I hurl myself overtop of her, sending her crashing to the stone floor, feeling the ripping of the bullet at my side as I slide one hand to the back of her head to cushion it from crashing hard. The bullet sears my flesh but for a moment, a single strange moment, there is just her. Just her in a sudden and complete silence, her pretty eyes searching mine through tears, her hands on my shoulders.

My wife.

My love.

Her blue eyes grow wider, a line between her brows, her mouth open. I touch her face, her bruised skin, her wild hair. And I smile.

In spite of all that’s going on around us, I smile.

Because she’s here. I have her. I have her and I will keep her safe.

41

AMAL

The ringing in my ears drowns out everything else.

The organ, the chanting, the gunshots and screams have stopped. Only the grunts of the final cloaked men remain as they’re killed.

The chapel is unrecognizable, candles overturned, portraits knocked from the walls, utter chaos around us.

The smell of wax, incense and smoke fills my nostrils.

A warm hand cups the back of my head and there, above me, is his face. His bloody face. And he’s smiling a stupid smile. When he shifts his weight, I hear his grunt, see his pain in the way he pauses, squeezes his eyes shut.

I realize what it is that’s warm and wet when I draw my hand back and it comes away bloody.