Sim jolts again at the noise of it, and this time Maeve springs onto her good leg, reaching for the gun. Her hand on the gun and his, too, and the holster wet and slick with snow and sweat. Maeve’s hand bleeding, her bad hand. He’s grabbing at it, trying to pry her off, when she comes at him with the claw. Not at his face or neck, but where it’s most useful: the razor tip tearing through the soft place between his thumb and forefinger. His hand flashes open in reaction—enough time for Maeve to close her fingers around the revolver and wrench it free.

The gun goes off with a blast and she’s knocked back, a terrifying spasm through her hand as she locks it around the grip, but this time he’s charging at her. She fumbles with it, down on the ground, her fingers slick against the trigger. She pulls it again—the pain of using the bad hand is exquisite and the thing kicks up in her grasp, the force of it surprising her. The shot takes out a branch overhead.

He stumbles forward to avoid the falling limb and slips against the smooth lip, his legs scissoring before he rights himself on the ice. His hand now torn and bleeding too.

“Stay there,” Maeve says. She’s easing herself slowly back to standing. First on one knee, then a half hop to her feet. Her hand seizing up, the hand with the gun in it. She works to keep it steady, trained on him.

He shakes his head.

“No.” He moves toward her, deliberate. “This isn’t the plan, Maeve. Give me the gun.”

Maeve fires, on purpose this time, but the action of pulling the trigger sends a new explosion of pain through her hand. The gun kicks again and she hits the ice at his feet. The power of the revolver is too hard to control and she reaches out to try and steady it with her left hand.

There’s a fault down in the ice, taking a beating. Grinding now, any time he shifts his weight.

He steps forward, then back. Weighing the risk.

“Maeve, don’t be stupid. Think of how good we are together. Don’t waste that. Don’t throw it away.” He keeps coming and she fires another round between them, this time aiming for the weakness in the ice shelf. Pain flares from her palm to her shoulder and she almost cries out.

The ice cracks and breaks away between them, a long furrow running through the lip, and Sim jumps back, his voice rising in anger and panic.

“You don’t even fucking know how to use it! Give me the gun.”