The Undoer (11 page)

Dean

A change is coming. I can feel it deep in my bones—like the way my grandad’s arthritis acts up when a storm is on the horizon—or used to… when he was alive.

I don’t know if I should be scared or excited.

The Cazadors are splitting into two groups, and I don’t like it. I want to include Bret and Heidi in ours. Owen and Doug do too. Will they drift over to Bret’s group, leaving Jag and me on our own? Jag would probably like that better, but we need to stick together. That’s also a feeling I have. I need to somehow convince our dark leader to let Bret and Heidi stay with us. I am probably the only one who can do it. He doesn’t listen to anyone else.

But I don’t want to think about Jag now. I want to think about Heidi. She’s a soft breeze over a calm, summer ocean, the crispness of a warm, spring morning. I jump at the chance to spend time with her.

But the thought of her kissing Bret… there just aren’t words to describe the stab of jealousy that goes through my chest when I hear those words. That, too, is a bone-deep ache, so I plaster on a smile to prove it doesn’t matter.

We reach her apartment, and I follow her up four flights of stairs. I can’t imagine hauling groceries that far. I had that job for a while, and now, wherever I go, I think about it out of habit. It makes me grateful for where I live now, even though it’s a total dive. I like our church. It’s conveniently located and feels safe. It’s God’s house and I feel Him there, like He’s watching over us or something. Maybe it’s just a habit. My parents were deeply religious. I’d like to believe they went somewhere better when they died, and that I’ll join them someday.

I am also grateful for my new job of drawing pictures for people in the park. I charge a couple of bucks per picture, and that keeps us in food without having to steal. I’m tired of stealing.

Jag wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but then, he never is thrilled with my ideas. He acts as if he has to protect me at all times, like I’m a child or something. I’m done relying on him to pay my way through life.

Heidi’s apartment door is locked, and it takes a full minute to unlock it with all the extra deadbolts Bret installed. Talk about paranoid.

With a flourish, she throws open the door and steps inside, inviting me to follow. It’s wide-open space, with huge, wooden beams and metal girders crossing the ceiling. The borders are wood paneling, painted white, and one wall is floor-to-ceiling windows.

I love it immediately, and another stab of jealousy twists through me. This is way better than the church, but there isn’t enough room for a third person, not that I’d ever leave Jag anyway. The corner, across from the front door—that could easily be considered part of the living room—has to be Heidi’s. I doubt Bret would place hot-pink scarves over his lamp or a Robin’s-egg blue—my favorite shade—comforter over his bed.

A black-and-white, four-paneled shoji screen leans against the wall, and I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. At least she’ll have a modicum of privacy when that’s up.

It’s one thing to share an apartment with a guy, and another to share one with no walls. All sorts of thoughts run rampant through my mind, and I pray that Bret really is gay. Can he see through that screen if the lights are just right? I hold in a groan and make my way over to her corner.

“Heidi, this is awesome! I love your… your room?” I raise my eyebrows in question, gesturing playfully to the eight-by-eight corner.

A furry rug lies beside the bed, and a cheap copy of Monet’s
Water Lilies
hangs on the wall above the head. A scuffed armoire that has seen better days stands against the wall at the foot of the bed, and the whole thing screams
Heidi
. Where did she find the money to do this? As far as I know, she’s as poor as I am, which is dirt poor. Maybe Bret paid for it.

She stands at the foot of her bed, the windows illuminating her skin with natural sunlight. The look on her face catches my breath as her lips curl into a smile. With her thick, mahogany hair tumbling over her shoulders and her eyes crinkling in happiness, I have to capture her. Just. Like. This.

Immediately, I pull out my pad of paper and plop down on her bed. Her laughter bubbles when she realizes what I’m doing. “No! Stay there, just like that,” I command. “This’ll be quick. I promise.”

She moves into a supermodel pose, and then lifts the back of her hand to her forehead as though faint. Letting herself fall, she sprawls on top of the bed. Seeing her there, so beautiful, so comfortable, smiling up at me… I would give anything to be able to throw my pencil down and press my lips to hers… a kiss that would last all afternoon. I can picture the taste of her mouth. Raspberry lemonade, like the Chapstick she always wears. My mouth waters at the thought, and I hide my face so she can’t see.

The moment stretches until my heart is near bursting, my hand racing to catch the light… and then our reverie is shattered the moment the door bursts open. Heidi and I jump, as though caught doing something clandestine, our eyes riveted to Bret’s, whose are wide with surprise and relief.

“You’re back?” He’s out of breath and panting. In three long strides, he is at the foot of her bed. He grabs her arm and pulls her up, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “I’m so glad you came back. You have no idea.”

Heidi’s arms come up and wrap around Bret’s back. He doesn’t let go and for a moment, they just breathe, frozen in that scene of tenderness. I’ve stopped breathing completely and all I can do is stare, wishing I were the guy who held her, who felt the softness of her cheek pressed to mine.

In the split second before anything else happens, I imagine in my mind what will come next. She’ll continue to hug him, dramatically mewling into his neck like a kitten, saying something about never leaving him again. They’ll gaze into each other’s eyes like actors in an old, sappy, black-and-white movie, and then he’ll kiss her. Long and deep. Their bodies pressed together in passion.

My stomach twists, and the ache I feel inside is all consuming. I think I might actually die of a broken heart. Or throw up.

Before either of them can say anything, I rush to gather my things, to throw them into my pack willy-nilly, not even caring if they break or smear against each other. The pencils roll across the bed and onto the floor, prolonging my agony.

I know the truth in my heart. He is someone she could love. Someone courageous, valiant, and strong, who doesn’t flinch at killing demons, but goes in with both guns blazing… or runed daggers blazing, whichever the case may be. He’s powerful and passionate on so many levels. The reality of it slaps me in the face.

I will never be that.

And that is what she wants.

Not an artist.

I can’t be here. Not with Bret, at least. He has changed the whole ambiance of the room. That fast. Like a dark cloud, heavy with rain, he has ruined my day. You can’t paint in the rain.

“No! Don’t go yet.” Heidi’s eyes entreat me, but it feels too weird, and I feel too pathetic.

“I’ll come back. Promise.” I give her my best smile as my heart wrenches inside me, trying to keep some semblance of pride as I hurry out the door. I shut it quickly behind me, breathing deeply and taking the stairs two at a time, my shame and humiliation wafting behind me like a stench I can actually smell.

I know now how she felt being rejected by Bret, putting herself out there and then having him trample her heart. I didn’t do that exactly, but it feels like it. She has to know how I feel. She can’t be that blind. Surely, she is pretending not to know, to spare my feelings. That makes it even worse.

I slam out of the main door of the building, reliving it all in my mind once again. Their embrace, Bret’s fervent words of adoration… I even add a passionate kiss, just to torture myself a little bit more. I groan out loud, not even paying attention to where I’m going until I crash into the chest of a huge, burly man who catches me by the arms to steady me.

A wide, slimy smile spreads across his lips as he gazes down at me, not releasing his grip. I recognize him immediately. He had my neck in the crook of his elbow not long ago. We should have never let him go—not that we had much of a choice. The odor of decay permeates around him. His body is already starting to decompose. He must be pushing it hard to make it weaken so quickly, and he isn’t wearing his snazzy business suit today.

“Hey. I remember you.” His smiles widens, and his hands squeeze tighter on my biceps.

It’s moments like these when I wish I worked out.

“Where have you and your hunter friend been hiding?” He draws me closer.

Once again, I am in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Dude, let go,” I demand, yanking on my arm to no avail. His hold is an iron clamp and his fingers overlap his thumb because they are so long. It can’t be that my arms are so alarmingly thin.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he drawls. “You have a debt to repay. Your partner killed my friend. Remember?”

Adrenaline races to my extremities and my pulse pounds in my head, making me feel lightheaded and hyperaware. How could I have been so careless as to let this happen? I yank my arm again and study the face beneath the face. The gray outline of the very thing I’ve run from and refused to kill for the last five years. Even in the bright sunlight, I can see him. The
real
him. The dead, black holes of his eyes, the slits for his mouth and nose, the grayness of his form.

Dread seizes me, heavy and thick, right there on the street in broad daylight. What is he doing out during daytime hours anyway? My stomach lurches, and nausea bubbles inside me. I have to get away. I throw a clumsy punch with my free hand and drop my pack, but it’s the least of my worries because Brutus has me by both arms and is dragging me down the street. Like a child in his grasp, it doesn’t seem to matter how much I scream, kick, or punch. It doesn’t faze him.

And nobody comes to my rescue.

He shoves me through a service door at the end of a nearby alley. There is no one around to see me slump into near unconsciousness when the guy’s meaty fist slams into my face… three times.

“Shut up!” he growls, towing me like a rag doll down a set of cement stairs into a basement cellar, my shoes thumping on each step. A lone, dull lightbulb swings from the ceiling, making me feel like I’m on a roller coaster going around and around and around. Dizziness overwhelms me, and my nausea comes to fruition all over the front of me. He doesn’t care, and at this point, neither do I. My vision is beyond fuzzy and my face throbs.

He drops me onto a cot in some back room that’s about the size of a closet. The pain in my face blossoms, and blood flows freely over my lips and into my mouth. The metallic taste triggers my gag reflex again.

“Great,” he mumbles, walking away and trying to wipe his clothes clean. But then he stops by the door and turns, looking at me. The light behind him creates a silhouette, and I only see a gray outline, resembling the demon inside him. “You’ll be a rare treat, boy. A rare treat. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

“Wait… what?” This can’t be happening. I can’t really be here, held hostage by demons. I roll over and face the wall. A foul odor pervades the room, or maybe it’s the pillow, soured by other sick and bloody victims. I try to breathe through my mouth, but the sick feeling remains… in my stomach and in my heart.

Dean

Waking up is like clawing through a thick web of spider silk. Sticky and difficult, not to mention exhausting. I almost give up my adventures as Frodo and go back to sleep, too tired and in pain to keep trying, but I feel lucky to have woken up at all.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out, and my face still throbs. I’m sure I have a concussion from the three punches to my face. My nose, which is swollen and tender to the touch, is probably broken.

I have never been attacked like this before.
Ever
. Jag has always protected me. I wish he were here now with his strength, bravery, and his ability to find a solution to any situation. The only thing I’m capable of is drawing a picture of this cell, but I’ve lost the tools of my trade. They lie on a sidewalk somewhere outside Heidi’s apartment if they haven’t already been stolen. How will I ever replace them?

Could this really be chalked up to being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Does my belief that
everything happens for a reason
still stand in my mind? What reason could there possibly be for this?

My cell lets in only a minimal amount of light through the small window on the door. There is no handle on the inside, so I’m not getting out unless they want me to. With a colossal amount of effort, I roll from the cot to my feet, almost losing my balance as dark explosions dance in my vision. The pounding in my head reaches a pinnacle of pain.

Stumbling to the door, I press my face into the opening and strain to see down the hallway in either direction. Darkness shrouds everything at both ends… at least as far as I can tell, which isn’t far. There are no windows, so I have no idea if it’s morning, noon, or night, but my body screams for sleep, so I guess it’s still night.

There are at least six other doors in the hallway. All of them with a cutout window not big enough to escape through. I’m not sure if the other rooms are occupied, but I hope to find out.

“Hey!” My voice is rough and scratchy from too much blood and phlegm. Immediately, a coughing fit ensues and the hacking is eye-wateringly painful. Did I get hit in the throat too? I don’t remember. The pain all blurs together, and I yearn for one tiny sip of cool water as I rest my head against the door.

There’s no answer from the dark rooms in the hall. I’m alone. What a dismal thought. Not that I wish this kind of hell on anyone else, but this place looks used, like they bring people here regularly. There’s dried blood and puke on the floor and walls. Some of it is probably mine.

Why do they bring people here anyway? For torture? For experiments? Once again, I pray for a miracle that Jag will find me. As soon as he notices I’m missing, which will be immediately—because we always hunt together—he’ll set out to find me, although he will have no idea where to look. He’ll try the park first, thinking I’m there, drawing faces of bored old men and demanding children. But I won’t be, and it will get dark. Then he’ll worry.

With a tightness in my chest that is even more pronounced than before, I make my way back to the cot, falling onto its stiff canvas with a grunt, my brain bouncing off the walls of my skull, new black stars bursting in my vision. Groaning and dizzy, I let my body relax into sleep once again. I don’t have the energy to wonder about tomorrow.

Letting my eyes close, I let thoughts of Heidi envelop me. Maybe, if I let myself dream of her, these walls won’t seem so close and smothering, and my throat won’t feel so dry.

I picture her sitting beside me on this smelly, old cot, telling me to buck up and stop dwelling on the negative. Her face swims in my mind, her eyes bright, and her mouth close to mine.

***

With a slow and heavy-labored effort, I awake, maybe hours later. I’m not sure. I know right where I am before my eyes even open. An ominous sound has awakened me—a screeching, like an unoiled metal door, or maybe a cot scraping across the cement floor.

With a groan, I roll over, my bruises screaming in protest. I almost go back to sleep, hoping to forget where I am. But I drag myself to the door. There’s a fresh, new odor I can detect. Metallic. And it coats the back of my throat when I breathe.

“Hello?” I call, but I get no answer. Someone has to be close by. I didn’t imagine that sound. Still, all the cell doors are closed and the hall is dark.

Slinking back to my cot, I lie down, folding my arms around me and squeezing my eyes shut. For the millionth time in the last twelve hours, I’m afraid. Bone-deep terrified. What do the demons want with me? Is there any chance of escape? Are they going to just leave me here to starve to death?

If I know anything about demons, it’s this—they’ll do whatever it takes to break you or watch you scream. They don’t care about killing as much as
enjoying
death. If they can’t possess, they’ll experiment to figure out what makes you immune to their influence.

I pray—again—that Jag will find me. It can’t end this way. I can’t die as a plaything for demons.