The Undoer (19 page)

The urge to knock is almost overpowering. I even raise my fist, but I get the distinct feeling I should let her be. I’m not her parent. And I don’t want to ruin everything. Not now. Not at the end of it all, and that’s what this is. The end.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair and enter my own room after trying the key card three times. There’s a moment when I actually think I’ll have to go all the way back down to get a new one. By the time I shut the door behind me, my heart is pounding in my chest. Everything is coming to a head.
The Door
is only a few hours away. My whole purpose for being here is fast approaching. I’ll be facing the hardest assignment I’ve ever had in my whole existence in just a day or two. Suddenly, I feel unqualified and incapable of completing it. I don’t even have a plan!

I turn… and my stomach falls to my feet. Where my window should be is a huge, clear sheet of plastic nailed to the wall. One corner flutters, the hot, dry afternoon breeze blowing right into my room. I walk over and peer down four stories. There are at least a dozen other windows like mine. Nice. So much for air conditioning.

There’s a queen-sized bed, an old TV that probably doesn’t work on the dresser, and a small bathroom. It’s a bit dingy, but not bad considering it used to be a five-star hotel.

Just out of curiosity, I pick up the remote and hit the power button. The TV turns on with a buzz, but static is the only thing playing on every channel. I turn it off, toss the remote on the bed, and sit down to kick off my shoes. The only sounds in the room are my breathing, the creak of the bed, and the snap of plastic.

Once again, I’m alone, but this is how I wanted it. This is how it would have been if they hadn’t followed me. So what’s wrong? I miss Doug and Owen’s bantering and Heidi’s snarky comments. Truth be told, I even miss Jag. He’s a huge presence. When he’s not around, something feels like it’s missing.

I lie down on my bed, my arms behind my head. Water stains dot the ceiling, and I’m not sure I want to sleep on the sheets… or the quilt. Closing my eyes, I will myself to relax, but I keep thinking about
The Door
, and how much I
don’t
want to go there.

Dean

Day in and day out, I’m tortured by demons. But it’s no longer taking place in that big auditorium where everyone watches, their grins slick in anticipation of my pain. No, now, it’s an interrogation room. Just a demon and me.

Today, Coem sits across from me, a sly smile on his lips. He’s thinking of something wonderfully evil, some new form of torture he wants to try, or a new demon he wants to pit against me.

After what feels like hours, he opens his mouth and speaks. The sudden echo of sound startles me, and I jump in my seat, pushing myself erect, exhausted, but ready.

“You have been here… what? A little less than a week?” Coem leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, a pleasant smile on his face. “You seem impossible to possess, and I have made it my mission to figure out why.”

“Why does it matter?” I slump back down in my seat, no longer caring what his motivations are.

“Because if I can figure you out, I can figure out anyone.” His smile widens, but it never reaches his eyes. They remain arctic and biting. He hates me. I feel the enmity wafting off him like the stench of garbage that rots across the street from the church. Fermenting and sour. He wonders how such a weak, effeminate—his word, not mine—boy is able to resist his horde of demon soldiers. What is it that makes me so different?

I glance around the room at the solid metal walls. I’m not breaking out of here on my own… unless I come up with a brilliant plan… but Coem always seems one step ahead of me. I’m tired, it’s cold, and I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I don’t think they care.

“I’d like you to paint today.”

“What?” Coem’s comment takes me by surprise because he doesn’t do things to make me happy. He always has an ulterior motive, but even so, I feel a frail thumping in my chest, faster than it was a moment ago. Something to break up the monotony.

“Whatever you want,” he says with a disinterested wave of his hand. “Scenery, a self-portrait… whatever.”

The door opens with a whoosh. A guy I haven’t met before brings in an easel, a set of brushes, and oil paints. A variety of colors. I can’t help that my mouth starts to drool. Coem is taunting me somehow, but I don’t care. The demon bows to Coem, and then leaves without a glance or a smile in my direction.

My shackles rattle as I lean forward to pick up one slim brush. A Filbert. Sable hair. It’s beautiful. Expensive. And I raise questioning eyes to Coem. “I don’t get it.”

“We aren’t the bad guys here.” He rushes to scoot forward to the edge of his seat, close to me, excited. “This is a peace offering. We can be friends. It’s possible to live together in harmony. We just want our chance to have bodies. To experience the world!” His smile is genuine as he throws up his arms, like a child, trying to convince me of his altruistic motives.

“From what I understand, you had your chance and were cast out of heaven.” I can’t help the snark that sneaks into my voice, but it feels good to say it, and I’m glad I remember my Sunday school lessons so I can taunt him. I enjoy seeing the hard edge come back to his eyes. Score one for me.

Coem shakes my comment off and replaces his snarl with a plastered-on smile. “I can neither confirm nor deny any allegations along those lines. Enjoy your gift.” He stalks from the room, the air electric.

I smile at the closed door and glance up at the monitoring camera in the corner. A red light watches me, but my smirk remains.

***

A few hours later, I set the paintbrush down. My shoulders ache from lifting my arm with the heavy, iron shackles—the kind you’d see in a horror movie—still attached. No, they did not remove them. I’m a fierce creature, and I guess they think I’ll attack or escape if I’m not nailed to the wall like a rabid dog.

I assess my artwork, a true masterpiece really, and it gives me the chills just looking at it. I don’t have to wait long for the door to slam open. Coem races in, his small frame seeming monumentally huge as he stares down at me and then at the painting. I detect a bit of narcissism as he straightens and preens, a smug smile curving on his mouth.

I’ve rendered him perfect, from the sharp, dagger-like teeth and red, leathery skin to the black horns that twist back from his forehead. His
true
form, under all that humanness. No matter where you stand, the rage in those black, beady eyes seems to follow you, his piercing gaze burning a hole through your soul. Hate simmers, in oil and shadow, just under the taut muscles of his neck and face, a heathen devil, a satan if I’ve ever seen one. The painting inspires fear, even in me. Each odious stroke epitomizes who Coem really is.

From his expression, he considers it a magnum opus. “I had no idea that you were so talented,” he purrs as he circles the easel.

I shrug. I didn’t do this for him. I have my own reasons for rendering him in oils, but it was therapy more than anything.

He stops pacing and crosses his arms, studying me, one hand stroking his chin. “I think it’s time for a new adventure.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” I can’t imagine any kind of adventure I’d like to take with him, although the word—at first—sends a thrill through my heart. It’s something my mother used to say before we went camping or to see some exciting national treasure like the Grand Canyon or Yosemite. Just one more sacred memory Coem and his cronies are ruining for me.

“It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you.” There’s a glint in his eyes that I’ve learned to recognize, which does not promise a favorable outcome. “Have you eaten or bathed in the last few days?” He gestures to my whole body as though he can’t tell.

Dirt and grime have become permanent stains on my skin and may never wash off. I haven’t brushed my teeth the whole time I’ve been here, which pretty much sums up my situation, but I did start getting one full meal a day. It’s always bland and awful. Oatmeal, with no sugar, milk, or even butter. I feel like I’ve already lost weight, and I didn’t have much to spare in the beginning.

“Charl!” Coem calls.

A guard enters the room—the same one who brought the easel.

“Get this is poor waif some food and a bath.”

“Excuse me, sir?” The guard seems genuinely baffled by the request.

“Do you not know what food and a bath means?” Coem asks, his tone condescending and biting. “Is there any reason you should question me?” He spits this last sentence out through gritted teeth, and the guard snaps to attention.

“No, sir.” Charl yanks me up from my chair and hauls me out of the room, none too gently, and my chains clank and bang behind me, heavy and cumbersome. At the end of the hallway, he shoves me into what looks like an old locker room and unlocks my shackles, pushing me through the tiled chamber to an area of showers without curtains or any form of privacy.

“Shower,” he commands, his arms crossed over his chest and staring. He doesn’t look like he intends to leave.

“Can you at least turn around?” I’m not normally shy, but after hardly eating the last few days, I look less like a Cazador and more like a starving refugee. I’m embarrassed, and truth be told, ashamed. I have no reason to be, but I feel broken somehow, and I can’t stand to let them see my pathetic nakedness.

“No.”

One more abuse in a long line of suffering. “Whatever.” I turn away, accepting my fate, and pull my filthy white T-shirt off and slide down my pants. I don’t even bother checking to see if he watches. I don’t give a damn anymore. Let the perv have his thrills. If a starving, malnourished, half-alive orphan is what gets him off, he’ll deserve his place in hell when Jag finds him.

The shower knob squeaks as I twist it, and in slow motion, a stream of water explodes from the head. Cold water runs over my face like a baptism and tears form at the edges of my eyes. I let the water rinse away my misery as well as my stench.

There’s a tiny, half-broken bar of soap that someone else has recently used. It’s slightly damp and dirty, but I rinse it off, letting my fingers wipe away the mud streaks, and then I slowly slide it all over my body, imagining that this small bar of soap can cleanse my aching heart as well.

It’s chilly down here, underground, and this arctic stream of water gives me goose bumps all over my body, but it’s worth it. This one small mercy, a
shower
, is more of a gift than anything. More than getting to paint today. It makes me feel like I can go on. Like I just might make it. Like I’m still human.

And that, most of all, fills me with hope.

Heidi

Jag and I sit on his queen-sized bed facing one another, our legs folded beneath us. I clasp my hands and stare at my fingers, playing with a tiny, silver ring I wear on my pinky. I remember when I first got it. My last birthday before the Rift. Brecken gave it to me. It wasn’t expensive, but was the kind I liked, simple and shiny. Cute, yet practical. Feminine, but durable. All things I strive to be.

Jag watches me with a quirky smile. He reaches out and takes my hand, bringing it closer to him. He studies my ring, my fingers, my nails. It’s more for the chance to touch me than to memorize the tiny, childhood scars that pepper the backs of my hands.

“Why are you here?” He lifts his eyes to mine in genuine interest.

“Same reason as the rest of you, I guess. To kill some demons and shut
The Door to Hell
.” I can’t offer more than a sad smile. My reasons for being here are much more than that. I’m here for Bret, or Brecken, whoever he is in my mind, and I’m here to avenge Dean. I’m also here for Jag. There’s more to that than I care to discuss at the moment.

“Do you know why
I’m
here?” he asks, bringing my palm to his lips.

I think I do. We discussed it a bit on the plane, but even so, a lump forms in my throat and I can hardly swallow. He’s being especially tender as he rubs my wrist with his thumb, his eyes soft and his mouth softer. There’s a look in his eyes I recognize. One I’ve seen before from other guys. The pounding in my heart is a telltale sign of my panic. This is unchartered territory.

“I have my own plan,” he says. “We leave. You, me, Owen, and Doug. We get out of here without Bret knowing. He’s going to stab us in the back anyway. We sneak across the border, find
The Door to Hell,
and then figure out how to close it.”

This is so far from the train of thought I was on that I can’t even answer. I’m still trying to catch up, not to mention trying to ignore the way his thumb is sliding over my knuckles, playing with the skin on the back of my hand.

“If there are demons, there’s a God. You can’t have one without the other. He led us here… to this very moment… to destroy one of the most complex, wicked demons ever born into this world.”

Wait. What? I yank my arm back. What he’s doing to my hand is so completely incongruent with his words that I can only stare. “Are you talking about Bret?” Where he’s going with this makes me sick to my stomach, and I automatically recoil. Bret is anything but a demon. He’s my brother. I believe him about that. On the extensive flight over, I had plenty of time to think about it, to analyze it, to meditate on it. On some very deep level, I know he’s telling the truth.

“Of course I’m talking about Bret. Who else? This is our chance to cleanse the world of demons, possibly once and for all.” He stares at me in confusion, as though wondering how I could possibly think anything else.

“He’s my
brother
, Jag. And the only one of us who speaks Farsi.”

“No, he’s not your brother. He just wants you to think he is. Have you learned nothing in the last five years? Do you not realize how devious and conniving demons are? Just because we can’t see the gray man inside him doesn’t mean he isn’t there. He’s probably a higher-up demon. Higher even than Coem. Remember
that
guy?” Jag jumps up from the bed, running a hand through the strands of hair that have fallen into his face, and then he turns back to me. “He
knew
Bret. Remember?”

I’d forgotten about that, actually. I’ve been so excited to have my brother back, that the day in the soda shop had completely left my mind. That unnerving feeling comes back now because I can’t really argue this point with Jag. It does make sense.

“And don’t you think,” he continues, “that a demon who could come up with this kind of story would let the only people who know his plan live? Of course he wants to destroy the Cazadors! It’s so obvious!”

“But what about Coem’s reaction to Bret? They hate each other. They’re enemies.
That
was obvious. What if he’s telling the truth—that he’s on our side?”

Jag hurries to sit back down beside me, taking both my hands in his and peering deeply into my eyes. “I understand how much you want your brother back. I totally get how alone you feel. There’s no one who understands better, but Heidi… you can’t believe him. You
can’t
.”

The earnestness in his voice, the desperate clasp of his hands over mine, almost convinces me. Or at least, mostly convinces me. I shake my head, unwilling to let go of my brother completely. Not just yet. I want to believe in Bret so much. I need to believe Brecken is back. What a heartless, cruel joke if what Jag says is true.

He scoots closer, placing one warm palm against my cheek. I sink into it, soaking up the heat, because suddenly, my heart feels so cold. He turns my face to his, and I’m forced to open my eyes. He’s only an inch away. The warmth of his body radiates around me, a source of tenderness I crave. Jag is safety. He’s security. He cares about me. I know this. It has taken a while to get here, but somehow, I’ve been able to pierce the military-grade armor he wears around his heart. Dean was the only one who could get through before, but somehow, he has let me inside too.

I search his eyes. His gaze flicks to my lips. In the next moment, he closes the distance. The kiss starts out slow, soft, and warm, just like the rest of him, but it deepens and becomes more intense as he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer.

My arms snake around his neck and my mouth parts. That’s all the invitation he needs. In one smooth move, his other arm is around my hips, scooting me down on the bed and then he is lying on top of me, all without breaking our kiss.

It happens so fast, I’m not sure what to think of it. Intense heat courses through me. This is no casual make-out session. How far will this go if I let it? Do I want this? Is this what I have to do to keep Jag? What will his reaction be if I want to stop? I’m not sure I’m ready, mentally, emotionally, or physically. It’s been so hard to crack his prickly shell that I’m afraid to stop, but is that the kind of guy I want to be with anyway? Someone who gets mad if I say no? But do I want to say no? I’m not sure I do. I love the feel of him, the taste of his lips, and the connection we have. I love the way he holds me and his weight against my body.

These thoughts slam through my mind, rapid fire, and I realize we can’t do this now. Not here. Not yet. It feels too rushed, and with Jag, I want it to be special. Not a distraction. I turn my face slightly. “Jag?”

He pauses and props himself up on his elbows with a playful smile. “Is this not a good time? Should I come back later?” His smile widens, and he swipes a strand of hair from my face.

I’m achingly aware that he is still lying on top of me, every inch of him touching every inch of me and it’s hard to form words. “I’m sorry,” is all I can think of, still not sure what I want.

“It’s okay.” He kisses the tip of my nose and slides to the side, keeping his arm around my waist. He lies next to me, continuing to play with my hair. I gaze at him, surprised, and a bit confused. I guess I don’t know Jag as well as I thought, and the reality of that hits home with slamming force.

I expected anger. When it doesn’t come… when I get this loving and extremely patient response, I’m left speechless. I know his fighting technique like the back of my hand. I know his drive and commitment to his goals. I know his love for his friends, like Dean. I know he’ll do anything to protect us, and that he can. He’s capable and strong. That alone is enough to make me fall for him. But this side… this tender, playful side… I have no idea how to respond to
this
Jag. I have no idea who I am supposed to be around this Jag.

“You can stay with me if you want… to sleep,” he says. “If you want.”

I put my arm around his chest and lay my head on his shoulder. He’s warm and his muscles flex as his arms squeeze me. He stirs something inside me, but I tamp it down. “Can we just lay here for a while?”

He pulls me closer in answer and I lie there, soaking him in. Soaking us in. Until I hear a pounding on the door.

Jag lifts himself reluctantly from the bed. I watch him saunter over to the door, sleek and catlike. He peers through the peephole, giving me a wry smile as he opens the door. My curiosity is piqued until Doug and Owen plow past him and jump on the bed to lie next to me like two rambunctious puppies. Owen props himself up on his elbow, not unlike Jag had done a moment before.

I can’t help the giggles that escape me. Doug and Owen are like little brothers, and I can’t be mad at them for interrupting us. Exasperated, yes. Angry, no. “What are you two doing?” A twinge goes through me, knowing Dean should be here too. My heart aches for him because, like Jag, I’ve resigned myself to his death, and I mourn for him every time he pops into my mind.

“Just hangin’,” Doug says, grabbing the remote and flipping through all the staticky stations.

“I think we should order pizza.” Owen stares at me with pleading eyes, like I am the mother and have the right to veto their ideas. I actually like the feeling and wonder what it would be like to be a mother. Would Jag be a good father? I can’t picture him with children, but at the same time, it makes me smile. And then I laugh at myself. I’m picturing things too far in the future. Who knows where this new relationship will go?

“He’s the one with the money,” I say, pointing to Jag. He stands at the foot of the bed, giving me a mocking grin that is way too sexy for our own good.

“They don’t have pizza here.” Jag tosses Owen the room phone. “Just order whatever is cheapest.”

That’s all the leeway Owen needs, and he starts punching numbers into the phone.

“Get something safe,” I say, thinking of all the unusual things they probably eat over here, even though I’m not really sure what that would be.

Doug throws his arms in the air. “Hello? Who cares about safe? If we cared about safe, we wouldn’t even be here!” He’s joking around, but his words cast a serious pall over the room. We all know our situation is life and death, but we need something to relieve the tension. Our playacting does that for a while.

When the food arrives, Doug opens all the cardboard cartons. The smell alone starts my mouth watering, and
safe
goes out the window. Whatever it is, I’m eating it.

The food turns out to be rice, lamb, steamed veggies, and some kind of flat bread. We dig in, sitting in a circle on the bed, moaning over the wonderful flavors. After a few moments, Doug asks me what I’ve been thinking for the last ten minutes. I’ve been quiet, methodically munching without conversing, watching these guys who feel like
my boys
. But one of us is missing.

“Maybe we should invite Bret over.” I glance at him, wanting someone to extend the invitation. I risk a glimpse at Jag.

Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can grasp what it is. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” He speaks with droll seriousness.

“And that’s a yes!” Doug says, hopping off the bed to run two doors down to get Bret.

Secretly, I’m happy. I hate excluding him, but I also don’t want to be the only one to suggest he participates. Not with my feelings so topsy-turvy. I don’t want to ruin things with Jag, but he’s put me in a terrible situation. Like I have to choose. And I can’t.

How do I pick between my heart’s desire and the brother I’ve mourned over for so long?

***

Five minutes later, Bret is sitting on the bed with the rest of us, chewing his food with a wary eye. He keeps glancing at Jag, who never stops watching him. The air is static and chilly. The cold war becoming a simmering boil. Do Doug and Owen sense it yet? I search for something to say instead of cautiously watching the other two.

Surprisingly, it’s Bret who breaks the silence. “So, I guess the rest of you have windows in your rooms? Actual windows?”

“Huh?” Doug stops eating with a look of total confusion on his face. “It’s a fire hazard not to have a window.”

“Oh, I have a window… of sorts,” Bret says with a chuckle. “Made out of plastic. It doesn’t keep the flies out.”

“Seriously?” Owen hops off the bed and holds his hand out to Bret. “Let me see your key card. I want to check that out.”

Bret chuckles and shakes his head. “Knock yourself out.”

Doug hurries out with him and then it’s just Jag, Bret, and me on the bed, staring at one another in the most uncomfortable silence I’ve felt since I found my dad trying to murder my brother.

“So, how’s the rest of your room?” I ask.

“It’s good. You should see for yourself.”

Jag’s eyes narrow at his comment, but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes flick to mine, waiting for my response. I don’t want to be the middleman here, pulled from both sides.

“Yeah. Maybe later.” I smile and dip more rice. Who knows? It might be our last chance at a real meal.