The Undoer (22 page)

I forget about the stress of finding a hiding place and focus on Coem’s likeness. I’m drawing his human face, experimenting on whatever magic happened with Chummy’s painting and hoping it will happen in pencil too. I’ve analyzed and decided I need to try everything. Oils, acrylics, water color, and sketches in pencil. Drawing parts of the demon face over the human one and then vice versa. Does it only work on canvas or can a paper notebook work magic too? Is it because he gave me these items? Are they enchanted somehow, or is it a power inside
me
I never knew about?

When I finish, I inspect my work, deeming it good enough and wondering if I’ll see results in the morning.

I start a second sketch. This time of my guard. I do this one in pencil also because it’s quicker and easier. I draw the demon inside, gray and smooth, his toothy grin in a grimace. I purposely draw human teeth where the demon teeth should be, and then erase one. Front and center. After examining my work, I fix the shading and search the room for a hiding place.

There’s no good spot. Not anywhere… until I turn and study the headboard of the huge monstrosity of a bed where I sleep. Running my fingers along the ridges, I notice for the first time that there are little grooves carved into the wood, running along the outside posts. They aren’t deep, but I’m curious and hook one with my fingernail. A long, thin drawer slides out. Like it was prepared just for me. Like God made it happen or something. I bend over and look into its depths. It’s easily big enough to hold a rolled up piece of paper.

The drawer slides back in effortlessly and is undetectable from the outside. I wonder if Coem knows about these secret drawers. Slowly, I search the whole bed, opening each secret compartment I find. There are four on each side of the headboard. They are smooth and flat, without knobs, so I’m sure they’ve been overlooked. I say a short prayer of gratitude and hope nothing demonic will ever suspect.

Brecken

Evening approaches, but that doesn’t mean it cools down at all. The sun sits at the top of the hills and soon it will set, leaving this valley carpeted in blackness. It’s still sweltering. You’d think we’d have a reprieve from the radiating heat.
Nope
.

The windows of the Jeep are down, letting a breeze blow over us. Heidi has taken off her scarf and long-sleeved shirt, and I don’t blame her or say anything about it. No one can see her anyway. The boys sprawl as much as they can in the backseat. Doug, with his head back and mouth open, snores. Jag watches the landscape out of his window in silence, and Owen works on something in his lap with a headlamp.

It’s quiet, but we’re still pretty far from any sort of town, and I don’t want to camp out here in the open. I did find a tent at the roadside shop, so we’ll camp if we have to, but the hills that dot the countryside don’t feel safe and could have anything hiding behind them.

By eleven PM, I’m so tired I can’t go on. The others look just as wiped, so I decide to pull off the road. There’s a small copse of trees that we can pitch our tent behind, and it’s far enough from the road to offer cover. We’ll be hidden at least, and that’s about as good as I can do. It’s safer than trying to drive through this area at night. I know what hides out here in the dark.

Doug wakes up as the Jeep bounces over the uneven terrain. There’s no road, but we clear it easily. Behind the trees, I pull to a stop.

“What are we doing?” he asks, sitting up and peering out at the darkness.

“Stopping.”

“Why?” he asks with a yawn.

“Because I’m tired,” I answer. “We can set up the tent and get some shut-eye. Since you’ve slept already, can you take the first two-hour watch?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Doug doesn’t sound too enthused, but he hops out of the car, grabs the rifle we picked up when we bought the tent and other camping supplies—an old AK-47 with an extra clip—and loads it. There are more guns readily available in this country than I’m comfortable with, and they are all old, from before the Rift, but at least we have protection that works at a distance.

Jag and I put up the tent while Heidi unloads the bags and blankets. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a ragged sleeping bag and nothing could feel more wonderful. Heidi is a little more vociferous about her lack of comfort.

“I’m sleeping on a rock.” She tries to move the pebbles beneath her, but they are also beneath the tent, so she doesn’t have much luck. That gives her a reason to move closer to Jag. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Better?” I ask now that she’s a few inches farther from me. I can see her face in the dark and her eyes blink.

“Yeah.” She smiles.

I close my eyes and let exhaustion take over. I need as much sleep as possible. We can’t make any mistakes, and the others don’t understand what we are really up against. We need to be sharp, quick, and ahead of the demons at every turn, but I can’t seem to make my mind turn off.

I’m not sure who exactly we’ll be fighting. Coem is an insidious demon, but he’s not the worst and he’s back in the United States. They’ll have some other general in charge over here, and I worry it’s someone I know. Someone who would do anything to see me, not dead, but tortured for eternity. And they’d be able to think of a myriad of ways to make that happen—all of them so terrible that I would beg for death before it was over.

I can only think of a couple of beings who could really do the job. Eligor, demon of murder, genocide, and war strategies, would be more than capable. Mean to a fault, but he’s defiant and doesn’t take orders well. Thanatos, one of the many demons of death, is pretty arrogant, and has been known to play well with others… at times. He was decent to work with when I reigned at my most powerful among the demons. He’s earned his place at the top, so it could be him.

But then there is Mictian, a demon of death and destruction from another realm entirely. He comes here—like a sub-contractor from his world—to wreak havoc, cause war, and other atrocities. He’s worse than the other two, and he hates me with a vengeance. He’s fierce, unforgiving, and he doesn’t quit until the job is done.
Ever
.

Mictian was the highest ranking when I defected—a brigadier general, if a comparison can be made with the human military. They all have different talents and abilities, but are all deadly and powerful. Each one fills my heart with dread.

I review in my mind how they might attack. Their strategies and weaknesses. Then I move on to how they might be coming through to this dimension at
The Door
. Is each demon checked off a list or do they come through in companies? Are they even keeping track of who’s here?

Round and round, my thoughts tie me into knots. I toss and turn in my bag, trying to get comfortable and get my brain to rest. My heart races and my eyes scrunch shut, my hands in fists. I can practically hear their demonic laughter. They know I’m coming, I’m sure of it. They’re ready for me and waiting—all set up to capture me and kill the others. Or maybe they’ll make the others watch while I’m tortured.

Suddenly, I feel a cool hand on my arm. “Are you okay?” Heidi’s soft whisper penetrates the craziness in my mind and I open my eyes, finding hers in the dark.

“I’m not sure.” I chuckle softly, wondering if I’ve fallen victim to another kind of treachery. A subtler kind. How stupid could I be? How could I have forgotten something so important? In my defense, I was a demon for an eternity and I haven’t been away from them for that long. These things don’t come to me naturally, but I want them to for Heidi.

“Create a shield around yourself,” I whisper to her.

“What?”

“A shield of protection.”

“Why?” I see her questioning expression, her eyebrows pulled down in confusion.

I would think it’s basic demon hunting protocol, but who knows if they’ve been taught to do this. I’ll have to explain it to the others tomorrow when they’re awake.

“It’s easy,” I say. “Just visualize. Picture a bright, white shell around yourself that nothing can get through. Nothing evil, that it. No devils, demons, spirit fragments, contracts, or demonic promises. Nothing. Understand?”

“Good grief. Are there really that many things to be afraid of?”

“Yes. Do you have it pictured in your mind?”

“I think so.” She closes her eyes, breathing evenly, but a little faster than before. “Okay. Got it. Will it work?”

“Yes, usually.” There are exceptions to every rule, after all, but I don’t tell her this. I can feel her anxiety, and I want her to be able to fall asleep.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks.

I hesitate before answering. She’s asking, so I should tell her the truth. There’s no time for lies anymore. “Because we aren’t alone.”

Her eyes grow wide and she quickly glances around the tent, searching.

“You can’t see these guys.”

“They aren’t gray men?” she asks, pulling her bag up higher around her neck.

“No. But these beings follow the gray men around. They can inhabit bodies too. They don’t need gray men for that.”

“What are they?” she asks, scooting closer to me. I guess she thinks I’m the better protector since I’m still awake.

“Just what I told you to protect yourself from. Evil spirits, programs, spirit fragments, and the like. Most people don’t know they’re there. They are invisible to mortal eyes, but they fill your heart with doubts and fears. Nasty little pricks. They have no purpose other than to make you miserable.”

“Just when you think the monsters under the bed aren’t real,” she says with a chuckle.

“Right?” I roll to my back, forming my own mental shield of protection. It’s amazing how well it works when I think about it. The power of the mind is astonishing.

But spirits aren’t the only things we’ll be up against at
The Door
. We’ll be fighting the big wigs who rule the underworld, who want to keep the door open, who are somehow benefitting from this whole catastrophe. They don’t yearn for bodies. They have their own already. What is it they really want?

“How long does the shield last?” Heidi whispers.

“As long as you keep thinking about it.”

“Okay.”

My breathing slows and my mind finally rests. I check the watch on my wrist. I’ve lost forty-five minutes. If I’m going to sleep at all, I better get to it.

Heidi

I listen to Bret’s breathing as he falls asleep next to me. I think about what he said—this visualization stuff, the shield of protection, evil spirits that surround us even though we can’t see them. It creeps me out and I shiver, trying to ignore the niggling fear that scratches at the edges of my mind.

It’s dark. So, so dark. I can hardly see my hand before my face. Owen snores on the other side of Jag, and I’m the only one left awake. I listen to their inhalations like a symphony of drumrolls. I should have brought earplugs.

I’m having a hard time closing my eyes, knowing there are dark souls out there that I can’t see. Not that being able to see them would make it better, but I keep searching the shadows, wondering if each trick of the light is a demon coming to kill me. Bret’s pep talk has done little to calm my racing heart, and I lie awake for the next hour until Doug crawls inside the tent. He’s about to wake Owen, but I get up instead.

“I’ll take next watch,” I whisper. “I’m awake anyway.”

“Okay.” He hands me the rifle when I step out of the tent. It’s pretty dark out here too, the moon glowing only a sliver. I take a place on the hard ground against one of the trees, praying I’m not sitting on an anthill. Once that thought goes through my mind, all sorts of other creepy crawlies infiltrate my thoughts. Scorpions, spiders, and other insects. I find myself itching and scratching at phantom annoyances for the next two hours. Not to mention the tricks my eyes play on me in the dark. I’m too frightened to even think about how tired I am or of falling asleep.

When I hear something, I sit up straight and listen, but when there’s nothing more, I figure I’m just psyching myself out. I don’t want to wake everyone up over nothing. I’ll just sit here for now, tired and miserable, because I’m being ridiculous.

The night passes quietly. Three-thirty rolls around—when it’s Jag’s turn to take watch—and I’m so exhausted and stressed out that I could literally weep. My eyes feel full of sand, and I can hardly keep them open. I don’t think I’ll have any problem falling asleep now.

Jag pops his head out of the tent and then he plops down beside me. His body has a clock of its own. I don’t know how he does it, or how he seems completely rested after only four hours of sleep.

“You better get in there,” he whispers. “You only have two hours left before we have to get up.”

I can only sigh in response as I try to stand on tingling legs that have gone to sleep beneath me. But before I can even get through the tent flap, I hear a scuffling in the distance. It’s coming toward me fast. I turn to Jag, but he’s no longer sitting by the tree.

I’m alone.

Softly, I move back, one slow step at a time, until I’m behind the biggest tree, my dagger in my fist. I can’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean I can’t defend myself. I’m tempted to call out, but I’d rather take whatever it is by surprise if I can. If we can’t see them, they can’t see us. It’s probably just an animal wandering around in the night, and I’m scaring myself to death over nothing, but we can’t take any chances. Jag has probably taken off after it.

When I think it’s safe to move, I feel a sudden presence behind me. I swirl around, my knife extended as I frantically peer into the darkness. The air moves in front of my face and I jump back, but not fast enough. Burning slices across my belly, and I grab my stomach in surprised reaction. A warm stickiness seeps through my tank top against my fingers. It’s not deep, but it stings like a mother.

I don’t bother being quiet now. “Jag! Bret!” I attempt to scream for Owen and Doug too, but my attacker strikes again. This time, his knife slices through the air like a soft breeze, inches from my face, and I feel it even though I can’t see him. I jerk back, tripping over my feet and falling over a prone body. I scream, my mind going immediately to Jag. I don’t have the chance to check who it is before my attacker is on me again, pushing me down and straddling me.

Against such a powerful foe, my arms feel weak and pathetic, and I’m tired from lack of sleep. But adrenaline is zinging through my veins, hopefully giving me the edge I need. He pins my wrists with his knees, and rocky pebbles dig painfully into my skin. I buck my hips and he falls forward, his head hitting me in the chin. With his body out of balance, I yank my arm free, still holding my dagger, and plunge it into the guy’s neck. He explodes in a cloud of russet ash all over my stomach. Some of him even gets in my mouth. I spit him out, so grateful it isn’t blood sliding between my teeth.

Blinking into the darkness, I search out the body I’d tripped over before I killed Dusty. I
have
to know who it is. I just couldn’t bear it if it turned out to be Doug, Owen, or heaven forbid, Jag. My toes find the body before the rest of me. Crouching, I run my hands over his still form. From the bandana tied around his face and the pajama-type clothes he’s wearing, I know he isn’t one of us. A rush of relief surges through me as I rise and search for my next victim.

I hear a struggle behind the tent and make my way, following the edges of the canvas. When I hear someone grunt and fall to the ground, I freeze, listening. And then it’s quiet. Shouldn’t people be yelling or crying out at the very least?

“Jag?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Jag?” I whisper again, moving closer to where the struggle was. My foot hits another prone body and I immediately crouch down, running my hands over the still figure while my eyes scour the dark. I’m panicked and can’t focus. I can’t tell who this body is. My fingers come away sticky, and I run my hands up the guy’s shoulders and then to his head. I’m sure it’s one of my boys, and my heart twists, tears welling in my eyes. I should have been protecting them better. I should have been more alert, more careful, more… something. I let a murderer sneak into our camp. I let him get close enough that he could ambush us.

The weight of my failure is oppressive and overwhelming, and when I run my fingers over long, shoulder-length hair, I cry out in anguish. Tear burst from my eyes as I realize what this means. I shake his body, hoping he’s only unconscious and not dead. Hoping he’ll wake up. This can’t be how it all ends. Not for us. The ache is almost too much and when he doesn’t move, when I find the slash across his neck, sticky with blood, I throw myself on top of him in abject misery.

I don’t even try to be quiet. What’s the point? I know what my fate will be when I’m found, and I’m tempted to plunge the knife into my chest myself. All my friends are dead. I never even told my aunt I was leaving. Sophie will always wonder what happened to me.

I let my tears spill.

And then the strike of a match startles me and I jump back, ready—in a millisecond—to fight again. He stands five feet away. My gaze moves up his legs, hips, stomach, and chest, and finally, to his face. His dark eyes search mine and, in a rush of emotion, he dives for me, scooping me up in his arms, pulling me so tight against his chest I can hardly breathe.

I grasp his golden head in my hands, hardly able to form words. “Jag?” I hold him against me, kissing his neck, his eyes, his face, his lips. Never have I felt such relief. One minute, I’m in the depths of despair and the next, I’m flying up to unimaginable heights… in one blink.

“You’re okay?” he asks me, my face cradled in his palms. He searches my eyes, but the match he lit is quickly dying in the dirt, and it’s getting hard to see again.

I can’t believe he’s really alive. I turn and crouch down next to the body I was so sure was Jag. “Who’s this guy then?” I study his features in the dying match light—long, black hair, smooth skin. He’s young, but definitely Middle-Eastern. No one I recognize. Some hired hitman of the demons.

Still trembling in relief and fatigue, Jag and I hurry to search the tent, finding it empty. Doug and Owen stand over another dead body dressed in black. His cohorts—piles of ash lying close by—are obviously unidentifiable.

Bret comes running back from the direction of the road, out of breath, his Nephilim dagger in his hand. “The guys from the restaurant… they followed us.”

“Are you sure it was them?” I ask, finally coming down from my adrenaline high, and my body starts trembling. I need my jacket and feel like I might vomit. I force myself to breathe deeply, sitting down on a nearby rock. We’re all alive. But why did I doubt? This is what we do. We’re Cazadors. Demon hunters.

And then Bret notices my bloody shirt. “Are you okay?”

The boys circle me, and I lift my tank. An ugly, red gash, about three inches long, stretches across my belly. “It doesn’t even hurt.” I press my fingers over the cut. Then it hurts.

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Doug says, hurrying back inside the tent.

The others stare at me as if I’m some kind of enigma to even still be alive. They rally around me, patting my shoulders, telling me how brave I am, and that they are so happy I’m still safe.

“I’m surprised it isn’t worse.” Bret examines the wound. “You’re lucky.”

“Or fast,” I answer. “Maybe I’m just a better fighter.” I mean it as a joke, but nobody laughs. The situation just isn’t funny. It was too close. We all could have been wiped out in one night. “Is anyone else hurt?”

“I am,” Owen says, stretching out his arm, showing us a gash on his bicep.

“My shoulder got nicked, but it’s not really worth mentioning,” Jag says.

“We’ll check it anyway.” My gaze moves over to Bret. He shakes his head. Every time I look at him, he becomes more and more familiar. More Brecken. I reach out to him and he slips into my arms, hugging me. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whisper in his ear.

“I’m kind of hard to kill,” he says, joking, but I think he means it.

I stare into his eyes in the match light. “You’ve died before.”

“That was my choice.” He smiles and hugs me again.

Doug comes back with the first aid kit and goes to work on my cut. I try to hold in a hiss as he dabs the wound. He smears some ointment on, and then tapes the bandage to my stomach. “It needs stiches.”

The boys all look at one another.

“The next town?” Owen asks.

“The next city with an actual medical clinic is over a day away.” Bret shakes his head and grits his teeth—telltale signs that he’s worried and doesn’t want me to know.

“There’s a sewing kit in my pack.” Owen glances at Doug. “Jag did your stitches, remember?”

Doug nods. “He’s stitched us up a lot of times. We can’t afford to go to the clinic, and not many people want to even if they can.”

Everyone glances at Jag. This is crazy. I’m tough, but I don’t know if I’m that brave. “Uh… I think I’ll be okay.”

“If it gets infected, you’ll be no help to us. At the very worst… you won’t be here for it to matter.” His bluntness is always a surprise, but I’ve come to expect it too. It’s a catch 22, and I lift my eyes to the dark sky, trying to decide what I want to do… as if Jag will give me a choice.

“Get the lantern,” he says. “Doug and Owen will keep guard outside the tent. Let’s go inside,” he says to me as he thrusts out his hand for me to take.

I stare at him. “Are you crazy? I can’t do this. Not without something to numb it.”

“You can do it. You’re stronger than you think. Plus, you don’t want your stomach to fall out.” He smiles and shakes his hand at me, demanding I take it. I do and let him lift me from my spot on the rock. He leads me inside the tent, Bret right behind us with the lantern.

“Lie down,” Jag orders.

With a sigh of exasperation, I recline on my sleeping bag and pull up my dirty shirt. He threads the needle, and I close my eyes. I can’t watch.