The Undoer (24 page)

Dean

I throw the covers back and jump out of bed. It’s not light yet, but I can’t sleep. It takes only thirty seconds to get dressed and five more to run a comb through my hair. Pacing my room, I wait anxiously for the clock to strike eight, when breakfast is served. I drum my fingers against my leg, and then I pace near the windows, counting the seconds as the sun climbs over the hills to the east.

From the colors in the sky, it’s getting close. First, indigo, but then it lightens just a tinge to the color of cotton candy. A few minutes later, a gorgeous shade of orchid paints wild streaks across the clouds. Lighter and lighter, the colors fade, until the pink hues diminish into blue, and then, in all its glory, the sun bursts over the hills, bright, bold, and blinding.

That’s it. I’m out of here. I shove the door open, and in my enthusiasm, it crashes back against the wall. “Ready?” I say to the stunned guard, already heading down the hall. I know the house now, and I don’t need him to lead the way. It takes effort for him to keep up with me.

I reach the dining room and fly through the doorway, propelling myself toward the table… and my excitement deflates like a smashed Whoopi cushion. No one is there eating breakfast.

“Where is everyone?” I turn back to the guard.

“How should I know?” He scowls at me, folds his massive arms over his chest, and then leans back against the wall, consciously ignoring me. And then I see it… between his rubbery lips. He’s missing a tooth. My pulse races, like a flash flood through my veins, delivering adrenaline all the way to my fingertips.

It worked.

I’m dying to ask him about it. Did it fall out during the night, rotten and diseased? Did it somehow get knocked out? Did it hurt or just painlessly dissolve into nothing? I’m nearly giggling with glee!

I take my normal seat at the table, which is already laden with breakfast food. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, mixed fruit, coffee, juice—as though we’re going to feed an army. I dig in, afraid it will be taken away at the slightest whim.

I slip a biscuit into my pocket, and then keep adding anything that won’t leak through my clothes. I’ll hide this food in my closet—in case I get hungry during the night—but I could put it in the little drawers in my bed now. My own little pantry. I won’t even have to get out of my covers to eat.

I eat in silence, alone, in the dim light of the chamber, the curtains still drawn. Coem is usually the one to open them. The darkness is oppressive and I hurry to finish, to get back to my studio where the sun shines and I can draw another portrait.

Just as I stand, wiping my hands with a napkin, Coem enters. He looks hammered, exhausted, and irritable. It stands to figure since he has green puss oozing from his tear ducts and nostrils. Pustules cover his lips, seeping infection, thick and milky. I recoil, not wanting to catch his germs, if he has any. But the thing that really hits home is… I did this.
I
did it. I gave him the malady. I’d drawn it.

I stand there, trying not to stare in disgust.

“Done so soon?” He smirks. “You don’t want to keep me company while I eat?” His eyes squint and I’m not sure if it’s out of hate for me, as though he knows I am the perpetrator of the crime, or if it’s because his eyelids are swollen. Maybe a bit of both.

I want to refuse because looking at him makes me sick to my stomach, and I can’t afford to throw up again. I’m still gaining weight. But maybe I overdid it a little on the drawing, and I don’t want to anger him further. A sick demon most likely equates a mean demon.

“Sure. Of course.” I take my seat, a bagel in my pocket smooshing against my thigh. “How is Chumlento this morning?”

“I have no idea,” he snaps, placing his napkin over his lap. He rests his head in his hands.

“Are you okay?” I ask stupidly.

“Do I look okay?”

“Not really. Have you ever been sick before?” I ask, sincerely interested. I’ve never seen a sick demon. Ever. They usually die before they get sick with anything, wearing their new bodies out by getting into fights and thrill seeking, wanting to experience
everything
.

“No. Never.” With his head still cradled in his hand, his elbow balancing against the table, he glances up at me through hooded lids. “My head is pounding.”

“That’s… weird.”

“I would say so.” He takes a long breath and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what to make of it. First Chum, and now me. Maybe there’s a new virus that has mutated or something. Maybe we are not as immune as we used to be.”

Ha! You’re not!
I yearn to scream.
I’m your worst nightmare, pal. I’m your deadliest virus come to hunt you down!
These words scream through my mind, and what I’d give to sing them out loud, but I cover my delight with a frown. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”

“I can’t. Have to pack. I’m leaving on a trip.”

“Oh?” Where could he possibly be going? We’ve only been here a few days. Will he make me go too?

And then he answers my question. “You’ll stay here. I just need to see to a few things. Keep painting and getting as much practice as you can. You’re going to win me this world, Dean. You are the key to securing my place at the top, my… holy offering, so to speak. So be good.” He smiles, but I see the weariness in his eyes. “Lamassu will stay with you.”

“Who?”

“Your guard,” he says like I’m an idiot as he motions to the unfriendly, yeti beast who’s missing a tooth and stands by the door.

“Oh. Right. Lamassu.”
Duh
. I shake my head, holding my tongue. There are so many awesome things I could say. So many sarcastic remarks, but I don’t think Coem is up for it today. “Well, I hope you feel better soon.” Rising, I hurry from the room, hoping I can control the gleeful laughter that yearns to burst free.

Finally, I am a Cazador! Tormentor of demons!

Dean

I’ve had a few days free with Coem gone, and I take advantage of that freedom, keeping my sketchpad with me at all times as I wander around the mansion, drawing each demon that comes to visit. After I give them their pics, they fawn over them as though I’ve given them a priceless gift. I heard they are paying Coem copious amounts of money for these treasures. I’ve yet to see a penny.

I have copies of twenty-three demon sketches in my hidden drawers. On each portrait, I’ve changed some little detail, growing braver with each drawing. I keep the deviations minor for the most part, and it isn’t until I hear shrieking downstairs that I think I may have gone too far.

I run to the top of the staircase. Brak, one of the demons that takes care of the grounds, is in the foyer screaming, crying, and bumping into walls. The skin where his eyes should be is smooth and even. No eyes, no eyelashes… nothing but skin. It’s chillingly freaky. Three other demons surround him, calling out to him, trying to figure out what happened, but it’s obvious it’s something supernatural. He had eyes this morning, and now he doesn’t.

I swivel back and lean against the wall. This is bad. I shouldn’t have done it. I run back to my room and slam my door, hurrying to my secret hiding spot. I shuffle through the drawers, trying to find the sketch of Brak.

A part of me feels terrible and cruel for what I’ve done, even if he is a demon. Regret fills my heart, and I hate how that feels. This isn’t me, causing such fear. I thought it would be funny and kind of horror-movie cool to erase his eyes. I’d pictured
Twilight Zone
, but seeing what I’ve done makes me sick. I’m not sure I can go through with my plan. Grasping a plain old number-two pencil, I draw a pair of eyes on Brak’s face.

Even though these beings are demons, the bodies they steal are not, and I can’t get past the human part of it. I’m not a bully. I don’t like hurting people. And when I look at my captors… I see
people
. Although there’s a voice in my head, probably my own, that tells me I’m a stupid idiot, that these beings don’t care about me in any human way, that whatever their plans for me are, they aren’t good. I’ll end up dead. There’s no way to live through this. Demons don’t care about people, other than to benefit from them.

I walk over to the window and stare out over the backyard. Brak is out there now, sitting on a stone bench, sobbing into his hands. When he raises his head, I notice his eyes are back. But of course they are. That’s my gift. I don’t kill demons; I’m their persecutor. Half of me rejoices. The other half recoils.

What is wrong with me? I have an opportunity here. I can seriously wound them and I’m feeling guilty? What kind of Cazador am I? I pace, making tiny corrections to my plan, my fingers tapping my leg as I walk. My sketches are still lying on the bed, scattered, so I begin picking them up, placing them in a pile, when the door slams open.

I jump and freeze where I stand on the far side of my bed, my mouth gaping, the damning evidence hanging limp in my fingers, but Coem doesn’t look at my hands. He stares at my face.

“Get packed. Now.” He breathes in heavy gasps, his suit askew and dirty. He still looks terrible.

“Are you okay?” He’s going downhill fast and will need a new body soon, his skin a sickly gray and his thick head of white-blond hair falling out in clumps. In the two days he’s been gone, his body has grown thin, emaciated even… all from my infection? For the millionth time, I wonder how it is that I came to have this gift. I didn’t have it before I arrived, so it happened once I got here, but when was that magic moment? I can’t put my finger on it. Did God give me the ability to curse the demons? Or did the demons themselves… without knowing it? Surely, they wouldn’t endow me with such a weapon intentionally.

No, if they knew about my gift, I’d be dead already. They are just as oblivious to the cause as I am.

“Do I look okay?” he responds, glaring.

“Not really. I’m sorry you don’t feel well.” I give him a weak smile and he shakes his head, rolling his eyes in derision, sufficiently wiping out any pity I felt a moment before.

He starts to turn away, so I hurry to ask, “Did my blood test results come back?” This is something that has been on my mind. Maybe my gift comes from a virus in my blood, and like Spiderman, I’m now a superhero. It sounds childish to think of it that way, but still cool, and I hope that is what happened.

“The results haven’t come back yet, and we don’t have time to wait, so I guess we’ll never know.” He stares at me for a moment as though trying to see inside me, trying to decipher what the results would have told him if we weren’t in such a hurry to leave. His eyes fall to the floor, and he heaves a heavy sigh.

I go back to gathering my sketches. “So, where are we going?” I ask in a friendly, nonchalant tone. But he’s already gone. There’s a bag in my closet, and I place it on the bed. I throw in a few pairs of jeans, underclothes, and some of my favorite new shirts. I have toiletries of all sorts now, like an electric razor and toothpaste that tastes like licorice. I pack it because why not? I’ll only be spoiled for a short while longer, until they realize I’m cursing them with my art, and then I’ll either be back on the streets or dead.

***

Within an hour, we’re sitting aboard a private jet with white leather seats and all the amenities you could ever desire while traveling. I recline, gazing out over the shrinking city of L.A., wondering if I’ll ever be back.

I never had a chance to contact Jag and my heart sinks, knowing I’ll probably never see him again. I haven’t stopped thinking about Heidi either, and her face floats in my mind, so I decide to do something that will not only pass the time, but will make me happy too.

I begin at the bottom of the page with her feet, drawing her in combat boots, making them black and sooty with thick soles. Heavy and strong, to keep her grounded and balanced. I sketch her legs, long and muscular, her cargo pants form fitting. I mean, hey, she’s sexy, and it’s my picture. I can draw her how I want. No one else will ever see it.

I pencil in a thick leather belt over her hips, with plenty of weapons hidden in it. She’s loaded for bear, totally tough, and superhero sexy. I draw her stomach flat and the muscles flexed, a womanly six-pack. I’m already drooling and I haven’t even done her face. When I start on her arms and chest, I swivel my body so no one can peek at what I’m drawing. I have no problem drawing women, but Heidi’s different. She’s special and beautiful. Perfect and kind. I’m not just drawing her body. I’m drawing her soul. At least, that’s what it feels like to me.

It isn’t hard to sketch her sleek and beautiful body. I’ve looked at her for so long that I have every inch of her memorized… at least in my imagination. The curves of her breasts are hidden by a snug-fitting vest that is sleeveless to show her muscular biceps. She holds her dagger in one hand, her arm stretched out as though pointing it like a sword. In the other hand, she holds an AK-47, just for fun. Her body is rock hard and she-woman fierce, a powerful demon huntress, if I’ve ever seen one.

And then I begin her face. I sit there for a moment, trying to decide what kind of expression I want her to wear. It needs to match the rest of her, so I give her face a hard edge of fury, as though the demons have hurt her for the last time.

Her eyes are narrowed and piercing as she gazes at me from the page, and her pupils follow from every angle. Her full lips are pulled back into a feral grin, but they still look sexy to me, and her teeth are straight and white, true to form. She’s ready for the apocalypse.

Her dark hair whips wildly around her oval face as though there’s a storm at her back, and I fix the shading, adding a sunset-imbued tempest behind her.

When I’m finished, I can’t quit staring at my masterpiece. I don’t think I’ve ever drawn anything so compelling. I ache to see her in real life, to hold her, to kiss her. To tell her that she is the one who saved me. That she is the reason I’ve held on. She is the reason I find meaning in life or for even wanting to exist.

My heart swells, and an overwhelming surge of love fills me. I’d give anything to hold her just one more time, to feel her fingers threading through mine. If I ever do see her again, I’ll tell her how I feel. I’ll never hide my feelings again.

Before anyone else sees what I’ve done, I hide the sketch between the other pages of my art book.

This one’s mine, and mine alone.