The Undoer (4 page)

Heidi

Everything went downhill after the Rift, including me. The Earth groaned, barfing up lava and belching ash through volcanos I’d never even heard of. Earthquakes leveled not only
my
town, but also half of the US. I still wake up screaming, the dreams alive and vivid.

In other words, I don’t sleep much.

So many nights I’ve lain awake in my bed—a cot shoved into a corner of my aunt’s basement because there aren’t enough bedrooms—with my eyes scrunched closed. If I can’t see the figures, maybe they aren’t real, or at least they’ll go away and leave me alone.

I call them ghosts, but they aren’t ghosts. They’re something else. Dark. Gray. Hideous and terrifying. When I first started seeing them, I could only see them out of the corner of my eye, as though they were shadows. But shadows aren’t supposed to be able to move on their own.

What I know for sure is they want inside me, like a cancer. I’d quit believing in God… until the gray men came. If
they
exist, then surely, somewhere, there is a benevolent being—who also exists. Yin, yang, and all that. Opposites in all things.

But there was no rapture after the Rift. Neighbor turned against neighbor, gangs murdered whole families just for the food in their cupboards, and children were abandoned—all while the whole world caved in on itself… and I lived through it. I’m still here. I’m still alive. Kind of.

The first phantom I ever saw appeared at the foot of my bed, staring at me with a jagged mouth, its smile a grimace. It held onto the metal bar at my feet, the basement darker than dark. My little sister, Sophie, was lucky to share a room upstairs with cousins, so I had to face this nightmare alone. Slowly, I’d brought my knees up to my chest, my heart pounding so forcefully that the only thing I could hear was the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of my own pulse.

And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it left.

That was the first time.

Now it happens
all
the time. I have no peace… unless I’m with the Cazadors.

***

The jagged leather on the tattoo chair scratches the back of my legs. I sit as still as death, the needle darting beneath my skin a thousand times a minute like an African killer bee—almost too quickly for my mind to register. I close my eyes and breathe… the stinging pain a gift. It makes me
feel,
and it will definitely be worth it when the tattoo is complete.

When finished, the tattoo will be a dagger between my shoulder blades, stretching four inches from top to tip, sacred runes etched on the blade in iridescent glory. I drew them carefully on a piece of paper so the tattoo artist can’t get them wrong. It has to be exact. It has to be perfect.

With my head bowed and my thick hair creating a shield from anyone watching, I let a tear of healing trail down my cheek. This is a moment of catharsis. Of rebirth. It brings up long-buried emotions of heartache and powerlessness.

I am powerless no more.

I am leaving all that behind—leaving my painful childhood to step into womanhood.

I haven’t had a close friend in ages, but this tattoo will bring me one step closer to the group of friends I want. That I need. I’ll have protection at my back and they will too… even if they don’t know it yet.

During the Rift, I learned it’s better to not have ties. But the Cazadors are different. And I’ll be one of them… officially.

For the last year—since I discovered them—I’ve been practicing. Honing my skills with daggers, knives, and anything else considered a weapon. I will finally be a demon hunter, but I won’t be alone. Not anymore. It’s too dangerous to hunt alone, and I’m not stupid enough to keep trying. I’ve won a few skirmishes, but I’ve also had some close calls. Too close.

An especially sharp sting—like the queen bee taking aim over one of my vertebrae—brings me back to the present, and I hiss in reaction, gripping my thighs, my nails biting into my skin. I can do this. Pain is my companion. It always has been, whispering into my heart, its claws always flexing. It taught me to endure and be patient. This physical pain is just another test I will pass. It will be over soon, and I’ll have a talisman I can draw strength from… for the rest of my life. However long that is.

“You’re almost done,” the tattoo artist says, still bent over my back. I can feel his warm hands balanced against my skin, and I picture him as he speaks, with his white, shortly cropped beard and his head covered in a navy-blue bandanna. Tattoo sleeves cover both of his arms, but his hands are steady. He smells like garlic and onions, but there are worse odors.

I don’t answer him, focusing instead on the runed dagger in my bag at my feet. I stole it from Jag, the leader of the Cazadors, the last time I visited the church. I feel bad about doing it, but not bad enough, I guess. He always has a spare, and it seemed like fate. I’ve been asking for one for ages, and he keeps refusing me. I got tired of fighting with him and took matters into my own hands.

It was almost as if he had left it for me on purpose.

He’s probably noticed it missing by now. But there is no way I can fight demons without one. They can’t be killed any other way. The knife’s magic is real, but I haven’t used it yet. I want someone to have my back when I do, just in case.

My new tattoo will change everything. Already, it gives me courage I’ve never felt before—like a fire being stoked in my belly, growing and begging for more oxygen. The burn of battle lust increases inside me. Just the thought of thrusting the runed blade into a demon… its eyes widening in surprise, the poof of ash that will follow… brings goose bumps to my arms.

“Are you cold?” the artist asks.

I shake my head and hide a smile.

He changes position, wipes my tattoo with disinfectant, and then hands me a mirror. I angle it until I can see my prized creation, glittering in gold. A gilded dagger that glows with an ethereal light.

“It’s perfect,” I breathe in awe of the artist’s workmanship. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it. It’s gonna cost you.”

I laugh, already having planned on that, but I have some money stashed away. Some of it came from a trust fund my mother set up before she died. And then Dad gave both Sophie and me a huge chunk of Brecken’s life insurance policy, which I hadn’t even known existed. Who has a life insurance policy at eighteen?

Originally, I planned to use the money for college, but that is a distant luxury now with the way the world is. I’m not even sure colleges still exist. The world needs warriors, not lawyers and accountants. Plus, I want to do something useful, something that matters.

After paying the tattooist, I head out into the sunshine, my new talisman burning like dry ice on my back. It focuses me on why I got it in the first place… proof of my commitment to my new calling. Demon huntress.

I stop at a reflective shop window and turn to get another look. The hilt of the dagger peeks out above my black tank top. The skin is raised and screaming-red, but as I take in the beautiful artistry, a smile curls my lips and the tiny diamond chip in my nose winks in the sunlight. Never before have I felt so beautiful or so strong. No one can take this away from me. It’s etched into my very skin.

All the Cazadors have this same tattoo. Well, not this exact same one. Mine is by far the most beautiful. I made sure of that. But in my heart, it makes me one of them. A symbol of the ability to rid the world of evil.

With a happy sigh, I continue down the hot, dusty street, stopping to buy a hot dog from a vendor. I doubt the food’s clean—because nothing is disinfected or washed well these days—but I stuff it in my mouth anyway. The tang of mustard slaps my taste buds, and I moan in delight. There are few things that truly make me feel alive. Food is one. I love food, the smell of it, the look of it when well prepared, and if street food hasn’t killed me yet, it isn’t going to.

Once upon a time, I actually thought about going to culinary school. Yeah. That probably won’t happen now.

I could go home to my aunt’s house to eat. I love my aunt Jenny—who took us in five years ago—but she is restrictive and suffocating. I grew up without a mother, and to suddenly have one telling me what to do and when to do it is stifling. On the other hand, Sophie has thrived with our new “mother”. She soaks the attention up like a wilted flower being watered for the first time.

For me, it has been a different story. The fights started with my nose piercing—which I think is freaking awesome—and then morphed into arguments about my wardrobe. My aunt tells me I can’t dress the way I want to—which is usually in black from head to toe. It got so hard that finally, I left. I check in every so often so she knows I’m alive, but I seldom go home. I’m eighteen. I don’t need a mother.

I need to be a Cazador.

I need a release from the drowning rage that has consumed me since my brother drowned in a bathtub. There is something very suspicious about that whole deal, and my dad won’t discuss it. Yeah. He’s still alive, but he’s a subject I won’t discuss.

It was a few years after that gloomy and horrific time that I first met Jag, his dark eyes also full of rage and defiance. I felt a connection to him immediately. In the darkness, with only one streetlamp glowing, I’d watched him, spellbound, as he battled a gray phantom under an overpass. It managed to get away unscathed—Jag was only fourteen at the time, after all—and I’d tried to strike up a conversation, but the fact that I’d witnessed him fail had only made him angry. He stormed away, but I’d followed him… and his goofy friend, Dean.

My life changed that day and would never be the same.

Brecken

I follow the two boys into a park where people are dancing to rhythmic music and visiting at picnic tables. Slender cigarettes dangle from the revelers’ fingers and red solo cups are gripped in their hands. Music thrums through the open doors of a pub across the street, and my senses go on high alert.

Enflamed clouds bathe the partiers in gilded light and ocean waves break just over the rise. I stay back in the shadows, watching and waiting to see if the devil will arrive at his party.

The boys stop to sit on a bench and proceed to eat their candy, watching the fun. I ease into relaxation for a moment and hope that I won’t have to kill anyone tonight. Maybe I can just hang out, listen to songs I haven’t heard before, and watch beautiful women sway to the beat.

This is just what I need. An evening off, surrounded by happy people and music that stirs my senses. Although this is the perfect place to watch for my dark, slithery friends—and they will surely come—I pretend I’m living a normal life, sans demons.

Every so often, I glance over at the two boys I followed. They pique my curiosity. Why are they here? They don’t seem the partying type, and they aren’t trying to sneak the overly available assortments of alcohol. Nor are they trying to buy any other illicit drugs. They just sit on the bench, watching and waiting, just like me.

I focus on the last vestiges of the candy bar the blond boy is shoving into his mouth. Dang, it looks good, and I haven’t had chocolate in years. Pushing away from the wall, I saunter over to the corner shop. A cute little mom-and-pop spot with sodas in the back fridge and every form of sugar available in all its varieties. It’s kid heaven, plain and simple.

I snag a couple of chocolate bars that look good and then a coke from the fridge, setting them down on the counter by the cash register. I’m second in line, so I take the time to peruse the store. Bright curtains hang over the windows in flouncy scallops. The walls are painted a bright lime green with black trim, going for an old-fashioned soda-shop look, but it comes across as more of an overdone seven-eleven.

“Evening,” the cashier says when it’s my turn. He glances at me over a pair of tiny, wire-rimmed glasses, and then goes to work, ringing up the numbers on his old-fashioned register with only his pointer finger. Graying hair curls over his ears and he wears a white apron over his clothes. He seems nice in a Santa Claus kind of way, and I’m glad his store was undamaged in spite of the earthquakes and marauding gangs.

“Evening,” I answer. “Quite the party going on out there.” I glance out the window at the bright lights and then back to the old man.

“Yep. It’ll be like this every night for the next week. Rift Week and all that. Good for business,” he says, handing me my change.

“Rift Week?” That’s one holiday I’m unfamiliar with.

“You know. Five year anniversary of the Rift.”

Funny they’d celebrate such a dismal day, but young people look for any excuse to let loose and party. They are still hopeful for the future, I guess. But for demons, they are perfect candidates for possession. Their bodies will last longer than an older model. And once again, I’m glad I’d followed the two boys here.

I leave the store with my bag of goodies and find my own bench in the plaza. A young couple sits at the other end, but they don’t notice me. Their faces are glued together, the slurping and sucking turned up to full volume. I try not to watch, but it’s like a train wreck. Hard to look away from.

The evening wears on, and as the hour grows late, the mom-and-pop store closes down. People become more raucous and rowdy. The exuberant atmosphere, which was lively and fun at first, goes downhill fast. Arguments erupt, guys fight over girls, girls smack the fighting guys, and there are even a few people passed out from drinking too much.

It’s time. The demons will surely show up. This little plaza has become the perfect brewing ground. Once a human is high or drunk, they no longer put up any resistance. The door is wide open, and the demons walk right in.

I’ve seen it over and over.

And as though my thoughts are enough of an invitation, they come, their dark, murky souls crawling across the lawn and over benches like spiders.

I set my coke down and reach for my Nephilim dagger inside my jacket. I’m still, waiting until the last second to launch my attack. But just as I’m about to pounce, the blond, angry boy leaps from his bench and dives for a demon that has funneled its way through the top of a guy’s head. The boy reaches the demon as the last bits of its smoky form are absorbed. Without hesitation, the boy drives a dagger through the man’s heart.

I stop short. It happens so fast. With no hesitation. And I try not to be sickened at how methodical the kid is. For a moment, I can only stare, wondering if I look as cold and ruthless as I slay demons. Still frozen in surprise, I glance over at the blond boy’s friend. He has a notebook on his lap and is scribbling furiously with a pencil. Why is he sitting there drawing? It seems so bizarre.

Shaking myself out of my stupor, I hurry over to help before the demons can get inside anyone else, but my hope is short-lived. There are just too many of them.

People who aren’t possessed run screaming from my slaughter, probably thinking a bunch of mass murderers have escaped from prison. In the last five years, the murder rates have skyrocketed. It’s all over the news, and it surprises me that people are stupid enough to go out at night when they could be safe at home.

I slash and stab, rake and slice, into the ghostly demons as fast as I can. My body moves without me having to think about it. This is what I am made to do. I don’t see any demons I recognize, and I keep waiting for the day I come face to face with Andras or Lamia. I wouldn’t mind ending their miserable lives.

I happen to glance up and notice the two boys frozen and staring at me. I haven’t killed any humans yet since I can kill the demons before they get inside, but I don’t have time to stop and answer their questions.

The blond boy’s lips curl into an astonished smile, but he immediately goes back to work. The other boy—who sports a darker shade of sandy-blond hair—sits back down on the bench and continues to draw. I pay them no attention until I finish my work and there isn’t another fiend to be seen. The park is empty and covered in ash.

I lean over in exhaustion, my hands on my knees, my dagger gripped in my fist, and heave in huge gulps of air. I ache all over. This must be what it feels like to run a marathon, although I bask in the feeling of having a physical body. When I straighten, the boy with the ponytail ambles over, his dagger held loosely in his fingers.

“How did you kill the demons before they took a body?” he asks before anything else, eyeing my Nephilim dagger, his brow furrowed. No dilly-dallying here… or introductions.

I decide to start with what’s easiest. The truth… simplified. “I have a special knife.” I hold it up for him to see. In the human realm, it radiates an ethereal light, bright in this darkened plaza, especially next to his runed dagger. My Nephilim blade was blessed by the Avenging Angels to do this work, and the runed daggers are nothing in comparison. Plus, they only send demons back to hell. The Nephilim blade kills them permanently.

He reaches out for my dagger, but hesitates, glancing into my eyes to make sure it’s okay for him to touch it.

I nod. “Just don’t touch the edge. Even a scratch will kill you.”

He lifts it from my fingers, holding it hungrily and running his thumb across the smooth, shining cheek of the dagger, just above the grind. He’s careful to stay away from its sharpened edge.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers with a sigh. “Where did you get it?” His friend comes up and gazes reverently at the dagger. From the look in his eyes, he aches to hold it also, but he doesn’t reach out to touch it. Ponytail boy even offers it to him, but Artist boy shakes his head and steps back.

I ignore Ponytail’s question, not wanting to explain. If I’m not mistaken, these boys are the Cazadors. “It was given to me.”

Ponytail boy hands it back. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you around.”

Sirens blare in the distance and are headed our way. There isn’t time to answer his question. “The police are coming.”

The boys follow me as we run a few blocks and then slow, hiding behind a garbage bin. “My name is Bre—t. Bret.” I kick myself—figuratively—for my near blunder. “And you are?”

“I’m Dean,” Artist boy says, smiling, “and this is Jag.” He points to his scowling friend.

I put my hand out toward Jag, but he doesn’t take it. He keeps his on the hilt of his sheathed dagger. Dean shakes my hand as though we’re old friends.

“Dean and Jag. Nice to meet you and nice work you did here. Thanks for the help.”

“The help?” Jag repeats, almost choking on the words. “I think it was the other way around. We’ve been working here for years.” His eyes narrow as he studies my face, my clothes, and my weapons—including the runed dagger. His gaze flies back to mine. “Who are you really?”

“I told you. My name’s Bret. And I’m new here. I didn’t mean to move in on your territory or anything. I was actually looking for other people to hunt with.” If all else fails, stick to the truth.

“Any people in particular?” Jag asks, his hand still resting on his knife. A move that is not lost on me. “Not many people have the guts for this job.” He’s trying to intimidate me, but it won’t work. I’m way past pissing contests. I’ve led the armies of hell, after all. This kid is headed for disappointment if he thinks I’ll cower or beg. I’m going to take his place, which will probably not go over well. But he’s not my enemy, and I don’t want to start our relationship feeling as if he is.

“I’m looking for a group called the Cazadors.” I study them closely, monitoring their surprised expressions.

Before Jag can silence him, Dean blurts out. “That’s us! We’re the Cazadors!”

Jag frowns and grits his teeth as he slowly turns to glare at his friend.

“Oh, sorry,” Dean says, noting Jag’s disapproving glower.

Jag crosses his arms over his chest and spreads his feet solidly apart. “Why do you want to know?”

“I plan to join you.” I smile and match his stance. “Take me to your leader,” I say with bravado.

Dean’s lip twitches as he fights back a chuckle, but Jag’s frown intensifies. “
I’m
the leader of this group, but it’s a
secret
group. No one’s supposed to even know we exist.” His statement is directed at Dean, who grimaces and glances away.

“Hmm. Well,” I say. “Should we go back to your clubhouse and talk about it?”

“Our clubhouse?” Jag repeats slowly, one eyebrow rising in an arc. “Are you serious? We aren’t a
club
. We’re
assassins
. We kill demons. That’s our
job
. We don’t get together for parties, eat treats, or do projects. We aren’t a club.” His voice is deep as he explains all this slowly so I’ll understand. I hear him loud and clear.

“Well, we kind of are,” Dean says. “I mean, we do like to meet when we can.”

Jag throws him another glare. “No, we don’t.”

Dean’s mouth snaps shut as he gives Jag an annoyed expression. “And we do eat pizza.”

“And we aren’t hiring.” Jag glances again at my Nephilim blade. I can’t stop the slow smile that spreads across my face.

“Really?” I stuff my hands in my pockets and lean against a building’s rough, brick wall. “You can’t use someone with my experience, who knows how to get rid of demons before they inhabit a body?”

Jag grinds his teeth.

“Listen. I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to help.” And with a flip of my hand, I turn and walk away.

Dean whispers furiously behind me. “You can’t let him leave! We need him. That knife. We need that knife.”

I hear a growl of frustration, but I’m walking fast and they’ll have to make an effort to catch up.

“Wait,” Jag calls out. “Maybe we can do a trial run or something.”

I hear the fury in his voice as he’s forced to include me. But he’s obviously a decent guy with morals, who doesn’t want to keep killing people. My dagger will solve all their problems even if his pride is taking a serious dip. I stop, a smile hiding just behind my lips, but I make sure it isn’t visible before I turn around to face them. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make waves or anything. This is your “turf” as you pointed out.” Do I sound condescending? Yes. I think I do. I don’t even feel bad about it.

My comment is rewarded with another glare from Jag—I’ve stopped tallying them up—but Dean’s smile widens. “Awesome! I’ll get the guys together. We’ll have dinner tomorrow night at seven. Meet us at the chur—”

“On the corner of Spruce and Ivy Lane,” Jag interrupts.

“Right,” Dean says, still smiling. “Spruce and Ivy. See you tomorrow.”

“Got it.” I wave and then head off around the corner. There is no way Jag will meet me tomorrow, and I doubt he’ll let Dean. But one thing is sure…

I’m in.