The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  The Undoer

  Copyright ©2016 Melissa Cunningham

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:978-1-63422-200-6

  Cover Design by: Marya Heiman

  Typography by: Courtney Knight

  Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

  For more information about our content disclosure,

  please utilize the QR code above with your smart phone or visit us at

  www.CleanTeenPublishing.com.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  They call it The Door to Hell. A blackened crater that never stops spewing up poisonous gas. It burns, toxic and bubbling, from the bowels of the Earth in the middle of a barren wasteland. But gas isn’t the only thing coming from that crater…

  They slither out, those malevolent souls—demonic filth that wreak havoc and destroy lives. They don’t even pretend to hide…

  Chapter One

  Brecken

  I’m not a demon anymore. I defected. The demons hate me. I’m a traitor, and they’d love nothing more than to serve my head up on a platter.

  But now I’ve been given the illustrious responsibility to close The Door to Hell and deal with the demonic “problem” that is infiltrating Earth. The higher-ups figure I’m perfect for the job since I was a demon… before.

  I sit at a glass table in Raphael’s office, which is located in Elysium’s administrative building. As usual, wide windows let in a blinding amount of radiant light. Soft, white couches and chairs are arranged around the room, and beautiful artwork hangs on the walls. I feel out of place and uncomfortable. I don’t belong here. I know this at a gut level, but I don’t know how to fix it.

  Closing my eyes, I soak in the light, knowing it could be the last time and hoping it might cleanse me. I’ll miss the friends I’ve made here, but I’ll fit in better on Earth, which looks darker and more dismal in comparison.

  Raphael leans forward, a clever glint in his cool, green eyes. He seems relaxed, his hands clasped, a smile on his face, but his taut shoulders give away his true anxiety. The Door is a huge problem. No, not a problem. A catastrophe. Raphael’s concern radiates around him like smog, infecting me with his same worries. All of Elysium is in a panic about it, and guardian angels have been pulled back from Earth as their charges are overtaken by demons.

  Like mice, the demons are reproducing and are vomited into Earth’s realm to find a body. Whatever plan we decide on has to work. And I’m in charge. The stress is overwhelming. Crushing.

  I wait to hear Raphael and Michael’s plan, because I can’t think of one. If it works, maybe it will also clear my reputation as someone who “undoes” everything. Hence, my demon title, The Great Undoer. It’s something I am stilled called, even today. I hate it.

  “We have everything planned down to the very last detail. Down to every contingency.” Michael reclines, his golden hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. It’s strange to see him in normal clothes—white robes and bare feet. I’m used to his gleaming armor and the power it radiates as he leads the armies of heaven into battle.

  “Of course,” I answer. Has he ever done anything halfway? I doubt it.

  I once pitted my strength against his when I was a commander in Perdition’s armies. I don’t think Michael has forgotten. His gaze is cold and unfriendly when he looks at me. He doesn’t think I belong here, but if not here, then where?

  “You’ll need help with this,” Raphael adds, leaning forward and glancing over at Michael. “It can’t be done alone.”

  I’d already figured that. I’ve thought of nothing else. Angels haven’t been able to get The Door shut, and they were overwhelmed by the sheer number of demons coming through.

  “Anyone in mind?” There’s no one qualified except those well-trained soldiers who obey every command given them by Michael. The Avenging Angels. Battle-hardened warriors who have fought evil throughout history. Who fought me throughout history. They aren’t peace-loving, celestial beings who stroke harps on pink, fluffy clouds. No, these guys take down the real enemies. I’ve had many close calls with them myself. And even they haven’t been able to close The Door on their own.

  They won’t want to fight with me. I am more likely to receive a sword in my back than a sword of defense at my side. I want to trust them, but they still see me as a demon. As a liar. As The Great Undoer. I can’t imagine who Michael and Raphael will find to assist me.

  “They’re called The Cazadors,” Michael says with a wry grin. He folds his arms over his massive chest and leans against the desk, crossing his ankles. He’s enjoying this, which makes me feel like the joke is on me. “They’re a group of kids who joined together to hunt demons. They can actually see them inside their human host. They train regularly, they have holy weapons, and you will be their new leader.”

  I can only stare at him. “You think humans can help me? This is not a job for mortals. Even the Avenging Angels haven’t been able to fix this. We’re overwhelmed and outnumbered.”

  Michael’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s perfect. They’ll never suspect a thing,” Raphael says.

  “Who? The demons or the humans?” Still, I just sit there, trying to figure out how this could possibly work.

  Raphael chuckles. He’s the only one with a sense of humor. “The demons, of course.”

  “And these Cazadors are already trained? By who?”

  “By one of their own. This is why they need you.” Raphael watches me, waiting for a reaction. He’s thoughtful, which makes me wonder if something else is going on here. “They are already killing demons and sending them back to Barathrum, but the group needs a true leader to bring them together. They have the potential to be a force to be reckoned with.”

  “A force to be reck
oned with.” I shake my head in disbelief and slouch in my chair. This is a suicide mission. Are they trying to kill me? Is that the plan? I know Michael and his army hate me, but would they go to these lengths?

  And then I realize something. If they send me back to Earth, I’ll have to have a body. A physical body. I can’t be the Cazador leader without one. Maybe… maybe this is my chance at redemption. If I can close The Door and stop the demon infiltration… I’ll be forgiven. I’ll be with Alisa again! Maybe this will be enough to redeem me. Suddenly, it sounds like a fantastic idea.

  Michael shifts and releases a sigh. “You’ll need a different name.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you can’t go by your demon name. You’ll be recognized,” Raphael says.

  It will also make me more of a target.

  “Or by your old mortal name, Brecken.” Michael smiles as if he knows something, but then he glances away and his grin disappears. I’ve never been able to read him. I never know what he’s thinking. His face becomes a blank page without much emotion, and I try to hide the fact that I like him about as much as he likes me.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  They give each other knowing looks. Raphael just shakes his head. “No one can know who you really are. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “We mean anyone. It could destroy the whole plan before you even have a chance to get started. Promise us you won’t reveal your true identity.”

  Who would I even tell? The only people who know me are my family. I’ve already been told not to search them out. “Sure. Fine.” Whatever.

  Chapter Two

  Dean

  Darkness thrives, thick and heavy in shadow. Not even the slanted beams of light from the streetlamps illuminate the murky sidewalk. A chill slithers over my skin. They’re coming. I can feel it.

  Jag crouches at the end of the alleyway, poised and ready to dart into the street at the first sign of life. Not human life, but the other kind that has taken up residence on our dying planet. I hide behind him. He holds his knife loosely, fearless in his stance. A figure ambles down the middle of the street toward us. The guy mumbles and stumbles, drunk, a shell for the creature inside.

  I see the demon clearly from where I crouch in an alleyway—a gray, ghostlike wraith, stretched and elongated inside its stolen home of flesh and bone. It comes from the underbelly of hell, erupting into this world in a burst of ash and fire, rather than amniotic fluid and blood. This is the part we care about—the form on the inside. The vaporous aura.

  I tense, clutching my backpack, waiting.

  When the demon stands directly across the street, Jag darts forward, leaping into the air to clear a car parked in his way. His right foot slaps against the hood, propelling him farther, like an acrobat twisting through the air. His dagger glistens in the lamplight as he slashes down, the etched runes on his steel blade glowing blue.

  Watching, spellbound, I never take my eyes from the scene, my heart twisting in envy. I can’t do what Jag does. I can’t kill the phantoms inside their stolen bodies. Even holding the runed knife brings bile up from my stomach and makes my eyes water with terror.

  The demon never has a chance to fight back. Jag’s knife cuts through its skin and tissue, through its fleshly body, like butter. It explodes in an eruption of russet ash, and then the flesh and bone disintegrate, leaving a pile of dust on the road, a gold wedding band lying at the center.

  Jag picks up the ring and drops it into his pocket. We’ll pawn it later and order pizza. It sounds cold and harsh, but this is the reality we live in. We can’t afford to consider the human side of it.

  Well, Jag can’t.

  He is my best friend. I admire him more than anyone else, but he doesn’t feel remorse after his massacres, and I can’t stop feeling remorse just watching him. I hate that we kill people, even if they are possessed. I made the mistake of asking Jag about his lack of conscience once. He didn’t speak to me for three days. Maybe he does hate it.

  It would be nice if the demons could be exorcized through other means. We’ve tried, only to have the crap beaten out of us by the demon. We also lost a friend, who died in the process. The only way to get rid of the demon is to kill it while it resides in the body. They can’t be killed—that we know of—any other way. Which is why Jag has to be fast, and I have to be frustrated. All I can do is watch because I refuse to stay at home alone.

  The demons have to be stopped because they are killing people and committing horrific crimes, like torture and rape. Some demons have even found top leadership positions in the governments around the world.

  Only a gifted few can see them inside the human. There aren’t many of us. We call ourselves Cazadors. Demon hunters.

  I want to be useful, but I only have one talent. I draw. Well, sketch. And not just in charcoal, but with any medium. My favorite is watercolor. But I can’t paint a demon to death. They won’t die just because I get their likeness down on paper. So I’m not that useful.

  I can remember the details of their expressions and appearances though. They are not all alike. I’d hoped to someday work as a sketch artist. Maybe for the police. For now, I do it for free on darkened, dangerous streets so we can keep track of the demons we’ve sent back to hell and the ones that come back. Because they do.

  Drawing as fast as I can, I contour and shape, shade and blend, until the image looking back at me gives me the chills… just as the actual demon does.

  Jag still stands in the center of the street, searching. Listening. Are there more? Is there one hiding in the shadows around the corner? I swirl around, positive there is one breathing down my neck, poised to stab me in the back. Adrenaline darts through my veins and my pulse pounds, but no one is there.

  I’m alone in the shadowed alley.

  We’ve been jumped more times than I can count, and the demons don’t always travel alone. In fact, more often than not, they roam in packs, fighting like wild dogs to be the alpha.

  Wiping his knife on his pants, Jag saunters back over to me, his hair glowing gold in the one streetlamp that shines. He keeps it pulled back in a ponytail and refuses to cut it. He likes it long, thinking it gives him strength, like Samson.

  “Dang! What a rush!” He re-sheathes his knife and rakes a hand through his escaped strands of hair. “What was my time?”

  “Five and a half seconds,” I answer. “You shaved off a half second from the last one. Good job.”

  “Did you get his face in time?” He gazes from me to my notebook page.

  “Yeah, for the most part. I’ll have to finish at home.”

  “You okay?” He hands me my backpack, which lies at his feet.

  “I’m good.” I try to sound honest, but he always knows when I’m lying. That comes from living together for so long. We are close, like brothers. Not in some sissy I-need-someone-to-take-care-of-me way, but in a Dude, you’re my bro kind of way. We’ve known each other our whole lives. And like I said, there is no one I trust more.

  I toss my notebook and pencils inside the pack, slinging it over my shoulder. I’m beat and ready to go home. Working nights is exhausting. I can’t wait to fall onto my bed, which is really a sleeping bag… on the floor, but it’s better than nothing.

  A movement to our right catches my eye, and I freeze. Two demons, wearing high-class business suits, saunter around the corner. They stop as soon as they notice us—which is pretty quick since there really isn’t anyone else around at two in the morning. The demon on the right smiles, like he knows who we are—or rather, who Jag is. He must know I’m harmless because he doesn’t give me the time of day.

  “Hello, young Cazador.”

  I grip the dagger in my belt even though I’ve never used it and probably never will. Sweat beads along my upper lip and my fingers tremble. Jag doesn’t even blink, and he certainly doesn’t take time to chitchat. He whips his blade out and stabs it into the chest of the demon closest to him—the one on the left�
��before it can open its mouth. It explodes in a cloud of cinnamon-colored ash. No metal falls to the ground, so he isn’t carrying any money or wearing jewelry.

  The demon on the right, the guy with the ugly smile, is quicker. He feints as Jag lunges, and then ducks under Jag’s arm, spinning around so he’s behind me. He grabs me around the neck and squeezes my windpipe with his elbow, cutting off my air.

  I grasp his arm, but there is no way I can break his hold. My pack falls from my fingers and I struggle for freedom, my face growing hot and probably as red as my new Vans sneakers, which, by the way, are my favorite shade of vermillion.

  “Now, now,” the demon drawls. “There’s no need to be so quick to judge. Why assume I’m here to hurt you? Look what you did to my friend.” He points to the pile of ash while keeping my neck tight in the crook of his arm.

  Jag glares. This fiend will have no compulsion about killing me, and will feel no regret or guilt after.

  I try to catch Jag’s eye, but his gaze never leaves the demon’s.

  “What do you want?”

  “What all of us want. To live in peace without people like you ruining a good thing.”

  I beg Jag to hurry. My fingers and toes grow numb and my vision grows splotchy.

  Jag’s tone remains calm. “So, you want me to just leave you alone to live in peace?”

  “Yes. Exactly. You don’t hurt me, and I won’t hurt you.”

  “Like you could.”

  “I could.”

  “Doubt it.”

  By now, I can hardly follow the conversation. I’ll pass out any second, and my last thought will be of how pathetic an excuse I am for a Cazador. I can’t even protect myself, let alone anyone else.

  “Fine. You can go,” Jag answers. “This is your one free pass. And I mean your only one.”

  “How kind, my young friend,” the demon sneers, loosening his grip on me ever so slightly. I suck in a huge breath and my brain comes back to life.

  “You have one second, jack-nit,” Jag growls, his fingers curling into fists.