The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  The demon lets his second tick away. “You don’t even want to make a deal? I know who you are, young Cazador. I know things that could help you.”

  I wonder for one stupid second if the demon is telling the truth, but I never get the chance to find out. He pushes me into Jag’s arms, throwing him off balance, and takes off, running the other way, escaping around the corner before I even have a chance to fall down on the sidewalk, which is exactly what I do.

  Jag lets the demon go, but I swear to remember its true face—its demon face—for the next time… if there is a next time.

  “You okay?” Jag stands before me unharmed.

  I gasp, sputter, and clutch my throat. “Yeah. Just dandy.” I rise to my knees, still shaky, and breathe deeply before standing up all the way. “That guy is strong.”

  “Did you get a good look at him? Enough to draw him?”

  “Yeah.” I’ll never forget his face. Either of them—the human or the demon one. There’d been a touch of gray at his temples, and his blue eyes had crinkled when he smiled. He’d worn a dark suit and a long coat of gray wool. A professional. Not like the other demons we’ve met so far. The demon on the inside had sported a smooth, slate-colored head, a jagged mouth with cadmium-yellow teeth—not one of my favorite colors, and deep cobalt-blue eyes—endless pits of hopelessness.

  I can’t help but feel bad for the actual owner of the body. His world had disappeared in seconds when the demon took over. Had the man done something to allow the demon inside? Did he leave a family behind?

  “Come on, then.” Jag turns to head down the deserted street. “That’s enough excitement for one night.”

  Chapter Three

  Dean

  Jag and I only have each other now. We live in a rundown church at the end of an abandoned street. It’s a small, white clapboard building with a chapel and an insignificant preacher’s office off to the side. Plus a basement.

  Home, sweet home.

  I push open the door and step into the darkness, exhausted and ready to lie down on my ratty sleeping bag in the basement. Utilities were cancelled years ago, so there is no electricity, but that doesn’t bother us. Jag lights a candle, and I follow him down the stairs. He plops onto his bedroll with a tired sigh, closing his eyes.

  We only killed seven demons tonight, not including the one Jag let go. A slow night. I pull out my notebook. Touching up my drawings, I get down the last guy’s face while I can remember it. The creak of the wooden beams above my head is a familiar song and soothes me, but how much longer can we do this? Sleeping during the day and prowling the streets at night. Our whole world centers on locating evil beings and dispatching them to hell… day after day… for how long?

  Jag turns to me, propping his head up on his elbow, studying me while I draw. I can feel his gaze boring a hole through my chest, so I finally look up. “What?”

  “Are you happy here?” He sighs, and I get the feeling he might not be. In this world, happiness is not the goal. Survival is what matters.

  “Happy enough.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” I go back to my drawing. I don’t really have a choice to be happier. I have nowhere else to go. My parents and sisters are dead. Killed in the Rift. So many people died… so many. Jag lost his family too. We’re stuck with each other.

  He laughs and lays back down, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles flex and stretch under his ratty, black T-shirt. I try not to compare them to my flaccid, thin arms, but it’s impossible not to. He looks like a Greek god and I look like Shaggy, only I don’t have a Scooby Doo. I am the Scooby Doo in this relationship. Jag moves like a samurai without even trying and all I can do is wield a pencil, the sharper the better. It’s not my fault. It’s my genetics.

  Jag turns over to face the brick wall. One candle is lit and glows in the dim, cement room. It gives my sketch an eerie, haunted appearance, and I repress a shiver. After finishing, I lie down and stare at the ceiling, thinking about our night. I’m getting tired of standing back and watching while Jag does all the work. I hide while he puts his life on the line. Jag would do anything for me, including die for me, and I’ll never forgive myself if that ever happens.

  “So…” My voice is barely a whisper. “Tomorrow, I think I’m going to do it. I’m going to kill a demon. After what happened tonight, I need to. I’m a weakness. The weak link. And you’re not always going to be around to protect me. I don’t like it when you have to.”

  He rolls back over to face me. “Dean. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “It bothers me.”

  “You haven’t even touched your knife since I bound it with runes,” he says. “You can’t stand to look at it.” He frowns, and it irritates me. I have no comeback. He’s right, and the determination I feel burning in my chest melts away. I can’t help the scowl that replaces it.

  He shakes his head and glances away, looking at nothing. “I’m sorry. But we’ve had this conversation before. You don’t need to kill demons. I don’t want you to. We need your talent for drawing. It’s just as important as anything else.” He gazes at me earnestly, as though it will reinforce his words, but I want to stay mad. I need to. My place in the Cazadors isn’t like anyone else’s. I don’t pull my own weight. They try to make it seem like my drawings matter, but they don’t. Not really. Who cares if we come up against the same demons more than once? We kill it either way.

  “Don’t placate me.” I roll over and face the opposite wall.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He tries to backpedal. “I meant there are a lot of other things that are just as important for you to do. Just because you can see the demons doesn’t mean you’re supposed to kill them.” He waits for my reaction. I feel his eyes on my back.

  I sit back up and lean against the wall, running my fingers through my hair. It needs to be trimmed but isn’t nearly as long as Jag’s. “It’s not important, whether I’m good at it or not.”

  “It is!”

  Before the Rift, I’d been a promising artist. I’d had lofty goals, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “Where were Doug and Owen tonight? Have you talked to them lately?” They are the other two Cazadors in our group. They live with their families a couple of miles away. They actually still have theirs. We’re all just a bunch of teenagers, amateur demon slayers, but we’re good at it. Last week, we all had a major disagreement. Doug and Owen walked out. I haven’t seen them since.

  “Not since the argument.” He grunts and rolls over.

  It was all about a girl… of course. The rest of us want her to join the Cazadors—me most of all. She’s incredible in a million and one ways, but Jag refuses, as though he can make all the decisions and we have to obey. I’m not sure we are even still a group.

  I don’t know why he is so adamant about it, but maybe it’s because he feels responsible for us, and he can’t let go of that while we’re out hunting. Our safety distracts him. He feels the need to protect us, mostly me, which has almost cost us our lives a few times. And I am no help on the sidelines. Add a girl to the mix… and well, I can see why it eats at him.

  Jag blows out the candle. Because darkness always makes me feel like I should whisper, I lean closer. “What happens now?” I bump into his back, my lips next to his ear.

  “Dude, get back.” He shoves me away.

  “Sorry.” He’s weird about personal space. I’m just curious about what’s going to happen. I don’t think we should split up. We’re better together. Strength in numbers. “Maybe if we trained more often…”

  “No.”

  “Why not? It’s fun having Doug and Owen around.” Jag’s irascible nature makes him less than entertaining at times. I like being around happy, easygoing people once in a while, and Doug and Owen are cheerful. I plow ahead and bring the sore subject back up. “Heidi has been begging to join for the last year.”

  Only a few months older than I am, she is everything a hunter should be. Tough as a s
he-bear and nearly as stubborn. She’s in great shape and has been training all year. She also has that long, dark hair and those unforgettable blue eyes I can’t stop seeing every time I close my own. I’ve never divulged this information to Jag because he describes her as a bad smell that has attached to the bottom of his shoe and won’t go away.

  But I want her around. All the time.

  He’s quiet for a moment, his breathing soft and deliberate. “It’s easier if it’s just you and me. Plus…” He doesn’t finish even though I give him plenty of time.

  “What?” I ask, finally.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.” I was the first one to call us a group. I was the one who came up with the name. I like the fact that we have purpose. I like it being organized. We can all see the demons. It only seems logical. Jag never wanted any of it, but he did assume leadership easily enough.

  There is only one way to deal with his stubbornness. “Don’t you like girls, Jag?” I let my voice get low and slow. “Is there something I should know since we live here together… all alone?”

  He reaches over and punches me, pounding my shoulder with his fist. “That’s all you need to know!” He tries not to laugh, I can tell, but one chuckle escapes as he gives me his back once again.

  I grin and pull my sleeping bag up over my shoulders, ready for sleep. I’m good for him to have around. Even in the midst of all this misery, I can still see the lighter side of things, and Jag needs that. He needs me to make him laugh.

  Because he only sees darkness… everywhere he looks.

  Chapter Four

  Brecken

  Raphael and Michael leave me standing alone on a dark street somewhere in southern California… in the middle of the night. The asphalt glistens after a recent rainstorm and stars peek through the clouds that move silently across the sky.

  I take in a long, slow breath, reveling in the scent of ozone. It’s a heady perfume I associate only with Earth. It’s good to be back.

  I have been away for five long years and yet, it feels like yesterday that I walked these streets. I can’t believe I’m here again… in a body of flesh and bone, but I don’t get to keep this body and stay here. That’s fine. I don’t need to.

  Michael gave me a runed weapon, making me recognizable as a Cazador, but I still have my Nephilim blade, which will kill anything… permanently. Not just send them back to whatever spiritual realm they’re from, like the runed dagger.

  I turn in a circle, eyeing my location. They haven’t dumped me in a completely foreign location. I know vaguely where I am. Downtown L.A. Or what used to be Downtown L.A. There’s a bar across the street. A prime place for hunting. I’m supposed to let the Cazadors catch me killing demons as my way in to their elite group. The plan sounds easy enough.

  Glancing up at the sky, I study the stars. I guess it’s about eleven o’clock PM. I walk over to the bar and pull open the heavy, wooden door, striding inside. A cute, blonde bartender glances up and grins. A rush of adrenaline shoots through me as I take in her tight, black tank top, ample cleavage, and toned arms.

  At one time, sex appeal had been one of my greatest weapons. One I’d wielded with pleasure… as a demon. I still feel the draw to use it now. It would be so easy, and I’d have a warm bed for the night. The fact that this thought even enters my mind tells me how far I’ve come.

  Not far at all.

  I’m already in love with the perfect woman, after all. She’s waiting for me, and that is enough to motivate me to keep my gifts to myself.

  I sit down on a stool and lean against the counter.

  “What’ll it be?” The bartender moves closer while wiping glasses and setting them on a towel.

  “I’ll have a coke.” I smile, but I don’t use the one that makes women weak in the knees.

  Best to keep that one hidden.

  “A coke?” I know what she’s thinking. Why the crap am I in here if I don’t want a beer or something stronger? I can’t tell her the truth—that I’m hunting. That a demon is bound to sneak in to search for a new body—possibly hers. Human bodies don’t last very long with a demon inside, so they are constantly looking for a replacement. I need to be sharp when I meet one face to face.

  “Yep. Just a coke. I’m waiting… for someone.”

  She shrugs and pours my drink. “Whatever.” She turns to deal with someone else, not even giving me a second glance.

  Whoa. That feels weird. When was the last time I was ignored by a woman? It stuns me for a second, but I shake it off and swivel on the stool to search the room while I sip my drink. An older gentleman lounges at the other end of the bar, nursing a beer and minding his own business. He’s human. No demon lurking inside him… yet. He looks worn and tired, his graying hair curling out from under his ball cap.

  Demons are easy to spot. They have no aura. They do, however, leave a smoky residue that trails in their wake, like Pig Pen from Charlie Brown, their filthiness puffing out around them in a cloud. Most people can’t see it, but I’m not most people. I turn back to the bartender and tend to my coke, waiting patiently.

  I sit there for only a few minutes when I feel the temperature drop. It’s subtle at first. I almost miss it. I’ve forgotten that a physical body makes it more difficult to detect things of a supernatural nature. It takes effort, and I’m a little slow on the uptake, having to focus harder.

  Leisurely, I spin on my stool, searching the room. There. In the corner, not far from the door, the disembodied form crouches, surveying the bar for its next victim.

  I called them gray men during my mortal existence—that I never got to finish—because of their smoky appearance and their long, thin arms, and hollow eyes. Their mouths had seemed huge to me, gaping and able to swallow me whole. I was only a kid then, and they terrified me.

  I’m not afraid anymore.

  I can kill it quickly before it enters a body. I have the Nephilim dagger that will do the trick—actually kill the demon’s soul. That way, a mortal won’t have to die also. That is always preferable, obviously. But there are too many people in here. Too many eyewitnesses. Too many questions to answer, because they can’t see the demon, just me thrusting a knife into thin air, looking like a serial killer.

  I have to make a choice. How fast can I escape? I’ll take my chances rather than kill an innocent bystander.

  Nonchalantly, I slide off my stool, slapping a few dollars down on the counter, acting as if I’m ready to leave. As I draw close to the door, I reach behind my back, wrapping my fingers around the hilt of my dagger, which is tucked into my belt. It’s solid and cool in my grip. Familiar in my fingers. I’ve had it a long time. I’ll use it over my runed dagger any day.

  The demon watches me as I near, probably assuming I’m just a normal person it can possess. I never look at it directly, but I’m ready. Without missing a step, I lunge. The knife slides easily into the gray man, through its right eyehole. It erupts into a cloud of pewter ash that the patrons in the bar can’t see.

  When I glance up, they are all staring at me and the knife I hold. Smiling sheepishly, I straighten and tuck it into my jeans. They continue to gape. Surely, they think I’m crazy or dangerous. Before someone calls the police, I dart into the night.

  A darkened alley lurks across the street, so I hurry into its shadows, leaning against the brick building, breathing heavily. I shouldn’t have done that in front of so many people. It was stupid, but at least I saved someone from becoming demon fodder. The bad side is, there weren’t any Cazadors in the bar to see me do it. At least, I don’t think there were. I’m not even sure who I’m looking for. Raphael said I’d know them when I saw them, and that it’s my job to earn their trust and become their leader.

  Yeah. That’s going to be easy.

  With my heart rate under control, I step from the alley. The bar door opens and the man who’d been sitting at the end of the counter stands there, searching the darkness. He looks a little tipsy, and I
have the feeling he is probably searching for me. He’s going to try to be a hero; I just know it. He wants to take down the crazy guy with the Bowie knife.

  I spin back into the shadows and wait, determined to avoid a needless argument. That’s when I see them. Seven misty bodies floating down the street, heading toward the bar. I should have waited inside longer.

  The lead demon makes a beeline for the guy in the doorway, unaware of the danger. It becomes a race with his cronies. I jump from my hiding spot and dash across the street. The demon beats me there.

  Faster than I’ve ever seen before, it plows through the startled man’s open mouth. His eyes widen and he stumbles back against the door, knocking the back of his head with a dull thunk. The demon enters him completely. As soon as the rest of the pack sees me, or more importantly, my Nephilim dagger, they turn and flee.

  I raise my knife, but the newly possessed man is quick… and no longer drunk. He blocks my thrust with his forearm and smiles, and then gives me a quick punch in the face. Pain explodes behind my nose, and my vision goes dark and blurry. I stumble back a step to give my eyes a chance to stop watering. Oh, the pain! I forgot how much a human body can hurt!

  The demon laughs, low and throaty. “You’re new at this.”

  “Not that new.” I can see the gray man beneath the façade as he grins manically at me.

  “You can’t kill me so easily, human.”

  “That’s still up for debate.” I grab my other knife—the runed one—and drive it into the guy’s belly. “Give Bas Iblis my best.”

  The demon’s eyes widen at my reference to one of his nefarious leaders—the one who hates me most right now—but he doesn’t have time to react. He explodes into a cloud of dust that floats to the ground. This time, the ash will be visible to mortals… the part that was human. The guy’s wedding ring clinks to the ground and rolls in a circle before it comes to rest.

  Oh. I forgot that would happen. I can’t walk away and leave something as personal as a wedding band lying on the ground like garbage. I glance around, hoping no one saw what I did. Granted, violence is a part of everyday life here on Earth, but I assume it’s still illegal to murder.