The guy hadn’t been old, maybe in his mid-forties, fairly fit. He was somebody. He mattered, but once the demon is inside, there is no other way to deal with it. At least, that’s what Raphael tells me. Exorcisms aren’t working. The demons have found a way to make the possession stable until the body gives out.
I lean down and pick up the gold band, a symbol of this man’s loyalty to someone else, and roll the ring in my fingers. Life here is so fragile. Much more fragile than it used to be, it seems.
With a sigh, I look for a place to stay. More than anything, I want to go home and climb into my own bed in the basement of my family’s house. It’s been five years, and thanks to Raphael’s magic, no one will recognize me. My room has probably been turned into storage.
My sisters don’t like to go down there, with good reason, considering all the spirits that appeared to me there. Heidi and Sophie thought it was haunted, and they were kind of right. My heart warms when I think of them. Heidi has to be eighteen now and Sophie about fourteen, I think. The desire to see them grows.
I pull my hoodie up, stuff my hands deep into my jacket pockets, and head down the street like a thug. I doubt I’ll find my groupies my first night in town, so I search for a motel. My funds are limited, but Raphael gave me enough money to get me through the month. By then, I’m supposed to be one of the Cazadors. Hopefully, they’ll feed me.
***
For the next three days, I plague the bars. They’re hotspots, but I’ve yet to meet anyone that looks like they’re in a club of demon hunters. I sleep during the day and prowl at night, falling into bed in my cheap motel room as the sun rises over the eastern hills.
The city is hardly recognizable. Everything looks so different and the destruction is unbelievable. Whole regions have been leveled and others thrust up to become hills. Millions of people were killed in the earthquakes—what people are calling the Rift—and the ones who are left survive on spurts of electricity, limited food, and an unstable government.
After three days, I can’t take it anymore. I have to make sure my family is okay. I need to see my house and confirm it’s still safe for them to live in. To hell with my promise.
Since I don’t have a vehicle at my disposal, I choose the next best thing. A taxi. They are few and far between, but I manage to flag one down. We take the backstreets and alleyways, as there is rubble everywhere. Some streets are completely blocked off and only the most important ones have been cleared. The taxi gets me as close to my neighborhood as possible before dropping me off on a lonely sidewalk. I pay the driver, my jaw slack and my eyes wide.
There’s nothing left.
I hurry down what used to be my street to find the houses all folded in on themselves. Mine is the last one, bumping up against the park, which miraculously, still stands, but my house is pretty much leveled. The roof sits on the ground as though the whole thing dropped twelve feet.
With a wrenching heart, I make my way around to find a way in. A hole in the back wall goes underneath the roof, but only a small dog or cat would be able to fit through. There’s nothing here. My life as Brecken Shaefer is truly and officially over. Gone. Totally and completely. Where is my family?
My dad must have taken them somewhere. Maybe to his sister’s place? She lives an hour north, but it would take two days of walking for me to get there. I’ve already spent too much money on the taxi, and I can’t afford another fare. I probably shouldn’t rekindle my old habit of hot wiring or stealing, but there aren’t a lot of options. I can stand here, mourning my old home and my old life, or I can get on with my job. The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll finish.
That’s when I see him. A kid, barely out of high school, wearing a black denim jacket and jeans. His blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a rubber band, his skin pale, but it’s the look in his dark eyes that stops me. Resolve. Anger. Ache. Grit. I find him so interesting that I wait to see where he goes next.
He scans the street, his gaze studying every corner, every shadow, every movement, as he waits outside a little corner grocery shop. A moment later, another kid, about the same age, comes out of the store and joins him, handing over a Snickers bar. He’s shorter, slender, and has bright eyes and a ready smile. The first boy seems to wear his scowl as a permanent fixture. They’re relaxed and comfortable together though. It’s obvious they’ve been friends for a while, but it’s the angry one who intrigues me. He’s a predator. I can feel it. What is he scouring the street for?
I follow the pair, curious.
The sun begins to set and will soon fall behind the ocean. Darkness will reign and I’ll become a hunter, but I still have time to kill.
Chapter Five
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.
Chapter Six
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 count
er 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.
The Undoer Page 3